by Mary Brady
STANDING IN HER front doorway, Delainey watched Hunter disappear into the falling whiteness.
It would be so easy to love him and so very pointless to let herself fall into that hole again.
She turned and almost bumped into her daughter.
Brianna stood with her blanket trailing in the water from their boots. “Mommy, can Hunter be my daddy?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DELAINEY SAT IN the breakfast nook with Brianna, pancake remnants on their plates, holding her phone to her ear.
“I am fine.” Christina sounded bright and perky this morning.
“Are you sure?” Delainey asked.
“I am, Delainey. Don’t worry about me. Sammy will be here in an hour to pick me up.”
“My street should be plowed in a couple hours. I can come and get you then.” Sammy had already let her sister down too many times to count.
“Think of it this way. Sammy will come and get me or I’ll kill him. Either way should please you.”
Delainey sputtered out a laugh. “I guess I have been rather hard on him. I just worry that he won’t be good enough for the only sister I have—and maybe no one will be.”
“I forgive you your big-sister tendencies, Deelee. He grows on you after a while.”
“I hope he comes to get you. He seems so distracted.”
“So any developments between you and Hunter?”
She looked up to see Brianna had returned from the bathroom. “Did you wash your hands?”
Her daughter turned around and ran back down the hallway.
“I have to wash my hands now to get the story from you?” Christina asked with a chuckle.
“I wasn’t talking to you, and haha. Furthermore, Hunter is not looking for a family. You call me if Sammy doesn’t show up. We’ll be there to get you.”
“Tell Brianna her favorite aunt says good morning.”
When Delainey had hung up, she sighed and glanced out the window. What was love anyway if it caused so much consternation and pain?
She looked over to see her daughter approaching with a desolate look on her face and pulling blankie behind her again.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?”
“You don’t think Hunter, I mean Mr. Mor’son, could love us?”
Delainey pulled her daughter onto her lap and held her close, when what she wanted to do was to go screaming out into the snow like a madwoman. Scream at the snow for bringing Hunter Morrison closer to her daughter, at herself for kissing him.
That her daughter had just reverted to the way she spoke when she was three meant this question was not innocent curiosity. Her daughter was afraid for some reason.
Brianna had seen them kiss. This six-year-old was bright enough to take that thoughtless act and spin a story of happily-ever-after.
“Oh, Brianna, sweetheart, Mr. Morrison is a very nice man.” And no matter how the future panned out, that was all her daughter could ever be allowed to think about him. “He’s got a busy life and he’s not looking for a family right now. If he was, I’m sure he would love us.”
“Well, I’m going to stop looking for a new daddy.” She snuggled closer.
“Sweetie, there is nothing wrong with you wanting a daddy to be in your life.”
“But it makes you sad.”
Delainey laughed softly. “Sad is part of life. I get sad and then I get happy again. You—” she put a kiss on Brianna’s soft, silky hair “—are the thing in life that makes me the happiest.”
Brianna sat quietly for so long Delainey thought she was asleep.
“Is this the day? Is this someday?” Brianna asked in the tiny voice she used when she was unsure whether or not to ask at all.
“Someday?” Delainey had accumulated a few somedays between her and her daughter. Someday we’ll go to Disney World. Someday I’ll let you wear makeup. This someday, she was sure, would be more complicated.
“You said we could talk about my father someday.”
Father, not daddy. An important distinction.
“Let’s clean up from breakfast and check to see that Mr. Fenwick got dug out and then we’ll talk about it.”
Delainey hoped injecting a bit of the normal routine, the mundane, would help the discussion seem less vital, less important.
Outside on the blindingly bright morning, the pristine snow covered everything. The boughs of the white pines sagged with the weight. Houses, lampposts, shrubs and everything else stood taller because several inches of snow had piled on top.
With the shovels they had brought with them, they helped two other neighbors remove the snow from Mr. Fenwick’s sidewalk and driveway. Shovels scraped and snowblowers whacked away at the air as they worked. People greeted each other with the kind of neighborly cheer usually reserved for the Fourth of July and Christmas.
Delainey knew she should be thinking of how to tell Brianna about her father, but all she could think of was how well Hunter would fit into the neighborhood, how perfectly he would fit in her heart and into Brianna’s life.
Stupid. Stupid. She pushed Hunter out of her head.
As they made their way around the cul-de-sac, Brianna took every chance she got to fall into the foot and a half of fluffy snow. Once, she was taken by surprise when a small gully made the snow deeper and snow covered her face.
She came flailing and giggling out of that one.
“Let that be a lesson to us all. Look before you leap.”
In answer, her daughter plopped down in more untouched snow and made an angel.
When she got up this time, she admired her work and then turned to Delainey. “Now will you tell me about my father, Mommy?”
“How about over hot chocolate?”
“Deal.”
Once in the house, she checked her phone for the third time since they had gone outside. Christina hadn’t called. Sammy must have picked her up.
