“I hope we can go visit Aunt Amy and the babies today,” Hamilton confided, while Scott bounced along the sidewalk like an overenergetic puppy.
Keeping one eye on Scott, James turned to Hamilton. “I’m sure your mom will take you if you ask her. Do you know the babies’ names yet?”
Hamilton nodded and gave him a sunny smile. “Mom said they called them Aaron and Alexander. And they have more names, of course, but I forgot the rest.”
James squeezed his son’s hand and chuckled. “So now you’ve got a cousin named Audrey and two new cousins called Aaron and Alexander? Does your uncle Patrick intend to have more children with A names?”
Hamilton’s button nose wrinkled. “Uncle Patrick says they went through a lot of names that start with A and found lots and lots of terrible ones.”
“Like what?” James asked.
Hamilton giggled. “Axl and Adolpho.”
James’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Oh, wow! Imagine your little cousin was called Axl Ashcroft.”
“Or Adolpho Ashcroft,” Hamilton added, making a show of shivering. “I’m glad that’s not my name.”
“Did you know your mom wanted to name you Archibald?” James replied cheerfully. “And Scott was supposed to be Miles.”
Hamilton tilted his head back to give his dad a shocked look. “What?”
“It’s true.” James nodded with a grin. “When your mom and I found out we were having a boy, she suggested we name you after one of your grandfathers. You know your grandpa’s full name is Archibald Scott Campbell …”
“And Mom’s dad’s name was Miles Hamilton Ashcroft,” Hamilton murmured, ever the quick thinker.
“Exactly.” James’s voice was affectionate as he continued, “I couldn’t tell your mom I didn’t want to name my son Archibald Miles or Miles Archibald. She might have been offended. So I suggested we call you Hamilton. And then it was clear that your brother would be Scott.”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t had a brother?” Hamilton asked quietly.
James squeezed his hand again. “I’m sure we would have found a solution.”
They were both silent for a moment. All they could hear was Scott’s high-pitched voice as he skipped down the sidewalk reciting a rhyme.
“Dad?”
James glanced down at Hamilton again. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for not naming me Archibald.”
James struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re very welcome, pal.”
They spent the last hundred yards merrily chatting about the TV show they’d watched the night before while lounging together on the couch. Only when they reached his ex-wife’s house—his ex-house, really—was James was haunted by a familiar angsty feeling. It caught up with him every single time. Even after two years of separation, he was reminded of how he and Barbara had fallen in love with this house, how he’d carried her across the threshold, how he’d brought home newborn Hamilton in his car seat, how he’d watched Scott attempt his first steps in the living room, and finally, how he’d carried his own suitcases out of the house and left.
They’d barely stepped onto the neatly paved path that snaked through the front yard when the door opened and Barbara appeared, welcoming them with a smile that James knew was reserved for his sons—and not him.
“Hey, guys!” she called out cheerfully. She looked gorgeously unkempt on this bright morning.
James actually liked her best like this—in comfy sweatpants, her dark brown hair tied back into a loose ponytail, without any make-up on. When Barbara left the house, she never failed to look perfect, always well-dressed, her hair coiffed and neat, fulfilling the image of a high-society woman. At home, however, she didn’t care about expensive shoes or sophisticated outfits. James had always liked that about her.
“Mom, we had waffles with whipped cream for breakfast!” Scott shouted as they reached Barbara, who pulled her youngest into a hug and ruffled his hair.
“Thanks a lot, you little traitor,” James sighed, playfully shaking his fist. “Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to tell Mom about our waffle party?”
Scott wasn’t intimidated at all. He smiled. “Oops.”
James snorted. “Next time you’re getting porridge, you rascal.”
Laughing boisterously, Scott stuck out his tongue at him, while Hamilton still clutched his hand.
“I see … You had waffles at your dad’s house, huh?” Barbara smiled at her sons, before explaining in a jokingly sinister voice, “Then I guess we’ll have to postpone our spaghetti feast …”
“No, Mom!” Scott protested immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Not the spaghetti feast! I love spaghetti!”
The pealing laugh that came from her lips made James weak in the knees. He couldn’t help but recall the many times he’d heard that same laughter directed at him. He watched her kiss the top of Scott’s head, watched her beautiful lips curl into a genuine smile and her gaze turn thoughtful, while the little guy hopped up and down next to her, imploring and begging.
“Alright, alright. The spaghetti feast will go ahead, but you’ll have to tidy up your room first, Scott.”
Hamilton, who was still holding James’s hand, chimed in right away. “Aren’t we going to the hospital to visit Aunt Amy and the babies, Mom?”
Barbara let go of her youngest, ignored her ex-husband, and focused on Hamilton. “I don’t know if we can do that today, honey,” she murmured apologetically. “Maybe a little later, after the plumber comes.”
James cocked his head to one side. “The plumber? Did something break?”
Apparently, Barbara could no longer avoid meeting his eyes. She looked at him, her eyes distant. “It’s no big deal. The drain in the bathroom sink is blocked, that’s all.”
