old house at the top of Jewel Street with him? Right away, that first month, Bowie’s checks had started coming to their new address.
Bowie said, “How are you doing, Glory?” The question, which did sound sincere, fell into the long and painful silence between them. The silence of broken hearts. The silence of loss and love gone bad. The silence that happened when the best two people could do was to stay away from each other. And move on.
Bad enough, since I lost my husband. Worse, since you showed up.
She reminded herself that there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing him. “I’m all right.” But she wasn’t, not really. And already she was beyond tired of sitting here, trying to talk reasonably when the pain of the old wounds felt all too fresh and new again, when the truth of his desertion hung like a dirty gray curtain in the air between them.
The baby kicked. She winced and put her palm to her side.
He frowned and sat up a little straighter. “You okay?”
She blew out a breath. “Babies kick, but I guess you wouldn’t have a clue about that.”
He studied her from under those sun-gold eyebrows. “You’re bitter. I can’t say that’s a big surprise.”
“What do you expect, Bowie?”
“Of you? Nothing. Of myself? A lot more than I used to.”
What was that supposed to mean? Her pulse pounded hard in her ears and her stomach felt queasy. She wanted to jump up and order him out of her house. Instead, she rose with slow care and went to the coffeepot. It was still dripping. But there was more than enough for a cup. She filled a mug, carried it back to the table and pushed it across to him.
“Thanks.” He took it and sipped.
She lowered her bulging body into the chair again. “Look, can we just get real here?”
He rested one rough-knuckled hand on the tabletop. She watched as he traced a seam in the wood. And then he slanted her another of those strange calm looks. “I am being real.” His voice stayed level, as composed as his expression. It scared her a little. Was this really Bowie sitting across from her? Bowie Bravo never stayed calm.
“What’s up?” she demanded. “Just tell me. Why are you here?”
He took his sweet time answering that one, first picking up the cup again and taking another sip, then setting down the cup, then tracing that seam in the tabletop some more. “I figured it was about time I got to know my son.”
Long past time, she thought, but she didn’t say it. Over the years, she’d learned a little self-control, too. “Why now, exactly?”
“I’ve been—” he seemed to seek the right words “—trying to decide when the best time would be. Finally, I realized there was no good time.” No good time. Well, at least she agreed with him there. “So I chose today.” He added, “I heard you lost your husband. Matteo Rossi was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” she shot back too fast and too angrily. New Bethlehem Flat, aka “the Flat” to everyone who lived there, had a population of around eight hundred. The Rossi family was an old and respected name in the Flat. Matteo had run Rossi’s Hardware Emporium for half of his life. And before him, his father, Christopher, had owned the store.
Bowie said, “I’m…sorry that he’s gone.”
“So am I—and Johnny won’t be home from school for hours yet.” And the last thing he’ll be expecting is to see you here. And really, how could this be happening? What exactly was happening? She still didn’t get it. Her heart was working overtime, beating a sick rhythm under her ribs, the rhythm of dread. If he tried to take Johnny away…
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No court in the world would give him custody of the son he’d made no effort to visit in almost seven years.
And no matter how much she might wish that he could have just stayed away, well, she knew what was right: he should know his son.
And Johnny needed to know him.
She asked, “How long are you going to be in town?”
“I’m keeping it open-ended.” He leaned toward her a little.
She sat back, maintaining the distance between them. “Staying with your mom, at the B and B?”
“I’m not sure where I’ll stay, Glory.”
“Well, aren’t you just a font of useful information?” It came out really sour-sounding. She turned to the window and watched the swirling snow beyond the glass, knowing she had to get a grip. Nothing would be gained by her playing the bitch about this. The past was a foreign country now. And so far, even though he wasn’t telling her much about what his plans might be, he’d been perfectly civil. More so than she’d been, certainly.
“Glory, I’m sorry. I really am. Sorry about all of it, the thousand-and-one ways I messed things up.” His voice was full of sadness.
She had no doubt he meant every word of what he’d just said. Still, she didn’t look at him. “A letter, you know?” she said to the white world outside the window. “A letter now and then. It would have meant so much to him. You couldn’t even manage that?”
“Things were bad at first. I had to get sober and it wasn’t easy. I told myself that when I was sober for two years, when I had some kind of handle on myself, on my behavior, I would get in contact, start trying to work things out. But then you married Matteo…”
She made a low, furious sound in her throat. “Oh, that’s your excuse, then? That it’s my fault you never got to know Johnny. My fault because I got married.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“No, Glory. It’s not what I meant. What I meant is I knew enough about Matteo Rossi to realize that he would be a good husband. I knew he was gentle and patient and kind. And he brought in a good income. He was pretty much everything that I’d never been. I thought that it would be the best thing, to stay away. To let you have a life, you know? Not to cause you any more trouble.”
“A son needs to know his father.” She hated to say it. It only supported his claim on Johnny, however late in time he’d returned to make that claim. Still, it was the truth.
“I see that now.” His voice was soft. Reasonable.
She wanted to pop him a good one right in his too-well-remembered face. “He’s a little kid,” she accused. “He doesn’t understand why his dad went away before he was even a year old, why you never came back. All a little kid knows when his dad disappears is that it must somehow be his fault.”
His expression darkened. “I used to think that when I was a kid.” His voice wasn’t so gentle now and his square jaw was set. “I wanted my father to come back. I blamed myself that he didn’t. But then I grew up and I learned more about him, enough to be glad I’d never met the rotten bastard.”
“That was a completely different situation. You are not your dad.”
