Father in the Making

“I think you should try to make life as normal as possible for him.”

That was exactly why he was moving in. So why was hearing it from her lips setting his teeth on edge? Right about now, if she said snow was white, he would be tempted to shout that it was black.

“What you think is completely irrelevant to me, Ms.—look, what’s your first name again?”

“Bridgette.” She didn’t want him calling her by her first name. She wanted their relationship to remain completely formal. “Ms. Rafanelli will do just fine.”

The absence of Ms. Rafanelli would do even better, he thought. It was time to get on with the rest of his life and get her out of here. He took her elbow. “Well, thanks for coming.”

Bridgette eluded his hold. “I’d like to say goodbye to Mickey.”

If he let her go, there was no telling when she would leave. “I’ll tell him for you.”

The hell he would, she thought.

“Thanks, but I’d rather do it myself.”

With that, she hurried down the hall before he attempted to forcibly eject her. She wouldn’t put it past him. Any man who could neglect a child was capable of almost anything.

Bridgette stopped just short of Mickey’s doorway. Singsong music was coming out of the room. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open slowly with her fingertips. Inside, Mickey was sitting on the floor in front of a small portable television set. He was as erect as if a ruler had been inserted under his hockey team T-shirt. Bridgette quietly slipped into the room.

Mickey didn’t even notice her presence. His eyes were focused on the colorful screen, his finger mechanically pumping the buttons on the control pad.

He didn’t seem to be in the room at all.

Cry, Mickey, cry.

On-screen, a tiny gnome in green livery was valiantly attempting to rescue an equally tiny princess in a far-off castle. The gnome kept falling into the moat. Each time he did, another one of his lives was lost.

“How many points do you have?” she asked softly.

Mickey didn’t bother to turn around. It was as if he’d known she was there all the time. Known and hadn’t reacted. “Nine hundred and three. But I’ve only got one life left.”

He usually played very well. And likely as not, he would ask her to join him. He made no such request today.

“Better be careful then.”

There was nothing left to say for the moment. Mickey had completely withdrawn into himself. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe Mickey did need a little time to himself first. “I’m going home now.”

Mickey nodded. The gnome fell into the moat again. The sign Game Over flashed. He started a new game.

She wanted to sweep him into her arms again. To hold him and rock him and let him cry his heart out. Stymied, she remained where she was.

“If you need anything, my telephone number is number three on the ReDial.” She’d helped Diane program it. Diane had always been so lost when it came to anything remotely complicated. “Call me anytime if you need to talk.”

Mickey nodded again. She knew he wouldn’t be calling. At least, not for a while.

Bridgette felt awkward. She had never felt awkward with a child before, but then, there was the aura of a third party in the room with them. Death made her feel uncomfortable and at a loss.

“Anyway,” she said, backing up toward the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow after school for lessons.”

“Okay,” he mumbled to his control pad.

Bridgette was desperate to get any sort of reaction from Mickey. It was as if that one moment when he’d first seen her had been a slip. She saw no trace of the boy she knew. “We can go over a new song.”

“Okay.”

She sighed inwardly and retreated. She’d try again tomorrow. “Bye.”

He glanced at her for a moment, a troubled, lost soul, before returning to his game. “’Bye.”

Feeling frustrated beyond words, Bridgette turned and walked directly into Blaine. He’d been standing right outside Mickey’s room, obviously listening to every word. Needing a target, she selected him.

Bridgette pushed Blaine away, trying not to notice that she had experienced a definite reaction to brushing up against his very hard body.

“Why are you hovering over me?” she whispered angrily as she stepped to the side so that Mickey couldn’t hear them.

He had a question of his own. “Why are you coming back tomorrow?”

She had a feeling that he’d like nothing better than to bar her from Mickey’s life. Fat chance.

“I already told you. Besides being his godmother, I’m also his piano teacher. We have a lesson tomorrow.” She was determined to give the boy some semblance of order within the chaos he found himself in. It was a given that this man wouldn’t.

“I’m canceling it. You don’t have to come by.” The last thing he needed while he was trying to establish a fuller relationship with Mickey was to have her around, sniping at him.

