Keeping Faith

“Raspberry Zingers,” a voice behind her said. “Or maybe Pecan Sandies.”

Hannah turned to see Allan holding the hand of a scowling Douglas. She smiled at the boy, then looked up at his father. “Someone obviously doesn’t know his junk food,” she said. “Raspberry Zingers are not Little Debbies. And, if I’m not mistaken, Pecan Sandies are actually cookies.”

Allan grinned. “Hey, kiddo.”

Hannah bit back the urge to remind him how much she hated the nickname.

“My mommy’s name is Hannah,” Faith chimed in as though she’d picked up on her mother’s irritation. “And my name is Faith.” She smiled up at Allan. “I know what your name is. It’s Allan. Want to know how I know?”

“Because I’m wearing a name tag?” he suggested.

Faith gave him a scornful look. “I don’t see any name tag.”

“Then I give up,” he said. “How do you know what my name is?”

“Because my mommy has a picture of you by her bed, except you’re wearing a blue shirt in the picture and now you’ve got a…” Clearly stumped by the color, she frowned over at Hannah. “A green one?”

“Kind of green,” Hannah said, sorry that Faith had told him about the picture by the bed. Allan had insisted that they exchange pictures. She’d left his on her dresser and forgotten about it until she noticed that the housekeeper had set it by the bed. She couldn’t decide whether or not she was pleased to see him. Allan had what Jen referred to as a high irritation factor. Extremely solicitous, he always opened doors, pulled out chairs and held her arm as they crossed the street. Rose couldn’t see how being polite was a problem, and she’d just rolled her eyes when Hannah complained that she felt smothered by him.

Still, as she kept reminding herself, he really was a nice guy. And definitely cute. Blue eyes like his son, sandy blond hair a shade or two lighter; sun-bleached from his hours on the tennis courts. Preppy in khakis and Top-Siders. She shifted her glance to his casual but obviously expensive shirt. “More olive, I think,” she said, referring to the color. “Or sage, maybe.”

She noticed the children casting wary glances at each other and made the introductions, aware as she did of Allan watching her. Her face felt warm. Maybe she needed to squelch this before she got swept into something she didn’t want. Helen had once confided that she’d married her husband because the family liked him. By the time she realized she had some serious doubts, the wedding invitations were in the mail. Never underestimate the power of family pressure, she’d told Hannah.

“Hey, Dougie—” Faith slid out of her seat “—want to go play?” Douglas moved closer to his father, his expression doubtful. “Come on.” Faith grabbed his hand. “I’ll show you something really cool, but you have to take off your shoes.”

After the kids had disappeared into a giant plastic tube through which other children were crawling, Allan slid into the seat Faith had vacated.

“Neat little girl,” he said. “Lots of confidence.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I’m kind of attached to her.” Her father doesn’t give a damn, but that’s his loss. She sipped her Diet Coke. “Your week to have Douglas?”

Allan nodded, started to speak then stopped as the kids came running back. Breathless, her cheeks flushed, Faith addressed Hannah.

“Mommy, I invited Douglas to my party. And he wants to come.” Her ponytail had come loose from the red scrunchie, which she was now wearing around her wrist. “Actually, that’s good because three other boys are coming.” She pushed back a long strand of hair. “Holden Baxter and Timothy Jones, except that Timothy might not come.”

“You said three boys,” Allan pointed out.

“Oh, right.” She thought for a minute. “James Bowen, that’s the other one. And his sister Michaela. Mommy, please fix my hair?” She scooted into the seat next to Hannah and handed her the scrunchie. “It keeps getting in my eyes.”

“Okay, sit still for a minute.” Hannah pulled her daughter onto her lap and tied the ponytail. “There you go.” She grinned as Faith slid back out of the seat and darted across the room. “Hey,” Hannah called. “Wait for Douglas.”

“Oh, right.” Faith returned to grab the boy’s hand. “You know what, Mommy? He’s just like my little brother. Come on, Dougie. Let’s go check out this really neat video game.”

“Maybe a little brother would be good for Faith,” Allan said after the kids had gone again. “And a big sister would definitely be good for Douglas.” He held Hannah’s glance for a moment. “Not to mention how much I would personally enjoy an expanded family. Or a wife. What you might call a win-win situation all around, don’t you think?”

