Soaring

  “I—”

  Cillian spoke over me, doing this to declare, “I’m not cleanin’ up old people puke.”

  Aisling looked to her brother. “You won’t have to. You can play checkers with them or something.”

  “I can’t beat old people at checkers,” he returned. “That’d be mean and I’m a master checker player.”

  “Then play something you’re bad at,” Aisling replied.

  “Dude, I’m not bad at anything,” Cillian retorted with a cheeky, arrogant grin.

  “Why do you wanna go?” Aisling asked.

  “Because Amy is da bomb and I want some old lady to shout at me,” Cillian answered.

  Aisling made a face that was not easy to behold.

  But before I got a lock on why that was, she smoothed it and rebuked, “That isn’t cool, Cill. She’s not right in the head because she’s old. You shouldn’t go to a nursing home just to make fun of people.”

  Cillian reared back in horrified affront. “I’m not gonna make fun of her. I reckon everyone looks at her like she’s crazy. She yells at me and calls me a Nazi, I’ll march around in that stupid way they did and make her feel not crazy.”

  That was weird, but it was a weird kind of sweet.

  “You go with Amy, you help Amy,” Mickey entered the conversation, his voice deep with fatherly authority. “She wants you to play checkers with the folks there, you play checkers…and lose. Or you do dishes. Or you do whatever she asks.”

  Oh no, this couldn’t happen.

  I liked Mickey’s kids. I liked being with them. I liked sitting at their table, chatting and eating. Even not getting along with Mickey, it felt nice to be a part of a family.

  But the bottom line was that Mickey and I weren’t getting along so in order for this not to trouble Aisling, or eventually be communicated to Cillian, we should curtail our together-type activities.

  Not make up more as we went along.

  “Just to point out but I have a two-seater car,” I told them and looked to Mickey. “I can’t get them there.”

  “I’ll drop ’em off,” he told me.

  “I can’t get them back,” I replied desperately.

  “I’ll pick ’em up,” he stated smoothly.

  I glared.

  He looked to my mouth and his got tight.

  “Groovy!” Cillian cried and I forced myself to drop the glare and look at Mickey’s boy. “When can we go? Tomorrow?”

  The next words I had to say I knew might kill me.

  “I need to tell Dela you’re coming. She runs the place. So how about I talk to her and if she says it’s okay, then I’ll phone your dad and we’ll set a day before you go back to school.”

  “Awesome!” Cillian exclaimed.

  “Yeah, Amy, that’d be cool,” Aisling said softly, a small smile on her lips.

  I took in her smile and just getting it, I’d put up with her father.

  “Look forward to that call,” Mickey muttered, his meaning lost on everyone but me.

  I shifted my legs in order to kick him in the shin.

  His body jolted and his gaze cut to me.

  I gave him a look I hoped was nasty.

  He took it, something shifted behind his eyes, and he grinned at me.

  Jerk.

  I looked away.

  “Can I have another piece of cake, Dad?” Cillian asked.

  Mickey answered his boy, “Yeah, son.”

  I looked to Aisling, who was looking between her father and me. Caught, she then cast her eyes to her plate.

  “Dinner was amazing, blossom,” I told her softly.

  She lifted her gaze to me briefly and mumbled, “Thanks, Amy.”

  I watched her do this and thought that, yes, something about Aisling Donovan was troubling me.

  Cillian got his extra piece of cake, everyone cleared and Mickey set his kids to washing up while I explained it was time to leave.

  I got good-byes from the kids and unfortunately, Mickey decided to walk me to his front door.

  “I can get there myself,” I said under my breath on the way.

  “You can also get there with me,” he said under his.

  I shut up.

  We reached the door and I stopped, seeing my mistake immediately as I should have stopped to the side, not in front, or I should have just quickly opened the damned door myself.

  This was so, knowing Mickey would characteristically take charge (I refused to think it was gentlemanly), I wouldn’t feel Mickey’s hard chest and lovely heat against my back as he reached beyond me to open the door.