Although James could guess she wouldn’t like it, he asked anyway: “Do you want me to take a look at it? You know I—”
“No, thanks,” she cut him off primly. “Like I said, I already called the plumber. He promised he’d be by today.”
“But I’m already here,” James tried again, making sure to sound calm and patient. “Maybe it’s just a small thing, and I can take care of it.”
“I can help you, Dad,” Scott chimed in eagerly. “And Hamilton, too.”
“You’re going to be busy taking care of your room,” Barbara reminded him. “The plumber’s already on the way, and I’m sure your dad has a lot of work to do.”
Just as James opened his mouth to object, her icy glare made him think twice. Nothing had changed since her reproach yesterday afternoon.
She turned to Hamilton. “Would you help Scott clean up his room, honey?”
Of course, Scott protested a bit more but then said goodbye to his dad, high-fived him, hugged him again, and finally trotted off into the house. Hamilton hugged his father tightly and said with an impish half smile, “Thanks again, Dad, for not naming me Archibald.” Then he disappeared inside, too.
Alone with his ex-wife, without the buffer of their kids between them, James immediately felt at a disadvantage. And her scowl only reinforced that.
“When I tell you I’ve called the plumber—”
“Okay, Barbara.” He raised both hands in defense. “I only meant to help.”
“I don’t need your help, and I didn’t ask for it,” she replied hollowly as she took the boys’ backpacks from him, careful not to touch him in the process.
“Jesus, Barbara,” he whispered, appalled. “Has it really come to this? Can we no longer talk to each other like civilized people?”
“If you mean to insinuate that I’m not acting like a civilized person, I can—”
“What I mean,” he interrupted again, grinding his teeth at her bitchy voice, for the Barbara he knew had never before been bitchy or haughty, “is that it hurts when you treat me like someone you actively hate. We promised each other we’d remain on friendly terms, if only for the boys’ sake.”
Her green eyes were veiled with an expression he co
uldn’t interpret.
Instead of a heated answer, all he got was silence, which seemed to last forever. Until she demanded, in a slightly scratchy voice, “What was Hamilton talking about when he thanked you for not naming him Archibald?”
“I told him how he got his name,” James replied, his voice a little rusty as well.
“Oh.”
James swallowed hard as he looked into her face, and his fingertips ached with the need to touch her. “Do you remember how we discussed his name?” he asked hoarsely. “We’d just finished renovating the kitchen, and you were always wearing those maternity pants you bought in Norway. Downstairs, there was stuff everywhere, boxes and furniture, and the only appliance that was working was the juicer, because you wanted to have your glass of that dreadful beet juice every day. I still can’t fathom how you managed to drink that stuff and keep it down.”
She shook her head.
“Barbara …”
“Cut it out, James,” she demanded hollowly.
“But …”
She took a step backward into the house and moved to close the door, but then she stopped. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t hate you, but I don’t want to talk to you either. Least of all, about things like this.”
And before he could say anything, the door was shut in his face.
For the rest of the day, all he could think of was how beautiful she’d looked in her maternity pants.
Chapter 2
“Can I take my skateboard, Mom?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
Standing at the foot of the stairs, Barbara glanced at her watch and called up to the second floor, “Because I’m not in the mood to take you to the emergency room, Scott Campbell!”
“Can I take my slingshot?”
“No, of course you can’t take that either. You … Wait a minute, what? What slingshot?” She straightened and looked up the staircase, where Scott’s alarmed and guilty face appeared on the landing. “What slingshot, Scott? I’m sure neither your dad nor I have ever allowed you to play with a weapon like that!”
Scott was still wearing his dirty jeans, even though she’d told him at least twenty minutes ago to change for the barbecue at his grandma’s house. Now, he made a grumpy face. “All the boys in my Boy Scout troop have their own slingshots. It wouldn’t be fair if I was the only one who couldn’t have one!”
Barbara prayed for patience, but one of her eyebrows dangerously arched of its own accord. “I’ll tell you what would be unfair. If I had to call Mr. Henley and tell him you can’t take part in the next troop trip because you’re grounded.”
The seven-year-old gasped with outrage. “That’s blackmail, Mom!”
“Alright, call the police and report me,” Barbara replied with more equanimity than she’d have thought possible. She ran a hand across her forehead. However proud she might be of her children’s cleverness, it was exhausting to argue with them. She dreaded when they’d hit puberty. She’d probably end up in an asylum before Scott graduated from high school.
“Mom,” he whined, standing on the landing with his arms crossed across his chest, his face pulled into a deep scowl.
“Scott,” she interrupted. “We’re going to your grandma’s now … and I mean right now! And if I ever find a slingshot in your pocket, young man, I’ll shoot every last one of your superhero figures with it. Are we clear?”
“You’re a really bad shot,” Scott threw back with a triumphant grin—which she thought was adorable despite her momentary irritation. She wanted to pull him into a bear hug and tickle him. She was a total failure when it came to being consistent with discipline, which was one of the many reasons she hadn’t gotten a dog yet, despite the boys’ repeated begging.
“Wanna bet?” she snapped with an expert eye roll. Then, in a markedly calmer voice, she said, “Please get changed now, honey. Grandma and the others will be waiting. And where’s your brother?”