Oh, no, it wasn’t going to be that easy. It wasn’t going to be easy at all. Getting rid of her was going to be downright impossible, she promised him silently. She had an emotional stake in Mickey. For his sake and Diane’s, she intended to be around.

“I’m paid up through the end of the month,” she informed him as she crossed to the front door. “I’ll be back.” She paused in the doorway and looked at him over her shoulder. “Some of us still honor commitments.”

There was no denying the fact that the woman was gorgeous, just as there was no denying the fact that she was a shrew. A pity.

“And some of you need to be committed,” he muttered under his breath.

She grinned for the first time since she had entered. “Exactly. ‘Bye, Jack,” she called out. “I’m leaving.”

Not far away enough, Blaine thought as he closed the door firmly behind her.

Jack walked in, too late to say goodbye. He gathered by Blaine’s expression that the meeting with Bridgette had gone from bad to worse after he’d left the room. The fact amused him. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

Blaine turned, then made an effort to regain his composure. “That’s putting it rather mildly.”

Jack laughed as he led the way into the kitchen. “You should see her grandmother.”

Blaine caught the fond note in Jack’s voice. Jack had been a widower for as long as he’d known him. He had never thought of the man as being interested in finding a romantic partner. He wondered if Jack was being taken advantage of.

“Anything like her?”

Jack took out two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter. The expression on his face belonged to that of a man years younger. “Yes. A warm, passionate woman who makes you glad you’re alive.”

Blaine shook his head as he watched Jack pour coffee into his mug. “Then she’s nothing at all like her granddaughter.”

Jack lowered himself into the kitchen chair, then took a tentative sip of his coffee. He studied his former son-in-law over the rim of his mug. “Bridgette was very close to Diane.”

Blaine had already gathered that. He joined Jack at the table. “She looks like she wants to get close to me, too.” He saw the quizzical look in Jack’s eyes. “With a hatchet.”

Though he loved his daughter, Jack had been very aware that Diane had had her shortcomings. “Diane might have told her a few things—”

Now there was an understatement. “If she had told Bridgette that I was the Boston Strangler and Bluebeard rolled up into one, I still would have had a warmer reception.”

Blaine didn’t know Bridgette the way he did. “Bridgette’s just worried about Mickey.”

“Well, so am I,” Blaine snapped. He realized that he was letting his own tension spill out. Maybe that was why he’d balked at what Bridgette said, as well. No, he amended, the woman had merited his reaction. But Jack didn’t.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Jack, I have no idea how to be a father.”

Jack laughed softly under his breath. “When you find out, you can let the rest of us in on it.” Mentally, he postponed his trip to the store. It was time to walk Spangles. Mickey would probably enjoy that more. He rose stiffly and clamped a hand on Blaine’s shoulder. “Mostly it’s just flying by the seat of your pants and hoping you don’t crash-land.”

Blaine shook his head. That wasn’t the way he saw it. “My dad always seemed to know what to do, what to say. He was never at a loss in any situation.”

Then he’d be the first, Jack thought. “Your dad was just good at playacting. Fathers only pretend to know what they’re talking about.” He considered Blaine the son he’d never had. “Remember, every father was once a little boy. It’ll work out, Blaine. It’s just going to take time. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll hang around for as long as it takes for you to get comfortable with this.”

Blaine knew it was the coward’s way out, but right now, he wasn’t feeling all that brave about the situation. And talking to Bridgette had just made it worse. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Jack easily dismissed his thanks. “And don’t be too hard on Bridgette. She loves Mickey a lot.”

Why did he get this feeling that it was a competition between them? “So do I.”

Jack winked, amused at Blaine’s tone. “That gives you something in common.”

Blaine set his empty mug down and pretended to shiver. “Now that’s a scary thought.”

Jack laughed again. It was good to begin to feel alive again. He had three other daughters, but Diane had been his baby. Perhaps he had always favored her because, of all his children, she’d been the one who needed it most, the one with so many insecurities. For whatever the reason, he’d closed his eyes to a lot of her faults.

“After I walk Spangles, I’ll help you hook up your VCR.”

Blaine looked at him in surprise. “You know how to do that?”