  Furthering my mistake, when the door swung open in front of me, I had to press back into him, something he rudely didn’t move out of my way to allow me room to do.

  So when it was open, I made my escape.

  I did this with Mickey noting softly, “Nice dress, Amy.”

  I whirled on him and hissed quietly, “Don’t be a jerk.”

  His eyes went dark. “Jesus, baby, it’s a nice fuckin’ dress. What’s your problem?”

  “I’m sorry, you were being nice to me?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Yeah, but now I see my mistake so, apologies, won’t happen again,” he answered shortly.

  My heart was for some reason hammering in my chest, perhaps because maybe he was being nice and I hadn’t been and I felt stupid and petty.

  But like I couldn’t stop it, to save face, I continued being so as I shook my hair, ordering, “See that it doesn’t.”

  “Maybe you should date Stone,” he muttered. “Match made in heaven.”

  I couldn’t believe he just said that.

  “That’s a terrible thing to say,” I snapped.

  “Call ’em like I see ’em,” he declared.

  That made me even more angry.

  Angry enough to lean into him. “It’s you being mean that brings this out in me.”

  He bent his neck deep, getting in my face.

  “I told you ‘nice dress,’” he clipped. “Because it’s a nice dress. Looks good on you. If that’s mean, you definitely got a screw loose and have no clue how a man should treat you. Fuck, you like nasty, after I saw what your ex did to you, now I’m wondering what it took Infinity to get his tongue in your mouth. What? He tell you you looked like a whore?”

  “I’m not discussing Bradley with you,” I retorted coolly.

  He leaned back, his eyebrows going up, and asked incredulously, “Bradley?”

  “Yes. Bradley,” I bit off.

  “Like, he makes you say the whole thing?” he pushed.

  “The whole thing what?” I asked.

  “Bradley. Not Brad,” he explained impatiently.

  “Yes, the whole thing. He prefers Bradley,” I confirmed.

  He looked over my head and let out a puff of disgusted air.

  “It is a name, Mickey,” I informed him and his eyes came back to me.

  “It’s a name for a douche, Amy.”

  All right, enough.

  “Are we done?” I asked.

  “Probably until your phone call, yeah,” he answered.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening with your marvelous children who I have absolutely no clue how they could have come from your loins,” I bid him.

  “And you enjoy the rest of yours in your big house all by yourself,” he returned.

  “I will,” I gritted.

  “I bet,” he retorted, stepped back and shut the door in my face.

  “Jerk,” I whispered to his door.

  Then I turned on my beautiful high heel and stomped down his walk (I couldn’t go through his yard, my heels would sink in), down his drive and right to my house.

  He couldn’t hear me and he wasn’t looking.

  I still slammed my front door.

  * * * * *

  “Yeah?” Mickey answered.

  Charming.

  “It’s Amelia.”

  “Know who it is.”

  “Dela said the kids can come.”

  “I?
??ll alert the media.”

  Jerk!

  “Can you drop them off at Dove House at ten?”

  “Yep.”

  “And pick them up at one?”

  “Can do.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Later.”

  “’Bye.”

  He hung up.

  I glared at my phone.

  Then I shoved it in my purse and flounced out of Dove House, the flouncing all for me since no one was in reception so no one could admire my magnificent drama caused by a man named Mickey.

  * * * * *

  “This is gonna be so fun,” Cillian whispered excitedly.

  I looked to him standing by me on the walk to Dove House.

  I knew no child who thought hanging for three hours at a nursing home would be fun and I wondered, even if he gave no other indications he wasn’t, if Cillian was all there.

  “You do what Amy says,” Mickey ordered.

  “No probs,” Cillian assured.

  “We will, Dad,” Aisling mumbled.

  Aisling gave her dad a hug. Cillian and Mickey bumped chests. Cillian ran inside with Aisling trailing and I looked to Mickey.