“He’s sitting in his room drawing!” Scott’s voice was almost a shriek now. “Can I at least wear my Superman T-shirt?”
“You can wear your Superman pajamas, for all I care!” she yelled back. She was about to go check on Hamilton when the phone rang.
She felt a dull throbbing start up behind her forehead and hoped it would go away soon, instead of blossoming into a full-blown migraine. Ignoring it, she rushed down the hallway in her favorite sandals, which went well with her bright green summer dress. “Cam … Ashcroft residence,” she said and bit down on her lower lip, angry with herself for almost giving her married name yet again. Even after two years, she sometimes fell back into old habits. She’d had to tear up checks a few times after signing them Barbara Campbell instead of Barbara Ashcroft. If it hadn’t been for her damned pride and her white-hot anger, she would have kept James’s last name—if only for the boys’ sake. But she’d wanted to actively hurt James, however mean and abject that might sound.
“Barbara, this is Cynthia. Is this a bad time?”
When she heard Cynthia Mitchell’s voice, the throbbing intensified. Barbara had spent an annoying four hours with the woman only a week ago, trying to organize a fundraiser for single mothers. That had proven rather difficult, because Cynthia was known for spreading gossip and rumors. In the Middle Ages, a woman like Cynthia would probably have spent her days at the village water well.
“To be quite honest, I was just about to leave for my mom’s house with the boys,” Barbara said politely. “We’re having a barbecue—”
“Oh, how lovely,” Cynthia interrupted excitedly. “Will your brother and his lovely wife be there as well? Are the babies already home?”
Barbara sat down on the Chippendale stool next to the little telephone table in the hallway, keeping an eye on the staircase for a sign of her sons finally coming down. “My sister-in-law and her twins were discharged a few days ago,” she placidly explained to Cynthia. “They’re both boys, and they’re utterly adorable.”
“And what does your brother think about all the changes?”
Barbara’s smile was genuine, even though she knew Cynthia was out for fodder for her gossip mill. “Patrick is totally besotted. We all are, actually. They’re really the cutest.”
“I’m sure your brother appreciates having his babies around right from the start. He couldn’t have that with his daughter, after all.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. Cynthia’s point was easy enough to see. No matter how fiercely Barbara disagreed with the things her sister-in-law had done, and no matter how much she resented the fact that she’d left her brother without even informing him about the existence of his daughter for five whole years, blood was thicker than water in the end. To Barbara, that meant never gossiping about family members with anyone else, and standing behind her brother and his wife when confronted by friends and acquaintances. The fact that her relationship with Amy was still somewhat strained was nobody else’s business, least of all Cynthia’s.
She made her voice sound light and unconcerned, as she chirped into the receiver, “You should see Audrey! She’s totally in love with her little brothers. My brother and sister-in-law couldn’t be any prouder.”
“Mm-hm … That sounds really … nice.”
“Oh, it is,” Barbara assured her. But she couldn’t help wondering why she kept burdening herself with so much charity work, week after week, month after month, year after year, collecting funds for all manner of causes, when these organizations were stomping grounds for people like Cynthia and other snobbish high-society ladies. This really wasn’t Barbara’s world—meeting with Chanel-carrying, gossip-mongering trophy wives to organize charity galas for other Chanel-carrying, gossip-mongering trophy wives who sipped champagne and paraded their jewelry. In the beginning, Barbara had participated because she’d really wanted to help other people. Today, she was doing it to distract herself from her own problems and avoid thinking too much.
“Well then,” Cynthia sighed, “all that’s left for me to say is have a love
ly afternoon, my dear. I really only called to ask you to set up a meeting with Marcus Lindsay.”
Barbara frowned, perplexed by that request. “Marcus Lindsay? The publisher? Why would I set up a meeting with him?”
She could hear Cynthia cluck her tongue on the other end of the line. “Because he’s hosting an upcoming fundraising gala, and he’d be the perfect patron for our next project. You know him, don’t you?”
Barbara felt uncomfortable thinking about Marcus Lindsay. She’d met the man months ago, and every time she’d encountered him since, he’d flirted with her. However flattering it might be for a man like him to show interest in her, she’d have preferred it if he didn’t flaunt it in such an obvious way. It made her self-conscious and nervous. And that was the reason she was anything but thrilled with Cynthia’s idea.
“I’ve only met him a few times,” she corrected Cynthia.
“Barbara …”
“Cynthia, I can’t just accost the man and ask him outright if he’d lend us his support. I hardly know him.”
“Excuse me? He’s one of your brother’s business liaisons, isn’t he?”
“But that doesn’t mean I can impose on him like that.” Barbara frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, your husband plays golf with the man. Why doesn’t he talk to him?”
Cynthia uttered a nerve-grating laugh. “Barbara, please! I can’t ask Erik to do that.”
“But you’re asking me?” Barbara sighed heavily, just as she heard her sons barrel down the stairs. It sounded more like a herd of cattle stampeding across a bone-dry prairie. “Listen, Cynthia, I really have to go now.”
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