Father of Two

by Judith Arnold

  She stared at him as he stared at her. All the other guests milling about the back yard might have been teleported to another galaxy, for all they registered on Dennis’s consciousness. He was aware of only one other person in the yard, only one other person in the world.

  That he wasn’t ready for this was irrelevant. Gail was the one who ran away from anger. Not Dennis. He was no coward. He wasn’t going to flee from her in terror.

  He strode across the grass toward the lilac hedge. She stood her ground, and he gave her a point for bravery. But then, she wasn’t likely to make a scene at her sister’s best friend’s wedding, was she?

  He bumped into someone—invisible to him, but he murmured, “Excuse me,” and kept on approaching Gail. She remained where she was, a quiet, slender woman framed by pale green leaves and branches foaming with white and lavender blossoms. When he was within a few feet of her, he halted. He had to will his hands to remain at his sides, to keep from reaching out and hauling her into his arms.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” she said. Her gaze didn’t waver, and she showed no sign of wanting to escape from him, though she certainly didn’t look thrilled to see him.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here, either. I’m Jamie’s lawyer,” he told her.

  “I didn’t know he needed a lawyer.”

  “I’m there for him when he does. He needed a lawyer pretty badly when he was trying to get custody of his baby.”

  “You handled that?”

  “Yeah.” Why were they talking about Jamie McCoy? Why weren’t they talking about what mattered? Better yet, why wasn’t Dennis kissing her? The hell with the unresolved issues between them—he wanted her mouth on his. He wanted to drink her in. He wanted to slide his hand along the delectable pearls circling her throat, slide his tongue along the skin beneath those pearls, slide her dress up over her head and make love to her, under the sky, surrounded by lilacs.

  “Your children think you’re in trouble,” she said. Color flared in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

  It was just one shock after another. Russo being married to Molly from the Daddy School, Molly’s sister being at this wedding, and now...his kids thought he was in trouble? What did Gail know about it? What the hell was going on?

  “They say you’ve been talking to Erin’s Barbie doll and you’re an incubus.”

  “What?”

  “Damn it, Murphy—why did you send me that bill? Why did you treat me like that?”

  “Like what? The Gazette sent Kopoluski the bill. I don’t know why you paid it.”

  “I paid it because Kopoluski is gone. You know he’s gone. Go ahead, tell me my client was a jerk. Rub my nose in it. I trusted Leo and he conned me. I obviously shouldn’t trust men. Nothing ever comes out right when I do.”

  As firm as her posture was, as steady as her gaze, he heard the anguish in her voice, quivering like the edge of a teardrop. “Oh, Gail.” He sighed, freeing his hands to do what they’d been aching to do ever since he saw her—ever since the very first time he’d seen her. He brought them to her shoulders and eased her closer, slowly, gently, so she wouldn’t bolt in fear. “You could trust me. You can. Always. I don’t know why you don’t know that.”

  “Maybe because you sent me a bill,” she muttered, refusing to melt into his embrace.

  “My secretary sent the Gazette a bill and they sent it to you. Velda’s big on processing things promptly. She doesn’t like clutter. So she sent an invoice to the Gazette, and Bob Hammond wanted reimbursement. That shouldn’t have come between us.”

  “It came between us because—because in all this prompt processing, you implied that Leo had endangered your children, and because he was my client I was somehow to blame. I would never, never hurt your children. I wouldn’t even let them bike home yesterday. Those busy streets—”

  “What busy streets?” His heart had been pounding hard for Gail, but now it pounded even harder for his children. “What are you talking about? They rode over to the park yesterday.”

  “They rode to my house. They said if you found out you’d kill them.”

  “They rode their bikes to your house?” He pulled back to examine her face and saw no sign that she was joking. “They rode across Dudley on their bikes? And Hauser Boulevard? Jesus! I will kill them.”

  “I gave them a stern lecture about the dangers of bicycling in traffic. Then I tossed their bikes into the trunk of my car and drove them back to the park.”