“Allan…” Tell him, for God’s sake. There’s no connection, no chemistry. We’re not destined for togetherness. “Look, we’ve talked about this before. We’ve known each other, how long? A couple of months?” It was a cop-out, but she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. “It’s way too soon.”

He smiled. “For you, maybe. As far as I’m concerned, I knew the first day I saw you in the classroom.” A moment passed and he gazed off toward the video area where the children were playing. “I do worry about Douglas,” he said. “He needs to socialize with other children a little more.” With a look of distaste, he glanced down at the congealing pizza on the table. “Which is why we came here instead of going to Felippi’s, where at least you get edible crust and a decent Chianti to wash it down.”

Hannah smiled. “The pizza’s okay. A little overpriced, maybe.”

“It’s revolting.” He smiled back at her. “But, hey. No sacrifice is too great for my boy. Even plastic cheese and cardboard crust.”

Hannah started to speak, then realized she was on the verge of tears. She excused herself to check on the children. God, she was surrounded by models of fatherly behavior. Over there, a guy in blue jeans was hoisting a small boy up on his shoulders to give him a better look at the screen. Another man, down on his knees, was urging a tyke in a cowboy hat and boots to blow his nose. Allan, talking to Douglas now, was enduring cardboard pizza so that the boy could be around other kids.

Everywhere, reminders of what fathers were supposed to be and what Liam wasn’t.

MIRANDA’S HOUSE WAS a nonstop party scene. Booze and, Liam assumed, pretty much anything else a person might want. Girls coming in and out at all hours. Twice over the weekend, he’d started to phone Hannah then changed his mind. That afternoon he’d finished the pitcher of banana rum punch that Miranda had made, then wandered up to his room and fallen asleep. When he woke up, it was dark outside and the party was going full swing downstairs.

He rolled over onto his back and held the pillow over his head, trying to block out the noise as well as the image of Hannah climbing into her little red car and driving away.

But nothing blocked out the noise or the thoughts. Hannah and Faith, hands extended, had even invaded his dreams. He stumbled out of bed, splashed water on his face and wandered, bleary-eyed downstairs.

Miranda spotted him immediately and thrust a cold beer in his hand.

“Party pooper.” She wore black leather trousers and a black silk shirt, and her hair was piled up on her head, strands of it down around her neck and shoulders. “Where have you been, you naughty boy?”

“Escaping,” he said.

“Escaping?” She gave him a pouty-mouthed smile. “Not from me, I hope.”

“From me.”

She laughed. “Why would you want to escape from you?”

“Because I’m a no-good, lily-livered coward.” He’d heard John Wayne or someone say it on a Western. It seemed applicable. “A pathetic, quivering mass of indecision,” he added for good measure.

Miranda laughed louder. “Oh my. Well, not to worry. No-good, lily-livered cowards are my favorite type of men.”

Liam drank some beer. Through the windows on the far end of the room he could see the sparks from bonfires on the beach, glowing and sputtering like fireworks in the dark night. Miranda had invited half a dozen or so bands, including his own, and the music throbbed from everywhere in the house. He stared at a girl with long, white-blond hair, who was drinking tequila straight from the bottle. She looked very young, sixteen or seventeen maybe. A thought buzzed across his brain. Someone’s daughter. Abandoned by her father, too?

“Okay, I’m dying of curiosity.” Miranda smiled her sultry, insinuating smile, keeping her voice low so he had to move closer to hear. “Who was that girl who came here to see you?”

“She used to be my wife,” Liam said.

“Your wife.” She took a step backward, her eyes widened. “Oh my. I wouldn’t take you for the marrying kind.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Which is why she used to be my wife.”

Miranda appeared to be absorbing this new piece of information. “She’s cute,” she said after a moment. “Although I wouldn’t have thought she was your type.”

“How is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Miranda’s eyes narrowed as she considered. “She seemed sweet and wholesome. A homebody. You strike me as a more adventurous type. Dark and mysterious.”

Liam laughed. “Right, that’s me all over. But terrible husband material.” Terrible father material, too. I have a daughter who is going to be six tomorrow. She’s having a birthday party, but I’m scared to meet her. “My wife’s lucky she got out when she did,” he said.

“Oh, I think perhaps you’re being a little too hard on yourself,” Miranda said. “You’re obviously concerned about Brid. That says something.”