The Second Time Around, page 13
His mouth dropped open.
“I think we’ll need to send them off the balcony to see whose is the best.”
Tommy squealed and threw his arms around her hips. She chuckled as he squeezed as tight as he could. “You’re the best.”
Her heart swelled. Sure, it wasn’t literally true, but she still floated the rest of the way home—his home, not hers. The distinction was getting blurry.
After Tommy washed kindergarten off his hands, he ate blackberries while Claire set her laptop up on the kitchen table and got out the paper. She pulled up a video she’d found on how to make the best paper airplanes. Together they folded at least a dozen before Tommy hissed.
“Ow.” He sucked his pointer finger.
“Paper cut?”
He pulled out his finger and glared at it. “Yeah. See, it’s right there.” A minuscule drop of blood slowly beaded on his skin.
“Let’s wash the paper acid out of it so it stops stinging.”
“Will you finish mine?” He held up the crinkled sheet.
Claire folded while he washed his hands. “I think it’s time to try these bad boys out.”
Arms full of homemade planes, they walked outside. To the right was the pool. Around to the left, there was a spiraling staircase that went up to a rooftop patio. They climbed, then stood side by side at the railing. Her gaze lifted to the panoramic view of boundless ocean. She inhaled, filling her whole body with the fresh air.
“What should we aim for?” Claire asked, feeling like she’d already reached the stars.
“The beach.”
“Whoa.” She laughed. “You think you can get yours all the way down there? That’s a long way.”
Tommy cocked an airplane back and let it fly. It spiraled down and landed on a lounge chair. He frowned.
“That’s a good target. Whoever gets the most planes on that chair gets to pick what we have as a treat tonight.”
She purposefully didn’t aim for the chair, although it didn’t matter since they had zero control over where the planes went. Tommy’s first plane was the only one that hit the target.
“What’s it gonna be, big mister?”
“I want cookies-and-cream ice cream from the store.”
“Fair enough.” And convenient. Claire wanted to grab what she needed to make him raspberry pancakes for breakfast. “We’ll stop on the way home from dinner.” She walked down the narrow stairs. They gathered the papers and stuffed them in the recycle bin.
“I’m hungry,” Tommy said.
“Let’s go get nachos.”
At dinner, Claire couldn’t stop smiling at Tommy over the candlelit tabletop. She marveled at her happiness. She hadn’t wanted to take this job, and she’d nearly missed out on one of the best things that had ever happened to her. She found deep satisfaction in tending to this child. And he wasn’t even hers. What did that mean? How could she love him so much? Could she want another of her own? She didn’t answer that question. It didn’t matter. She was already done with that phase of her existence, with both the joy and pain of family life. And with that thought, her smile drooped.
She wondered what else she might be missing out on because she’d taken counsel from her fears.
“Your son is beautiful,” the server said as she set down their shared plate. “He looks just like you.”
“Thank you.” Claire said it in regard to the nachos and not the wounding remark.
People should really not make assumptions. About anything. Ever.
Fortunately, Tommy didn’t seem to have noticed, his focus entirely on the mound of melted fat and salt.
They giggled and talked about what superpowers they would need to rule the world. Invincibility, of course, was number one. Mind reading and the ability to shoot spiderwebs out of their hands came in as close seconds. Tommy wasn’t convinced Claire needed teleportation. He was determined that sticky spider hands were somehow better than instant travel. Even when Claire said they’d be able to pop over to Italy for a pizza lunch anytime they wanted, he was unmoved. Claire laughed and let him have his theoretical victory. Also, Tommy wanted invisibility so he could sneak candies out of the pantry without getting caught.
They picked which animals they would choose to be able to turn into. Claire an osprey and Tommy a tiger. They discussed at length the merits of having large permanent wings attached to their backs. Pros far outweighed cons there. They compared candy to baked goods and could not come to an agreement. Tommy was as staunch in his defense of the gummy as Claire was for pie. He was cheerful and delighted with everything. In short, it was the perfect date—Banks even footed the bill.