  He felt as if he himself had been teleported to another universe, one where he wasn’t the best lawyer. One where he existed out of the loop, in the dark. His children were riding their bicycles on dangerous city streets after lying to him about where they were headed. They were conferring in secret with Gail, the woman who had told him, in her own eloquent words, to get lost.

  He was used to being in charge, knowing what was what. But his own children, his beloved babies...and Gail, his beloved woman...

  Why were all the people he loved the most destined to make him crazy?

  “Okay,” he said with spurious calm. “Let’s start at the beginning here. I do not talk to dolls.”

  “Sean said he saw you talking to Erin’s Barbie in your study Friday night.”

  “Sean was imagining things.” He groped back through his memory to the night before last. “I was thinking out loud,” he explained. “If Barbie was present, I wouldn’t be surprised. I probably also had GI Joe, Buzz Lightyear, and three Beanie Babies in there with me.”

  “You’re talking to all those toys?” Gail looked shocked, but he detected a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  “I’m talking to myself. They’re all just so moved by my scintillating monologues that they gather around to eavesdrop. I ought to start selling tickets.” He clung to that faint sparkle in her eyes, prayed for it not to fade. “What else did my brats tell you? That I’m an incubus?”

  “I don’t think they know what an incubus is.”

  “A monster who visits sleeping women and forces sex upon them.” He sighed and shook his head. “They probably do know. They have a way of knowing too much about things they shouldn’t know anything about.”

  “They said you don’t laugh anymore, and you forgot to bring them ice-cream, and you’re grouchy and you have PMS. Also, Sean is afraid you’re going to eat the remote control and he won’t be able to press the Politically Correct button anymore.”

  “This was one hell of a conversation you guys had,” Dennis murmured. “They think I have PMS?”

  Gail nodded somberly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they’d been to visit you? Do you really hate me so much that you wouldn’t even call me to tell me that?” The question was pushy enough to douse the trace of amusement he’d sensed in her, but he had to ask. If his children had sneaked away from his neighborhood to say all these weird things to Gail, surely she could have phoned him. She would have, if she didn’t loathe him.

  He steeled himself for her answer. She dropped her gaze for only a moment, then lifted it back to him. “I was going to call you this evening,” she told him. “I didn’t want to betray the kids—which was why I dropped them off back at the park instead of bringing them to your house—but they were so worried about you, and...” She lowered her gaze again. The tips of her plain white shoes suddenly seemed to engross her. “I thought if I called you, I’d probably wind up in a terrible mood, and I wanted to be able to enjoy Allison’s wedding. So I figured I’d call you tonight.”

  He took a minute to digest her words. “You really thought talking to me was going to be so bad?”

  She nodded at the ground. He slid his hands forward until he could tuck his thumbs under her chin, and tipped her head up until she had to look at him again. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Am I that awful, Gail?” he asked, once again braced for the possibility that she might say he was.

  “You’re stubborn and unreasonable,” she murmured, her voice thick and shaky.

  “And you’re t
he picture of fair-mindedness?”

  “You hurt my feelings.”

  “It happens sometimes.” The skin along her jaw was soft and satiny against his thumbs. “You hurt me too. But I’m still crazy about you.”

  A tear broke free and skittered down her cheek. “I don’t want to cry over a man,” she moaned.

  “I don’t want to make you cry,” he told her. “But I’m human. I get angry. Especially if it has to do with my kids and their safety. You know that.” He kissed her brow gently. “I love you, Gail. For God’s sake, forgive me for getting angry sometimes.”

  “Murphy—”

  “Because if you don’t forgive me, I’ll have to keep talking to Barbie, and I’ll tell you, she doesn’t contribute much to the discussion. She just sits there, sucking in her cheeks and thrusting out her boobs. The woman is a total bimbo. I don’t know how she put together the money to pay for her dream house, but I can bet she didn’t earn it by using her brain.”

  “Murphy...” Gail smiled.

  “And then there’s the PMS thing. It’s embarrassing, Gail. I’m the only man in my PMS support group. All they want to talk about is which tampons are more absorbent.”

