Keeping Faith

“One bad apple doesn’t mean the whole barrel is bad.” Allan also mangled metaphors. “Any man who could just turn his back on a daughter like Faith obviously has a severe character flaw. She’s a wonderful young lady.”

“You’ve never even met her,” Hannah pointed out.

“She’s your daughter. How could she be anything but wonderful?” With a quick glance over his shoulder, he kissed Hannah softly on the lips. “And I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

AFTER ALLAN LEFT, Hannah couldn’t get his words out of her head. I’ve always wanted a daughter. And he probably would be a terrific father to Faith. Attentive, conscientious. There for her. Everything her real father wasn’t. With a sigh, she opened the book she’d selected to read to the kids. A story about a cow who decides to be an opera singer and moves to New York to take voice lessons from Placido Domingo. As she held up the book to show the kids the picture of the cow, all dolled up in a sequined evening gown and warbling an aria, she sneaked a quick glance at her watch.

Nearly noon. Right now, Liam was probably setting up the instruments. No, he’d be sleeping still. Liam always slept late.

“Timothy is picking his nose, Ms. Riley,” Morgan Montgomery said. “It’s revolting.”

Hannah put aside the book to look at Timothy. He sat cross-legged on the floor, hands clasped on top of his copper-colored curls, an expression of angelic innocence on his freckled face.

“He was, Ms. Riley. I think I’m going to vomit.”

Morgan clutched her stomach dramatically. She had glossy brown hair, a heart-shaped face and, at four, was frighteningly precocious. Her parents were both psychiatrists and when they came to school to discuss Morgan’s progress, Hannah always had the feeling they were analyzing her.

“He flicked it at me,” she said.

“Did not,” Timothy said.

Hannah watched Morgan pick up her floor pillow and move ostentatiously to the opposite side of the room, where she settled back on the floor with a flounce of her GapKids tartan skirt. After a moment, Hannah started reading again. She had discussed Timothy’s nose-picking problem with his parents and knew she hadn’t handled this latest incident very well. The La Petite Ecole method would have been to engage him in open discussion of social manners, but she felt distracted and irritable and in no mood for talk about boogers. Why the hell did she really want to see Liam?

At noon, she sat with Jen Bailey on the steps in the sun, eating a microwaved Lean Cuisine lunch and watching the kids wrestle around on the grass, hitting each other with paisley-patterned beanbags. Jen was the other teacher for the three-to-four-year-old group. She had cropped burgundy hair and a nose ring and lived in a funky apartment in Huntington Beach with her boyfriend who played in a band and designed surfwear. The only reason Jen was hired, she’d told Hannah, was her fancy degree in French Literature from Vassar.

Dr. Marberry, head of La Petite Ecole, was quite the snob when it came to fancy academic degrees. She hadn’t exactly sniffed at Hannah’s Cal State Long Beach credentials but Hannah felt pretty sure one reason she was hired was that her father had, at the time, managed the bank where Dr. Marberry had her business loan.

“I’m thinking about doing something really dumb,” she told Jen.

“How dumb?” Jen asked.

“Really, really.” Hannah hacked at a piece of glazed chicken. “I want you to talk me out of it, okay?”

“You told Allan you’d move in with him?”

“Dumber.” She mashed the back of her fork into the overcooked wild rice. “Faith’s father is in Long Beach. He’s playing at Fiddler’s Green next week. I want to see him.”

“Faith’s father?” Jen turned to look at her. “I thought he lived in Ireland.”

“He does. He’s here on tour.”

“Cool.” Jen jumped up to stop Timothy from flicking a booger at Morgan. “Someone needs a time-out,” she told him. “Please go and sit in time-out, Timothy, and think about why you need to do this.” She dropped down on the step beside Hannah. “So he called you?”

“No, I read about it in the paper.” Admitting aloud that Liam hadn’t even bothered to call her made her stomach tense. “It’s crazy, I know it. I mean, I can come up with a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t, but I want to. Tell me it’s a bad idea, okay?”