Their coats hanging on chairs in the sunshine coming in the breakfast nook windows, their boots dripping on the drip mat, their noses blown, they sat in front of cups of marshmallow-covered hot chocolate. Brianna wiggled in her chair, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes bright.
Suddenly, her face bunched up in concentration.
What’s going on in there, baby girl? Delainey thought as she watched her daughter carefully dip the tip of her tongue into the foam and marshmallows floating on the hot cocoa.
Both of their cups steamed because Brianna insisted she didn’t need hers “baby hot” anymore. Her daughter kicked her feet in anticipation and wore a marshmallow mustache and Delainey wore a pall on her heart.
How much to tell? She hadn’t even given the man a name yet.
“His name is Micky Johnson.”
Her daughter slurped.
“He was visiting town with several of his friends. They were all out seeing the country.”
“What did he do?”
“Huh?”
“For a job, Mommy. What did he do?”
Delainey sighed. She knew the rules of difficult discussions. Give the child what the child needed, not what the parent needed. “He was a teacher.” Or he’d said he was going to start looking for a teaching job. She wondered if he’d ever found one.
Brianna folded her hands under her chin. “Was he romantic?”
“He was very cute. And he had long dark hair and beautiful brown eyes.”
“Like mine?”
“Your hair is the same color, but I think your eyes are much darker.” Think. What good mother didn’t know if her child’s eyes looked like her father’s?
“How come?”
“Genetics, honey. In the past you had a relative who had very dark eyes.”
“Grandma and Grandpa don’t have dark eyes. Neit
her does Aunt Christina.”
“Maybe Grandma’s grandma or grandpa had them.”
Brianna thought for a few minutes as if trying to conceptualize Grandma having grandparents.
“Can we go visit him?”
I’m not sure where he lives seemed too lame to say and too embarrassing and hurtful if her trusting daughter repeated it to someone who used it against her. Someone like the classmate who had chided her about her daddy having left town because he didn’t want to be a part of their family.
Micky had seemed elusive about contact information. At the time, Delainey had let it pass as totally unimportant. She hadn’t cared that he’d come and left. In fact, at the time, she had preferred it that way.
“Maybe we can go visit your father someday,” she said.
Brianna rolled her eyes.
“Sorry, sweetie. I mean, he lives very far away and I haven’t heard from him since he was here in Maine.” He might have moved, died, gone to jail, become a corporate big shot who wouldn’t want a surprise baby.
“What if you did tell him about me?”
They had been over this question before, but she would try not to dodge it unless she had to.
Delainey picked up her daughter’s long dark hair and held the soft, warm tresses in both her hands. “I’d like to say I knew, but I can only tell you what I’d like him to do if I did tell him.”
“Tell me, Mommy.”
“I’d like him to give you a big smile and tell you that you are a gorgeous, honest, smart-as-a-whip girl and that he’d like to get to know you better.”
“Would he go away again? Would I have to go live with him, like Colby Peppering does with his mommy in Bangor?”
“That won’t ever happen, sweetie.” Was that a lie?
“Do you remember what he looks like? Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“I can do better. I have a photograph.”
Her daughter’s eyes got bigger. “Really?”
Delainey retrieved the photo from her bedroom. It lived in the bottom of the jewelry box her grandmother had given to her, but she hadn’t looked at the picture in over four years. Not since it had become undeniable she might never see the man again, and her daughter never would.
Brianna stood almost shyly in the doorway waiting for her to show her the picture.
“Let’s go sit on the couch where we can see it well.” And where, sitting next to Delainey, her daughter wouldn’t have to feel as if she was being stared at by her own mother. Yet if she wanted to cry or be angry, Delainey would be close enough and available.
They sat on the faded, well-loved burnt-orange couch that used to be in her parents’ family room and fit very nicely in her living room. Brianna scooted almost under her arm before taking the envelope with the picture in it.
After sliding the photo carefully out, she held it in one hand.
It was a four-by-six glossy of Micky leaning against a metallic-blue-and-silver motorcycle. Large storage bags flanked the rear wheel and a short fringed affair dangled from one handlebar. Delainey had only speculated that the fringe was a trophy of some sort of conquest.
As Brianna studied the photo, Delainey recognized how little her daughter and Micky had in common. Their hair color. Now that Brianna was older, her eyes had become rounder and Micky’s were more squinted. Most likely from riding in the sun across two-thirds of a large country or from the amount of beer he’d had the night before. Delainey definitely remembered beer. That must be why she didn’t drink beer at all.
Brianna handed the picture to Delainey and hopped off the couch. “I need to go to my room for a while.”
“Okay,” Delainey said, wondering what that meant. Wondered if she should be concerned or relieved, chase after her or let her go.
She returned the picture to the envelope and put it back in the jewelry box.
The reckoning about Brianna’s father, she feared, had just begun.
* * *
TUESDAY MORNING DAWNED way too early, Delainey thought as she drove to work. The snow was already collapsing on itself as the temperature inched above freezing. It wouldn’t take long until the white gave way to gray piles and brown grass underneath. She’d enjoy it while she could.