Jack pretended to take umbrage at Blaine’s tone. “Hell, not everyone over fifty is a dinosaur.” He squinted a little as he focused on Blaine. “I could probably beat you at that video game as well.”

“Probably.” Blaine’s smile faded a little. “Jack?”

Jack took a box of dog biscuits out of the cupboard and pocketed one. Sometimes, Spangles had to be coaxed to head for home. “Yeah?”

Blaine knew he was lucky to have help at a time like this. “Thanks for being here.”

Gratitude always made him uncomfortable, as if he were wearing a scratchy sweater.

“My pleasure, Blaine, my pleasure.” And then he smiled. “I always did like you.”

Blaine nodded. “Too bad Diane didn’t.”

Jack nodded as he left the kitchen. “Yeah, too bad.”

Chapter Three

It seemed rather unusual to Blaine, with all the things he had on his mind, that he would actually find himself thinking of Bridgette. Yet there she was, thrusting herself into his thoughts like a commuter pushing her way through a crowded subway car to reach the door.

And not just once—he could have dealt with it if it had been just once. No, she popped up, unannounced, unwanted, unbidden, several times within the small space of half a day. Considering that they didn’t exactly hit it off on their first meeting, he couldn’t understand why this was happening.

It was enough to make a sane man crazy.

Blaine glanced at Mickey sitting beside him on the sofa. Dinner had long since been over and Jack had gone out with Bridgette’s grandmother, an attractive, vivacious woman who didn’t deserve the term grandmother or, in Blaine’s opinion, the ignoble honor of being related to Bridgette. That left the two of them alone in the house, if he didn’t count the dog. He knew that it was important to establish a solid routine for Mickey. But Blaine’s life had been anything but routine. It wasn’t easy for him, not only adjusting to but laying down a schedule of some sort.

Desperately casting about for a starting point, Blaine had gladly abandoned his unpacking and coaxed Mickey into watching a television program with him. It was a short, snappy sitcom aimed at the family.

Twenty minutes into the program, that show had cut to a commercial for skin cream. The woman caressing the pink jar had an exquisite complexion that would have rivaled Snow White’s.

The enticing pink hue that had crept up Bridgette’s cheek earlier that day flashed through Blaine’s mind like a bolt of lightning in a sudden summer thunderstorm.

He wondered what Diane had actually told her about him to bring about such an intense reaction from her. Whatever it was, it had to be a lie. He was going to have to set her straight.

Blaine sighed, annoyed with himself. Why did he even care what she thought? And why in heaven’s name was she preying on his mind with the tenacity of a carnivorous jackal?

The answer, he supposed, was simple enough if he thought about it. She was returning tomorrow and he didn’t want her to. The last thing he needed right now was recriminations or someone telling him what he was doing wrong. What he needed was someone to tell him what to do right.

He slanted a glance toward his son. Mickey had been sitting beside him on the sofa for the last half hour. He was staring straight ahead at the set, his expression devoid of any emotion. Spangles was parked at the boy’s feet, vainly waiting to be stroked.

Just as Blaine had vainly waited for a glimmer of a smile to appear on Mickey’s face at the on-screen antics of an utterly improbable family. Nothing remotely bearing a resemblance to a smile had creased his son’s lips.

Had Diane’s death completely wiped away Mickey’s feelings? No, he wasn’t going to accept that. He wasn’t certain how, but somehow, he was going to find a way to break through to Mickey.

But not today.

Blaine looked at his watch. It was getting late and was undoubtedly past Mickey’s bedtime. He’d never had the boy with him overnight. Even when he’d had the time, Diane hadn’t allowed it. They’d call it a night, he decided, and start fresh tomorrow.

“Ready for bed?”

Secretly, he hoped for a protest. Little boys always tried to wangle an extra ten minutes or so. It was inherent in their nature. Bedtime was something to be avoided at all costs, even if you were falling on your face, exhausted.

Mickey rose to his feet. Spangles gained his legs beside him. “Sure.”

It suddenly occurred to Blaine that the only spark of emotion he had seen his son display was when the boy had first seen Bridgette. It had gone out almost immediately, but it had been there.