And Tommy was the perfect son. Her thoughts sputtered again. He was not her son. She was done having children. No sense in starting to feel bad about it now.
Yet the wanting was there.
Back at home, after ice cream, books, and Tommy’s bath, Claire pulled pajamas with tiny trucks patterned over them from his drawer and held them out to him. “Remember, if you need me tonight, I’m just across the playroom.”
Tommy grabbed his pants. “Thanks, Mom.”
Her body went still as ice burned through her veins. “Helen is your mom.”
He stopped. His eyes held too many emotions for her to begin to work through. He looked so small in nothing but his underwear and his yearning. “Are you going to leave me too?”
Her heart dropped out of her chest. She couldn’t lie to him, but she couldn’t pour salt on his wounds either. She knelt in front of him and slipped his shirt over his head. “It depends on how long your dad wants me to keep working. I hope to be here for a long time, but you’re getting older. You can do so many things without needing any help.”
“Not everything. I can’t drive for a long time.” And he looked glad of it.
“I love you, Tommy. And even when I’m not your babysitter anymore, I’ll always be your friend.” She tucked him into her arms and soaked in his warmth.
He held tight. “I love you more.”
“I love you most.”
“I love you more than mostest.”
She pulled back and pursed her lips in thought.
“You can’t beat that,” he said. “I win.”
“All right, winner, get in bed.”
He tumbled under the covers. She kissed his brow. She slipped out of his room with her heart in her throat and her mind fluttering. Oh, sweet boy. What had she done? She’d done good here. She knew it. But the fear that hit was cold and harsh. She really did love him. And how long would she be here? She hadn’t thought it through before. One year? Two? Ten? That seemed like a very long time to nanny. But why not? She didn’t plan to move. She could do her art in the mornings and on weekends, not that she was doing that anyway. At lunch with Raven today, Claire had gushed about how great this gig was working out.
But what if Banks got married? It was likely. Most widowers found another wife quickly. What if Tommy didn’t love the stepmother like he loved Claire? What if Claire didn’t get to meet him at the bus every day anymore? Her heart wobbled in her ribs as she tiptoed upstairs.
What if Claire became the stepmom?
Her immediate reaction was to shove the question away, but she forced herself to confront it.
Banks was interested in her. She pretended not to notice, but she was forty, not fourteen. And he wasn’t exactly subtle about the puppy dog eyes he sent her when it was time for her to leave. Fortunately, besides the long looks and the personal questions, he’d been respectful and professional. She could be wrong, but sometimes when he smiled at her, she imagined he was waiting, letting her see all that he had to offer. And it was a lot. She couldn’t deny it. Not the least was the money. Stevie and Claire had made a deal with their daughters. The girls could go anywhere they wanted for college, and their parents would pay half. Now Stevie’s income was gone, but the bills weren’t. Edith’s next semester tuition payment for UCLA would drain Claire’s account. And technically that money was already from Banks.
She cleaned up the ice cream bowls, pretending it was her house, her kitchen. She loved cooking in here. She knew the quirks of the stove and how to stack the pans to get them to fit into the drawer. What if it were her husband on a business trip? She snuck into Banks’s bedroom. The cleaners had come, and the bed was made to five-star standards, not that she had much experience with fancy hotels. The furniture surfaces shined. She could sleep in that bed. She had the sudden urge to crawl into it. Try it out tonight. But that was cheating, she knew. Banks wasn’t here. He was handsome, but could she sleep with him every night? Give him sex? Give him the rest of her life? Her mind rebelled against the thought.
She’d never remarry. She amended the statement. She’d never remarry unless she found a soul match like the tall tales—and those were all fiction. She had wanted romance, an epic love story, but marriage didn’t come with that. With Stevie, the sex too often had felt like a chore.