BUT JEN HAD THOUGHT a Friday evening at Fiddler’s Green, drinking beer and listening to Irish music sounded like a hoot. In fact, she wanted to go, too. And Friday also happened to be Grandma’s Night Out, a weekly excuse for Margaret to shamelessly indulge Faith with ice cream, movies, or whatever Faith wanted to do. Indulgence, Margaret always said, was part of the fun of being a grandma. Bottom line, it removed not having a baby-sitter as a reason to stay home and watch a cheesy movie instead of standing here in the Fiddler’s Green washroom twenty minutes before the performance and feeling sick to her stomach with nerves at the thought of seeing Liam again.

Actually, Margaret hadn’t even mentioned Liam as they all ate breakfast that morning. Hannah guessed that Debra’s call, just as Margaret was pouring her second cup of coffee, had been a sufficient distraction. As soon as she heard Margaret utter the word pregnant, Hannah had gathered up Faith and made a quick retreat. Margaret and Debra could manage their problems on their own, she’d decided.

Damn. She looked at herself in the mirror. Why hadn’t she worn something a little more hip than khakis and a white shirt? She rolled the sleeves up, undid another button, peered at her face. She screamed suburbia. Light brown hair cut in this wispy, tousled style around her face. “Blow and go,” said the girl who had cut it. Easy and practical.

It had been white-blond and nearly down to her waist the last time she’d seen Liam. She’d bleached it herself one night while he was performing. The girls who were always hanging around his dressing room and throwing flowers up on the stage all had long white-blond hair. He’d been furious with her for doing it. “I thought you’d like it,” she’d said.

It no longer matters, she told herself as she dug in her purse for a lipstick, dropping scraps of paper and grocery receipts and a stale Famous Amos cookie still in its crumpled foil wrapper into the washbasin. You have moved on from Liam Tully. Way, way on. You do not care about Liam Tully. You have no emotional investment in Liam Tully. You have moved on. Look at me! She looked at her reflection again. You are attractive, you are well-adjusted and, Hannah, you are calm.

Right. Deep breath. God, this lipstick was too dark. She grabbed a paper towel from the holder, scrubbed it across her mouth, dug around in her purse for a different color and knocked her compact off the edge of the sink. The mirror shattered into a cobweb of silver spikes.

Back at the table, she gulped down half a glass of wine. Their table was closer to the stage than she would have preferred, but the place was small and already packed when they arrived.

Liam would see her.

There was no way he couldn’t see her. Maybe she should leave. On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t even recognize her. What if he didn’t recognize her? She drained the glass and glanced at the door. Jen gave her a quizzical look.

“You okay?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking this wasn’t such a great idea.”

“You still have a thing for him?”

“No way.” She picked up her glass, remembered she’d finished the wine and glanced around for the cocktail waitress. “How could I? I haven’t seen him for six years. I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”

“How come you guys split up?”

Hannah picked at the edge of the coaster. “Jealousy.”

“You or him?”

Hannah laughed. “What did he have to be jealous of? I was this mopey, insecure, basket case. Whenever I think about being married to him, all I remember is lying awake in some apartment or hotel room, watching the clock, waiting for him to come home. Then he’d come in smelling like perfume.”

“He cheated on you?”

“I never caught him, but…” She traced the rim of her wineglass as she considered Jen’s question. “There was so much temptation all around, how could he not?”

“So how long did you know him before you got married?”

“Not long. I met him in Ireland.” She smiled. “God, I was so…smitten. We had this whirlwind thing and then I went back home. He told me all this stuff, he’d call, he’d write, but nothing. And then one day he just knocked at the door. I was blown away.”

“He came over just to see you?”

“Not just to see me. He was on a six-week tour of California, all these small clubs and college campuses up and down the coast. He asked if I wanted to go with him. Did I want to go with him? It was like this fantasy. I’d wake up every morning beside him and pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

“So who’s idea was it to get married?”

“I can’t even remember. Probably mine, but it was one of those spur-of-the-moment things. We just decided to do it. No thought about the future, or him going back to Ireland. It was all just in the moment. For a while, anyway.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I guess we didn’t really know each other. Everything was fine while it was this big adventure, but then that started to wear off…. When I look back on it, it feels as though I woke up one day and the dream was over. He was totally into his music and I sort of tagged along. There were always girls fawning over him. I’d wonder why he was with me when he could have any woman he wanted. And then I found out I was pregnant and the dream really was over.”