That clinched it. If he listened, he could have sworn he heard a cell door clanging shut.

Bridgette was probably the key to unlocking what was boarded up inside of Mickey. Like it or not, he was going to have to put up with the woman for his son’s sake.

He didn’t like it.

He liked the fact that she was right even less. Right that this subdued manner in which Mickey was dealing with his mother’s death wasn’t good. Blaine readily admitted that he didn’t know much about children, but he knew that Mickey’s reaction just wasn’t natural. He hadn’t seen him shed a single tear, and Jack had told him that the boy had remained dry-eyed at the funeral, as well. Blaine knew Mickey had loved his mother and had been very close to her.

Blaine took Mickey’s hand. It curved, small and lifeless, within his. “Want me to tuck you in?”

“If you want to.”

A conversation with an apathetic, world-weary old man would have yielded more emotion. For a moment, Blaine thought of just retreating, just giving up. It would have been the easy way out.

But then Bridgette’s advice about Mickey’s needs echoed through his mind. Harped on it might have been a more apt description. Still, the point was that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Mickey if he gave way and retreated.

He had to find a way to reach him, no matter what it took.

Mickey began to cross to the doorway. Blaine sat down on the coffee table in order to be at eye level with the boy. He placed his hands on Mickey’s small shoulders. Mickey turned to look at him. Maybe he could eventually reach him through physical contact.

“No,” Blaine contradicted. “What do you want? I would like to tuck you in, but I don’t want to do anything that might upset you.”

Diane had probably tucked him in hundreds of times and Blaine didn’t want to remind him of that. God, but this road he found himself on was so hard to navigate. He felt as if he were constantly losing ground.

Blaine searched his son’s face, looking to see if anything he was saying was registering.

“Mickey, you’re going to have to help me out here. I know I’m your dad.” Blaine’s mouth curved in a smile. “My name’s on your birth certificate, but that doesn’t mean I have the skills, the training to do this job right. I’ve never been the dad of a ten-year-old before. If I mess up, I want you to tell me.”

Mickey solemnly nodded his head up and down. “Sure, I’ll tell you.”

It was like talking to a glass of water, Blaine thought, frustrated. Releasing Mickey, he rose to his feet. “Okay, we’ll compromise. Why don’t you get ready and I’ll look in on you in a few minutes?”

He expected no protest this time and received none. Mickey left the room.

Behind him, credits were running over a scene of the family they’d been watching for the last half hour. All five people were tangled up in a huge group hug. Blaine pressed the On/Off button. The scene disappeared, folding itself up into a small, round blue dot before vanishing altogether.

He didn’t know why he had wasted his time and Mickey’s watching the show. Life wasn’t a half hour sitcom where problems were neatly resolved in twenty-three minutes—subplots even faster.

But he could wish for that, just this once.

Blaine ran a hand through his hair, upbraiding himself for being foolish. This was going to work out. It was just going to take time. Lots of it.

And some of it, he’d resigned himself, was going to have to be spent in Bridgette’s company. Starting at five tomorrow.

He wondered, as he walked down the hall to Mickey’s room several minutes later, if she was going to be coming by car or by broom.

The door to Mickey’s bedroom stood wide open. Light was flooding out into the hallway. Mickey was afraid of the dark and no paltry night-light adequately held the ghosts and haunts at bay. That was left up to a sixty-watt bulb. And Spangles.

When he looked in, Blaine saw that Mickey was already in bed and apparently asleep. Spangles was stretched out across the foot of the bed like a living black-and-tan accent rug. The German shepherd Blaine had given to his son for his seventh birthday raised his head slightly as Blaine walked in and approached the bed. He was Mickey’s dog all the way.

“Mick?” Blaine whispered softly.

Mickey made no response. Long lashes rested like dark crescents against his cheeks. His breathing was steady and rhythmic.

Blaine felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. He’d wanted another opportunity to talk with Mickey, but he had a gnawing feeling that no matter what he said, nothing would be changed. Not yet, at any rate.

He sighed. He was just going to have to be patient. Like a shot that had to be framed just so, things would fall into place, he promised himself. He loved Mickey too much for things not to work out.