She remembered one evening she’d been exhausted. An endless day of anxiety over Edith’s croup, Mona and Indi turning into MMA fighters whenever they got within six feet of each other, and Stevie’s cousin coming to visit. She’d finally fallen onto the bed facedown. She’d heard Stevie come into the house at that moment. One second after the work was done and the girls were settled at last. Resentment had swelled through her in a painful wave. He’d walked into the bedroom and started talking about work, complaining about a coworker and cooing about something he’d done well. Claire wasn’t really listening. She was imagining telling someone who cared what a shitty day she’d had and how hard she worked.
Stevie came and stood at her feet. He tugged down her shorts. “Nice ass you’ve got there, my love.” He climbed onto the bed.
Claire was so tired. Didn’t have the energy to turn him away or rise to the occasion. Her muscles had gone limp. Her mind felt too clobbered to function. Down the hall, Edith’s barking cough rang out.
When Stevie finished minutes later, she hadn’t moved an inch. She wasn’t physically hurt by the abrupt start, but by the end, she’d felt wounded and sad inside and, despite herself, unsatisfied down there now too. Miserable from head to toe. Edith coughed again. Maybe she should turn up the humidifier in there.
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Looks like you could do with some sleep.”
Screw you, Stevie.
He hadn’t seemed to notice that he passed out that night without hearing an uttered word of reply from his wife.
Claire turned away from Banks’s posh bed. She no longer wanted to get close to it now. She paused as she noticed herself shoving the past pain back down. Instead, she tried to breathe out the memory and focus on setting it free. I see you, I learned from you, and now I let you go. That felt a bit better.
She drifted into the closet and stopped. Helen’s things were gone. The shelves were bare.
Waiting.
Her heart thumped. Thumped. Thumped.
The last time she’d been in here, Banks had been far from her mind. Her skin warmed as she remembered her ridiculous costume. And Smith. Smith—Banks’s other son. That guy. She pictured his blue-green eyes. His thick hair. His laugh. His finger sliding along the curves of her breasts as he’d tucked in the handkerchief. Her body pulsed at the mere thought.
It didn’t matter if she could maybe one day, eventually, potentially picture herself here with Banks. She could never be Smith’s stepmother. Not when she was still rebuilding the walls he’d so quickly reduced to rubble. Not when his presence awakened a deep, primal part of her that was safer left untouched. Not when she wanted to get into his bed.
She felt the precariousness of the situation, like they all stood on the edge of a cliff. As long as no one made any moves or did anything stupid, everything would be fine.
Chapter 19
SMITH
Smith parked his bike in his garage and hung up his helmet. He peeled off his sweaty clothes and dropped them directly into the washing machine that was stationed in a tiny room by the garage entrance. Usually a hard ride cleared his head, but it hadn’t worked this morning. He was still seeing Claire’s paintings float through his head. She signed her paintings with her maiden name, but it wasn’t rocket science to find her. Abstract was incredibly difficult to pull off, but her stuff was raw and intoxicating. Of her work, a critic online had stated, “She doesn’t paint pictures. She paints emotions.” And they were powerful.
Smith wished he’d never googled her, wished he didn’t now know the depth of her creativity and complexity. He was utterly intrigued.
He turned the shower to lukewarm and stepped in. He’d gone out with Stacey three times now. Hadn’t brought her home. Wasn’t going to call her again. How could he when Claire had invaded his thoughts like a virus? She was a granny. He wasn’t even a dad yet. And he wanted to have a child. She was in a completely different stage of life. Why the crap did he think about her all the time? Yet she’d mentioned wanting another child. She’d said it to him. An invitation? He rinsed the soap and dirt off and stepped out. Wearing only his boxer briefs, he ate scrambled eggs and drew Claire.
She was more stubborn than most, but he’d get her out of his system. Obviously nothing could come of his rising interest. She was Tommy’s. She was too much older than he. She wouldn’t be a good fit for him. He closed his sketchbook, disgusted with himself for not believing any of it.