  “Murphy!” She was laughing now. “Stop! I’m trying to be mad at you.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to figure out how to get back into my bed.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—I know how to do that,” she retorted, a flicker of indignation darkening her laughter.

  “You do? How?”

  She rose on tiptoe, slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. The sweet, strong, heady taste of her mouth on his was more intoxicating than the bourbon he’d been drinking, more satisfying than the gourmet treats arrayed on the buffet table, more affirming than any vows Jamie McCoy and his bride could exchange. If he hadn’t heard the distinctive strains of the wedding march wafting through the air, he might have stood kissing Gail by the lilacs for the rest of the afternoon.

  “They’re getting married,” she murmured against his mouth.

  “We ought to check it out,” he murmured back, then turned his words into another light, lingering kiss.

  Taking her hand, he led her around to the back of the house. Nearly all the seats under the canopy were filled, so they stood behind the back row, watching as the bride took the last two steps that brought her to her groom’s side at the front of the aisle. “Dearly Beloved,” the minister began, and Dennis squeezed Gail’s hand. “We are gathered here, on this beautiful June day, all of us people who love Allison and Jamie and wish to share in their love for each other...” and Gail rested her head against Dennis’s shoulder.

  “I love you,” she whispered, so softly no one but Dennis could have heard.

  He peered down at her. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you think my kids are cute?”

  She chuckled quietly. “Your kids are hooligans,” she argued in a hushed voice. “They give me headaches.”

  “Me, too,” he played along. “I just want to make sure you love me for myself.”

  “I do,” Gail said at the exact instant Allison declared in a bright, fervent voice, “I do.”

  “Do you, Jamie, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love, honor and cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

  “I do,” Jamie answered, and Dennis squeezed Gail’s hand again and whispered, “I do.”

  “By the power vested in me,” the minister said, “I now—”

  “Ma! Ma! Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma!” Jamie’s baby shrieked, creating a stir in the front row of seats. She squirmed along several laps before climbing down and toddling over to the bridal couple, her arms outstretched. “Ma-ma-ma! Me! Me! Ma-ma-ma!”

  Low laughter drifted through the assembled guests. Allison swooped down, her elaborate grown rustling as she caught the little girl and lifted her into her arms. Jamie arched his arm around both his women—his bride and his daughter—and nodded to the minister.

  “I now pronounce you husband, wife and baby,” the minister said with a helpless smile. “You may all kiss each other!”

  The gathering burst into applause as Jamie, Allison and Samantha gathered in a massive hug. The only two people who weren’t clapping were Dennis and Gail, who were lost in their own private, loving embrace.

  Epilogue

  “SEAN!” GAIL YELLED at the figure zipping through the kitchen. “I told you, no roller-blading in the house! Take those skates outside or I’ll take them away forever!”

  “Erin said you said we could skate in the rec room,” he remarked, gliding in a graceful circle around the table, deftly avoiding Allison and Molly, who were counting out paper cups and plates at the counter.

  “In the rec room or outside,” Gail warned. “Not in the kitchen. And take the skates off before you go down the stairs!” she hollered vainly, as Sean yanked open the cellar door off the mud room and clomped down the steps in his skates.

  “The day Samantha asks for skates,” Allison announced, “I am going to ground her for life.”

  “If you do that, who’s Michael going to marry?” Molly asked, glimpsing out the screened back door and grinning. “He’s still trailing her around. He’s trying to give her his tow truck.”

  “That must be true love,” Allison agreed, peering over Molly’s shoulder and laughing.

  “Just wait,” Gail warned as she studied the sheet cake at the center of the table. “The minute Michael discovers the joys of belching, Samantha’s going to realize how icky he is and they won’t talk to each other ever again.”

  “Until the hormones kick in,” Molly predicted. “That’s when we’ve got to lock them up for life.”

  “What do you think?” Gail asked, trying to visualize how the cake would look once she finished decorating it. She’d already covered it with a layer of smooth white frosting. Now, armed with tubes of colored icing, she was trying to figure out exactly how to write “Happy Birthday, Sean and Erin” on it. “If I use pink, Sean will make gagging sounds. If I use blue, Erin will whine. Green just doesn’t seem like the right color for a birthday cake.”

