Father in the Making

“Now that you’re in my house, would you mind if I asked who you are?”

His house? The man worked fast. “I’m Bridgette Rafanelli, Mickey’s music teacher.”

Another thing he wasn’t aware of, he thought. He wondered how long Mickey had been taking lessons. He had just assumed that the piano in the living room was for show. Diane had always enjoyed putting on airs.

There were so many things about Mickey that he didn’t know, he realized, frustration gnawing away at him.

Blaine extended his hand. “I’m Mickey’s father, Blaine O’Connor.”

Bridgette had every intention of ignoring his hand, but that would have made her as boorish as she knew he was. So instead, she thrust her hand into his and shook it tersely, then pulled it away, as if it were odious to touch him.

“I know.”

By her judgmental tone, Blaine surmised that she had heard about him from Diane and that whatever she had heard was decidedly unflattering.

“That makes you one up on me.” He slid his hands into his pockets as he kept one eye on the movers. He had no intention of allowing them to manhandle his set.

Blaine saw the frown on her mouth deepen. “I take it you were also a friend of Diane’s.”

“Yes.”

Whatever Diane had said must have been horrid. Her voice fairly dripped with acrimony. Blaine felt annoyance rising at being prejudged this way. He opened his mouth to ask her what her problem was when she strode past him, her eyes on the piano.

She pointed toward it. “Are you leaving the piano?”

He came up behind her. He was almost a foot taller, he thought. “Yes.”

“Good.” She looked around. The house appeared in a state of utter chaos. And Mickey was nowhere to be seen. She turned around to look at Blaine and nearly bumped into him. Space was at a premium and somehow, he seemed to take up all of it. “May I see Mickey?”

Attitude. The lady exuded attitude. The wrong kind of attitude and he’d had just about enough of it. Blaine folded his arms before him as he studied her. He took his time answering, enjoying the fact that his drawl apparently seemed to annoy her.

“You can if you tell me why you sound as if your tongue is a sword and I’m the pumice stone you’re determined to sharpen it on.”

Diane had said he was charming and Bridgette could see it, in a rough sort of way. That only intensified her adverse reaction to him. “Diane told me a great deal about you.”

Blaine’s easy gaze narrowed. “And you’ve decided that only pure gospel passed Diane’s lips.”

“I don’t see much to contradict her.” She gestured toward the movers. They were taking out Diane’s white marble-topped table. “You’re getting rid of her things.”

He didn’t see how this was any business of hers. “Just some of them. So that I can move mine in.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You’re moving in?”

He liked the way surprise rounded her mouth. It was an interesting mouth, he decided. Under other circumstances, perhaps even a tempting mouth. “To be with my son.” He emphasized each word.

For a moment, Blaine’s statement took some of the indignant wind out of her sails. Diane had maintained that Blaine wanted to have no part of his son. This was a twist she hadn’t expected.

“Blaine, I thought I’d take Mickey and run to the store.” A gravely voice boomed out, announcing Jack Robertson’s appearance. “You mind watching this four-legged nuisance while we’re gone?”

The dog in question, a three-year-old German shepherd named Spangles that had been a gift from Blaine, barked in protest, as if knowing he was under discussion.

Jack halted abruptly when he saw that his former son-in-law had company. Didn’t take the man long, Jack thought without resentment. What Blaine and Diane had had died a long time ago. He couldn’t be faulted for getting on with his life.

And then the woman turned around and Jack grinned broadly, his tanned face dissolving into creases and lines that Nonna had confided to Bridgette were “sexy.”

He put his hands out and took both of Bridgette’s in his. “Hello, Bridgette. We missed you at the funeral.”

Uncomfortable, Bridgette lifted a shoulder and then let it fall. She resisted the temptation of dragging a hand through her hair. She supposed that there was no excuse for not attending the funeral. She had even gone so far as to get dressed in a somber navy blue dress and gotten in behind the wheel of her car.

But at the end, she couldn’t bring herself to drive to the church. She couldn’t even turn on the ignition. If she wasn’t there for the service, for the interment, then some part of her could go on believing that Diane was still alive.

“Diane knew how I felt about funerals. She would have understood.” Bridgette placed her arms around the older man. “Jack, I’m so very sorry.”

He patted her shoulder, determined not to break down. It wasn’t the way he saw himself. Tears were for private moments when he was alone.

“Me, too, Bridgette. Me, too.”

The sad moment was dissolved as a high voice squealed. “Bridgette, you’re here.”

Bridgette just had time to step away from Jack before she found her waist engulfed as Mickey threw his arms around her.

She laughed as she hugged him to her. “I sure am, sweetheart.”

Blaine could only look on in awe. It was the most emotional display he’d seen from Mickey since the accident.

His eyes met Bridgette’s over Mickey’s head. There was just a trace of a smug smile on her lips.

Chapter Two

Bridgette held Mickey against her. She ached for him when she thought of what his young heart had to endure. Death was always difficult to cope with, but it seemed so much more brutal when it invaded the life of a child. More than anything, she wished that there was something she could do for him.

Without thinking, she stroked his hair, just the way she’d seen Diane do a hundred times before.

Mickey pulled away from her with a jerk, as if something had suddenly snapped shut within him. The impression wasn’t negated when Bridgette looked down at him. The friendliness was gone, wiped away like a chalk drawing on the sidewalk in the rain. In its place there was a somber cast in his eyes which brought a chill to her heart.

“Mickey?”

Hand extended, Bridgette took a step toward him, then stopped. She had the definite feeling that she was intruding.

Never forgetting what her own childhood was like, both the good and the bad, Bridgette prided herself on being instinctively good with children. It was a gift rather than something she had to nurture. She truly enjoyed their company and they sensed it and responded to her. Especially shy children like Mickey.

This reaction was something she was entirely unprepared for.

Mickey licked his lips and shrugged, his shoulders moving independently of each other. He looked uneasy, lost. Looking down at the floor, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“I got my video game on pause,” he mumbled to the rug. “I can’t keep it that way or it’ll get ruined. That’s what Mom says. Said. I gotta go.”

Mickey turned and fled. Spangles followed like a four-legged shadow.