His phone buzzed with a text from Dad. What do we do about holiday cards this year?
Smith rubbed the spot between his brows where the pain seemed to be coming from. Skip them. He’d assumed this was the one good thing about Mom being gone—no more family photos. No more adult son joining the picture like a creeper.
I need to send something out. I have my business list. Should we do a picture with just you, me, and Tom?
No. That would look so sad.
Should I ask Claire to be in it?
Smith startled. What in the world? He picked up the phone and called his dad.
“Hello?”
“You can’t be serious. Claire? You didn’t mention this to her, did you?” Smith’s body had gone hot.
“No. Dumb idea, right?”
“Yes. It’s so weird.” Smith’s voice was cold and firm. “She’s not part of the family. You cannot put her in your Christmas card.”
“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
Just the fact that Dad had considered it was disturbing. “Get some nice cards that don’t have a photograph this year. There are some cool ones with artwork. It will look professional and masculine.” He thought of Claire’s paintings again. He wanted to study them more. He cringed.
“Good idea, son. Will you help me pick them out?”
Smith sighed. “Yeah. I can look up some stuff.”
“Thank you. And, hey, what do you want to do for Thanksgiving?”
Smith didn’t want to think about it until he showed up at the house for Mom’s turkey. Dammit. We need you here, Mom.
“Ivy will be with her in-laws, so we can’t go there. Helen’s parents are going to Indiana to be with your aunt Jennifer. They invited us.”
Smith grimaced. Visiting Mom’s family without Mom. And he didn’t exactly click with Aunt Jennifer. “That’s a long way . . .”
“Good. I don’t want to go either. Nothing sounds worse.”
Smith chuckled. “We could still get out of town, but somewhere closer.”
“Just the three of us?”
That’s all there was. Three amigos left.
“I’ll look around, but I’m swamped with work right now. Do you think we can manage making something ourselves?”
Smith groaned.
“Or we could go out. There are always places open.”
“That will be fine, Dad. It doesn’t have to be a big deal this year. We can keep it low key. I make a good spaghetti, and you can make your famous wings.”
“I buy those.”
“I know.”
Dad’s voice got serious and sad. “I’m sorry, Smith.”
Smith was fine. He missed her, but he was a grown-ass man. “We’ll just have to make it special for Tommy.” This Christmas was going to be even worse.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“So glad you realize that.” He kept his voice airy, trying to lighten things up.
“No, I’m serious. You’ve been really good to me this last year and a half.”
Since Mom’s first heart attack, Smith had started coming around more. To spend time with her, but he’d also tried hard to strengthen the bridge between him and his father. It had been awfully shaky at times in the past. It meant a lot that Dad had noticed.
“Your maturity and wisdom do you credit.”
The compliment felt good. “Give the credit to Mom.”
Dad chuckled before getting serious again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better dad to you.”
“You were a great dad. Are a great dad.” And he was, especially because he’d kept Smith when his birth mother hadn’t valued his life at all, and he’d given him every opportunity. And he’d given him Helen.
“You remember that time in middle school when you came to breakfast complaining of a stomachache?”
“Yes.”
“You said you were sick, but I said you could tough it out. Real life didn’t give you days off. Helen was visiting her sister, so I made you go to school.”
Smith put a hand over his bare belly, remembering. It wasn’t a painful memory but a sad one.
“You threw up at school.”
Right in the middle of Ms. Rob’s classroom. He’d been mortified and pissed at his father for days, but he’d long ago let the resentment fade.
“I never got you the dog you always asked for.”
“Why you doin’ this, Dad?”
“So I can apologize good and proper. I’m sorry I was so hard on you. I was gone so much. I felt like I had to be tough on you for you to turn out tough.”
“Well, it worked.”
“Yes. You are tough and so strong.” Dad sighed, and Smith pitied his father the pain of regret that clearly chewed at him. “But again. Credit to Mom. She’s the one who raised you to be the good man you are.” The grief was audible.