  “You’ll have to use all four colors,” Molly advised, lifting the yellow tube and studying the cake.

  “You could write Happy Birthday in green and then Sean’s name in blue and Erin’s in pink,” Allison suggested.

  “That’s so sexist,” Molly argued. “I think you should put Sean in pink and Erin in blue. That ought to shake them up.”

  “I’ll write everything in yellow,” Gail resolved. “Then we’ll make colored speckles on the cake with the other three tubes.”

  “I can’t believe my hot-shot lawyer sister baked a cake,” Molly teased, handing Gail the tube of yellow.

  “I can’t believe she’s making a birthday cake for children,” Allison added.

  “I can’t believe she’s hosting this party only one day after she hosted a party for sixteen kids at the roller rink.”

  “I can’t believe,” Gail joined in, “that you two are giving me such a hard time when my husband is outside slaving over a hot grill to feed you and your loved ones. I ought to tell him to burn your burgers.”

  “I can’t believe,” Molly continued, lifting the blue tube and dabbing dots of colored icing on the cake, “that my sister went and married a guy with two kids and bought a big, sprawling house in the ’burbs, with a rec room in the basement.”

  “The ‘wreck’ room,” Gail punned, then spelled it out so they’d get the joke. “We thought that finished room would make a nice little play room for the kids. We never expected they were going to turn it into their own private art studio and gym. When they’re not spilling finger-paints all over the floor down there, they’re playing basketball with a plastic hoop Murphy got for them. Or throwing Velcro-darts. Or punching an inflatable Batman punching bag. Or roller-skating. We should never have gotten them those roller-blades for their birthday. The earrings for Erin and the football for Sean should have been enough.”

  �
�I can’t believe,” Allison commented, “that you’re talking about all this stuff—finger-paints and footballs and roller-blades—with a smile on your face.”

  Actually, if Gail had thought about it, she might not have believed it herself. But then, last spring, she would not have believed that a man like Murphy would sweep into her life, with his two rowdy, mouthy kids in tow, and make her the happiest woman in the world.

  Allison and Molly might argue over her claim to that particular title, but she was sure it belonged to her. Even when Sean was skating through the kitchen. Even when Erin was warbling graphic rock song lyrics. Even when Murphy was strutting around acting as if he actually believed he was the best lawyer in Arlington.

  He wasn’t. Gail was. And even when she was debating him on the subject, she was still the happiest woman in the world. Especially because she knew how every debate with Murphy ultimately got resolved—in bed. In his arms. Making love.

  The screen door swung open and John Russo stepped in. “Dennis said to tell you the burgers are just about done,” he announced. “Jamie says we need more beer.”

  “You have to check with Jamie before you decide if you need more beer?” Allison asked with a grin.

  John grinned back, then eyed Gail en route to the refrigerator to pull a few more chilled bottles from the shelf in the door. “By the way, Gail, I meant to tell you: your old friend Leo Kopoluski got arrested.”

  “What?” She dropped the tube of yellow icing, leaving a long squiggle at the end of the “y” in “birthday.”

  “We got word yesterday. He was picked up in Boston.” Before John could elaborate, he’d balanced the beer in his hands and used his elbow to nudge the screen door open.

  Gail plucked the tube off the cake and chased John through the door onto the back porch, where the three men were supposed to be slaving over the grill. What she found was a far cry from slavery. Jamie McCoy was sprawled out on one of the lounge chairs, his face half-hidden behind mirror-lensed sunglasses, his T-shirt emblazoned with “The Ultimate Married Guy” in bright red letters across his chest, and his hand outstretched to receive a bottle of beer from John. Murphy was seated on a redwood Adirondack chair near the grill, his feet propped up on the porch railing and his skin darkening in the late-afternoon sun. Beyond the porch, Samantha and Michael occupied the swing-set, sitting side by side on the swings and pumping their legs, although Michael was swinging high and Samantha was hardly moving at all.