  “One,” he stated, turned on his foot and walked away.

  * * * * *

  The kids were one hundred percent wonderful with the old folks.

  So much so it was astonishing.

  Cillian was talkative, exuberant, full of energy and had all the time in the world for everybody, including staffers that asked him to help with things.

  Aisling was sweet, attentive, helpful and quietly charmed everyone she met.

  Mrs. McMurphy called Cillian by his name.

  Mr. Dennison transferred his affections to Aisling.

  And me, if I was their mother, I would throw every bottle of booze I had into the sea and do everything I could to show these two amazing beings how proud I was to say they belonged to me.

  So it wasn’t only me who was disappointed when I had to tell the kids to say good-bye so I could walk them out front to wait for their father. It was also the residents, who rarely had visitors, and rarer still those visitors were of the young variety.

  We got outside to find Mickey was already there, parked out front and leaning against the side of his big SUV, wearing what he was wearing earlier (except now they were dusty), clothes I suspected were his construction clothes as they included construction boots, faded jeans and a snug fitting tee.

  Even that outfit he made amazing.

  “We’re so doing that again, Dad,” Cillian cried, rushing to his father.

  Mickey pushed away from his truck, smiling at his son. “You liked it, boy, I’m so letting you.”

  “Cool!” Cillian yelled, turned to me and waved. “Later, Amy.”

  “Later, honey,” I called.

  “Yeah, later, Amy,” Aisling, at my side, said softly.

  I turned to her and lifted a hand to curl it light on her upper arm. “Later, blossom. Thanks for being so lovely.”

  She shrugged a shoulder, her head tipping that way, this gesture causing me to feel what was becoming familiar unease when it came to Aisling, before I had to let her go because she meandered to her dad’s truck.

  Mickey walked to me.

  I looked up at him and braced.

  I braced more, tipping my head far back when he got closer than was necessary.

  “Seems they had a good time,” he said quietly.

  “They did and they charmed everybody,” I replied quietly. “You’ve got good kids, Mickey.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured, drew in a breath that expanded his broad chest, something that made me feel odd things, things I quit feeling when he finished, “Later, Amy.”

  It struck me then that his kids were supposed to call me Miz Hathaway.

  But they’d been calling me Amy.

  And he’d said nothing.

  I didn’t mention this.

  I said, “Later, Mickey.”

  He lifted his chin and turned away.

  I watched him walk, doing this taking in the natural control he had over his body, thus doing it enjoying it, and I knew I should go in. I knew I shouldn’t stand out there and watch them drive away.

  But I stood out there and watched them drive away.

  I even did it waving and smiling.

  They were making the turn onto the street when I jumped because I heard, “Your fellow is quite good-looking, Amelia.”

  I looked down at Mrs. McMurphy, who was wearing a bulky winter coat and standing beside me.

  “He’s not—” I started but stopped when she leaned into me.

  “Don’t let him loose. Smart woman never lets go of a good man,” she advised.

  I stared because I realized we were having a relatively normal conversation and she’d called me Amelia, something she never called me.

  Then she shivered, even though it was a sunny, summer day, and looked to the heavens.

  She then turned, smartly snapped open an umbrella that had come loose from two of its prongs, put it over her head and started walking away.

  I kept staring then I jolted because Mrs. McMurphy had somehow slipped through the admittedly dreadful security keeping the old folks inside and safe, and she was ambling away in a cold thunderstorm that was not happening.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed, starting after her.

  She turned and brandished her umbrella at me. “Don’t get near me, you Nazi!” She swung the umbrella wide and shouted, “Death to Hitler!”

  I managed not to laugh as I also managed to corral a cantankerous Nazi-hating old lady back into her nice, but still slightly shabby, home for the elderly.

  Chapter Ten

  They Spoke to Me

  The Friday my children were to return to me, when I heard the garage door go up, I did not rush to the door leading to the garage, open it and stand in it, waiting.