Blaine patted the dog’s head as Spangles rested his muzzle on his paws. His large brown eyes were trained on Mickey.

“At least he feels he has you,” Blaine murmured to the dog. “That’s something.”

Withdrawing quietly from the room, Blaine didn’t see Mickey’s eyes opening. Nor did he see the endless well of sadness in them as Mickey turned toward the wall and the photograph of his mother hanging there.

Blaine realized that he had unconsciously been listening for the sound ever since he’d brought Mickey home from school: the sound of a car pulling up in his driveway. He’d been listening for it, anticipating it and dreading it all at the same time. When he finally heard it, Blaine glanced out the window toward the driveway. He was in time to see Bridgette getting out of her silver compact car.

Obviously her broom was in the shop, he thought.

Bracing himself, telling himself that this was for Mickey, Blaine was at the door when the doorbell rang. It sounded oddly like the bell at a boxing arena. Round two, he imagined. Still, if Mickey responded to her, Blaine supposed he could put up with the woman. In small, bite-size doses.

He opened the door and was surprised to note that she appeared somewhat uncomfortable. Now what? Did she have a bomb strapped to her, set to go off within five minutes, and was now wondering how to remain in his company until it detonated?

Bridgette raised her eyes to his. He looked larger than he had yesterday. Or maybe she just felt smaller. Bridgette wasn’t in her element.

She’d rehearsed the apology all during the drive over. In several different versions. No matter how she phrased it, the apology still sounded wrong. It wasn’t that apologies were foreign to her. She’d certainly done her share of apologizing in her life, mostly to Gino.

No, it was something else, something more. She just didn’t think that the man deserved an apology. In her estimation, he was still a poor excuse for a father, not to mention a wayward husband. The latter was based strictly on Diane’s say-so, but she had no reason to doubt her late best friend’s allegations. Why would Diane have lied to her?

Still she had promised Nonna to try to make friends with him, or at least to be civil for everyone’s sake, especially Mickey’s. Jack had confided to her grandmother last night that he felt Mickey was withdrawing into himself even more than he had first thought. She had seen evidence of that for herself firsthand.

And it was obvious that she couldn’t be there for Mickey, couldn’t help him, if she was busy fighting with his boor of a father.

No, no more recriminations, she upbraided herself just before she’d rung the bell. She’d promised. And, unlike some people, she thought, Blaine’s image coming to mind, she never broke a promise. Mickey was far more important to her than any feelings she might—

“Hello.”

The single word, warm, sexy and enveloping, put her instantly on her guard. Damn, but he did raise her hackles. And, if she were honest with herself, for more reasons than one.

With all her heart, Bridgette wished that Diane hadn’t confided in her to the extent that she had. Listening to the litany of complaints hadn’t enabled her to do anything for Diane. Recounting the tales hadn’t even been cathartic for her friend. Cataloguing Blaine’s faults had been neither cleansing nor helpful to her frame of mind. If anything, it had only depressed Diane.

And it certainly had gone a long way toward tainting her own view of the man, Bridgette thought.

Well, tainted or no, she had a promise to keep.

“Hello,” she echoed. Crossing the threshold, she looked about the living room. It was crowded with boxes, just as it had been yesterday. The man obviously moved fast only when it came to his women. “Is Mickey around?”

“In his room. With Spangles,” Blaine added in case she wanted to take him to task for some reason about leaving the boy alone. Blaine had no way of second-guessing what she would do or say and he wanted to avoid any scene whatsoever for Mickey’s sake.

“Good.” She wanted no witnesses to the scene she was about to play out. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, great,” he groaned as he shut the door. “Should I go get Jack to act as referee?”

She ignored his sarcastic question, or at least tried to. Bridgette took a deep breath as she turned around to face him.

She turned a little too quickly and her breasts brushed against Blaine. Surprised, he caught her by the shoulders to keep from throwing her off balance. The thought telegraphed itself through his system that touching her, touching any part of her, was a very pleasurable experience. One that, under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed exploring.

As it was, he was afraid of having his hands bitten off. He meant to drop them quickly to his sides, but something inherent within him prevented him from following through. Instead, he slowly slid his palms down the length of her arms before he finally backed away from her.