“Hi, Brown Dog,” she said as she passed Pirate’s Roost. He was lounging on the cleared sidewalk in the sunshine and seemed to be reclining on an old coat or something.
She wanted the brown dog’s life. Just for a week. She wasn’t greedy or lazy, but she might be a bit tired. Today she relished going to the office with less than her usual enthusiasm.
The schools had been closed and Shamus had declared the office closed for the day yesterday, so she and Brianna had helped lay out fabric for Brianna’s new dress. Christina had called to say she had made it home safely and she and Sammy were working out a few details. Delainey hoped they were details about fixing up the houses.
She was not looking forward to seeing Hunter today. At all. For a moment, she wished Brianna hadn’t felt well this morning so she could have stayed home with her. Clamping her fingers around the steering wheel, she knew for a fact she was Bailey’s Cove’s most horrid mother for thinking such a thing.
She didn’t know what to think of Hunter.
But the kiss was a mistake. That she knew for sure.
She practically dragged her feet across the parking lot to the back door. If Shamus came in, she would casually ask him about Connie as if she didn’t expect her to be anything but well and happy. Shamus would tell the office when he was ready for them to know. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that. Maybe Connie would get better and none of them would have to know anything had been wrong.
Once inside, she could hear what sounded like loud grumbling and complaints. When she tried to sneak in for coffee without being noticed, she was ambushed by something very rarely seen at Morrison and Morrison, a mob of disgruntled workers, if four constituted a mob.
“It’s awful,” Patty groused, shaking a paper under Delainey’s nose. “I found this on my desk this morning. He wants me to dress more appropriately for my post. What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
The warm-up suit Patty wore today had a hem coming out of one pant leg and the T-shirt underneath had what Delainey sincerely hoped was today’s coffee down the front.
“He says we are not allowed to decide who is not to be charged for services” was Carol’s grumble. “He says only a partner can decide that. I think he wants everybody to pay.”
Carol gave her a petulant look and Delainey knew she was speaking about the Anning boy’s case.
Matthew, who hadn’t met the new partner until today because he was a part-time high school student doing an enforced work-study program as punishment for bad behavior said, “He’s going to stop paying me if I can’t come up with a reason for me being here.”
So far it seemed all he’d learned was how to antagonize people.
“He actually dictated a list of job experiences Matt should accomplish while he’s here,” Carol interjected. “And he also says we need to come up with what he calls cost-cutting measures. I don’t see any places where we’re not already cinched tight.”
Cammy, the girl who did the cleaning, just stood beside Patty and looked afraid.
“Whoa, you guys, let me think.”
Their faces got brighter. “See, I told you she’d help,” Patty said.
Delainey shook her head. “You might not like this much better.”
Faces fell all around and she continued. “I want you to write down the changes you have been instructed to make. Then I want you to write down three things that are wrong with what you’ve been asked to do and three things that could possibly be right. When you’ve found the good things the changes can make, try to think of an alternative that will accomplish a similar result. Br
ing everything to the staff meeting tomorrow and we’ll take a look. I can’t make any promises, but some of the things may have a compromise or an alternative.”
She wondered what changes Hunter wanted her to make.
“But why should we have to do that? We’ve done just fine up until now.” Carol, who wasn’t usually whiny, seemed almost churlish.
“Shamus brought Mr. Morrison here and I’m sure he did it for a very good reason. We are all going to have to be patient and look at things from Mr. Morrison’s point of view. His ancestors founded the practice. It’s possible he thinks things can be run differently to better honor the founding partners’ ideals.”
She got three blank stares. Cammy just seemed paralyzed.
The group broke up and Delainey headed upstairs. She wanted to march into Hunter Morrison’s office and ask him if he was nuts. This office had flaws, some major ones, but these were people. He could have used a little diplomacy.
Kiss him. How could she?
When she got to his office doorway, he was on the phone and motioned for her to take a seat. She chafed in the doorway instead.
“Mr. O’Brien, I’m sure I can help you with that.” Hunter spoke into the handset from the phone on the desk.
Mr. O’Brien was the owner of one of the small grocery stores in town. A nice man. An indecisive man. She shifted her weight to her other foot.
“Of all the choices you have, Mr. O’Brien, I think you should take Shamus’s advice.”
He listened for a moment.
“No. If you want to change the type of incorporation for your business, you will want to choose an LLC, a limited liability corporation. Yes.” Pause. “No. An S corp is really a misnomer. It’s not a form of doing business. It’s a tax status, Subchapter S of the IRS code, which essentially says if you jump through enough hoops you can achieve limited liability.”
Hunter scribbled something on a pad of paper as he listened.
“Yes, you can file as an S corp if you change to a limited liability corporation.” Hunter’s tone was patient, even kind. One had to be when speaking with Mr. O’Brien. Change came hard for some people.
“Yes, if you do that, you have the personal-asset protection under the LLC and if you file as an S corp. The LLC, however, offers virtually the same benefits but without all the hoops to jump through.” Pause. “Shamus isn’t in yet today.” Pause. “Yes, she’s here.”