  I continued doing what I was doing in the kitchen.

  So when my kids came through the door, I was there, waiting for them, glad they were home, but not showing them I was waiting for them.

  But I did show them I was glad they were home.

  I did this looking to the side, smiling wide, and calling, “Hey, honeys.”

  Auden looked to me.

  Olympia shuffled behind him to get out of the way of the closing door.

  “Come here, would you?” I asked, rolling dough in my hands that was going to be sugar cookies with M&Ms, another of their favorites.

  They moved my way but stopped well beyond the end of the counter that started the kitchen.

  I let that happen and continued doing what I was doing, shifting my attention between them and the cookies and doing it speaking.

  “I hope you did as I asked and didn’t make plans, because tonight we’re having dinner and then we’re watching a movie together. A Few Good Men. As you can see, I got a couch so we can all sit close to the TV. And there are tables.”

  I tipped my head toward the opposite landing to call their attention to the couch.

  I also took in all I’d wrought.

  The couch was an unusual online buy, but it was perfect. Low backed but very deep seated, with sweeping arms at the sides and chunky, squat wooden legs at the bottom. It was in a camel twill and it had a plethora of fabulous, scrunchy toss pillows on it, matching ones on the chair. And the couch was so long, it would easily seat both my babies even if they stretched out (and shared some space).

  Further, there was a low, wide, rectangular wooden chest in front of it that I was using as a coffee table. I found it in an antique shop by the cove. And Josie’s interior designer had one of her cabinetmakers custom-make a very long, low media center. It sat under the hanging TV and had shelves for all the components, some cabinets to store stuff, and more shelves to put CDs and DVDs.

  And the walls had been painted a warm, but neutral oyster. There was now another end table around the sectional that was also a chest, taller and square, and a square coffee table in the middle tha
t wasn’t the same wood as the chest, but it was in the same hue, battered and beautiful.

  There were wire glass candle pots and squat round pewter candle holders of varying heights with fat candles in them dotted around, mingling with the knickknacks I didn’t sell because they meant something from our home in La Jolla, and framed photos, with a fabulous conglomeration of the last scattering the top of the low media center under the TV.

  I needed prints for the walls and afghans to snuggle under when it started to get cold. I also still needed a new dining room table, an acquisition that was foiling me.

  But it was coming together.

  The effect was warm. It was rich in a way that had nothing to do with money (but still did). It was inviting. It was pleasing to the eye. It was comfortable. And even with the magnificence of the structure all around, the stylish, state-of-the-art kitchen with its cement countertops, stainless steel appliances and fabulous hanging pendant lights, the massive wall of windows, the glorious view, it was not imposing, overwhelming or in-your-face.

  It said you’re welcome to be there, take a seat, relax and enjoy.

  It was me.

  I kept rolling cookies, putting them on the baking sheet and blathering to my children.

  “Tomorrow, I’m taking you out shopping.” I shook my head and a doughy hand at them and went on, “Don’t lose it on me, but I don’t want you to have to lug bags here and back to your dad’s. We’re talking shampoo. Curling irons. Pajamas. Some clothes if you want. Things like that. I just want you to do what you can in the short time we have to make this feel like your home. So that’s what we’re doing.”

  I wanted that. I thought it was a good thing to do. Both of my kids liked shopping, even Auden. And I wanted them to feel when they came to me they were coming home.

  I also wanted to take them to Dove House.

  However, as sad as it was to admit, I didn’t know if they’d be as charming and respectful of the old folks as Aisling and Cillian were.

  I did know that they would not be affectionate and respectful to me and I didn’t want the residents seeing that. I also didn’t want it to confuse them, considering Aisling and Cillian weren’t my kids and they had been both.

  “We’ll go out to dinner and a movie tomorrow too,” I kept going. “Then, on Sunday, I found this place that does really amazing outdoor furniture. It’s not close, about an hour and a half drive, but that’s where we’re going.”