Father Christmas (34 page)

He’d let himself believe what he and Molly
had would continue. If he’d held onto his own understanding of
reality, if he’d clung to his experience and refused to accept that
this time—this woman—might be different, he wouldn’t be reeling
with pain right now. He would have been prepared for this, right
from the start.

He blamed himself, not her. She’d made her
promises with good intentions, unaware of the demands of loving a
cop. If she hadn’t seen him jump on that punk, that foul-mouthed
piece of crud who’d hurled himself at John’s colleague, his knee
slamming against the cop’s crotch and his mouth spewing obscenities
between vows to bite the cop’s finger off, she would have heard
John talk about it. If he didn’t talk about it awake, he would have
mumbled about it in his sleep.

If he hadn’t talked about it, he would have
dwelled on it, anyway. She would have taken him in her arms, and he
would have had to say, “Not now,” because his head would still have
been in the fight, in his colleague’s pain and that sonofabitch’s
filthy words. When he was like this, he couldn’t be reached. Not
even by Molly.

Maybe it was just as well that she’d found
out now, before the notions that had been swimming in his head for
days could find their footing on solid ground. Notions about what a
joy it would be to wake up beside her every morning for the rest of
his life. Notions about what a fine mother she would make for
Mike—and for any other children she might have. Notions that she
might have those other children with him.

It wasn’t meant to be. John had known that
going in. He’d simply chosen to forget the reality for a while.

But now, driving home from her house, his
arm smarting where another sonofabitch’s knife had left a scar, his
head thudding and his heart aching, he could no longer forget.

MOLLY WAS GRATEFUL for the holidays. She
wasn’t ready to have to face John, and once the new year started
and the Children’s Garden reopened, she would have to see him. She
needed a few days to build up her strength.

But she resented the emptiness of her time.
She had nothing to do, nothing to distract her from her misery. She
didn’t even have a Christmas tree to take down. The tree was at the
Russo house.

Everything that mattered was at the Russo
house.

When she closed her eyes, she could
sometimes picture herself in John’s home, loving him, playing with
Michael, eating breakfast with them, being a part of their lives.
Other times, when she closed her eyes she saw only the melee
outside her window, the ferocity with which John had tackled that
young man and overpowered him, the way he’d fisted his hand around
his gun and pointed it.

She couldn’t spend the rest of her life with
a man like that. She couldn’t be a part of that bitter world.

She spent a quiet New Year’s Eve with Gail
and one of her friends from the Public Defenders office. They
rented a bunch of frothy thirties comedies starring Cary Grant and
Clark Gable, men who didn’t need guns to get the girl—at least not
in those particular movies. The three women drank champagne and ate
popcorn, and at midnight they turned off the movies and toasted the
new year. Molly spent the following day gearing up to go back to
work.

She loved her career. She loved the
children, the school, the staff. And she reminded herself of that
repeatedly, as if she could convince herself that January second
was going to be a day like any other. She clung to the consolation
that the second fell on a Friday, so she would have to see John at
most twice—once in the morning and once in the evening, if she
couldn’t avoid him—before the weekend rescued her. Then she’d have
two days to recover before their next confrontation.

Then, too, Michael might not come to school
Friday. Many parents had decided to extend their vacations through
the weekend, and Molly expected a low turnout. Most of her staff
had requested a day off on Friday, too. Shannon would be there, and
Molly had arranged for a substitute teacher to help out. Arlene was
in her fifties, but she’d taught in a nursery school before
retiring to raise her own children, and she was patient and
creative. She’d worked at the Children’s Garden many times, and
Molly considered herself lucky to have been able to hire her for
the day.

Fifteen children showed up Friday morning.
Molly divided the children into two groups, one younger and one
older. She had some Disney videos on hand, a lot of modeling clay,
the foam pit and—including herself—three sturdy adults to keep the
children occupied. She was determined to get through this ghastly
day. She would survive this, even though Michael Russo was one of
the fifteen children present.

She’d managed to avoid John during the
morning drop-off, but she hadn’t reckoned on how hard it was going
to be to see Michael, to hear his voice, his delicious giggle, his
familiar whine. “Molly!” he shrieked when, after a safe interval,
she emerged from the supply room, where she’d been hiding from
John, and joined the others in the big room at the end of the hall.
“Molly! Hi!” He dashed over to her, his arms outstretched, and she
had no choice but to hug him.

As her arms closed around him, she felt
tears gather along her eyelashes. John wasn’t the only Russo she
loved. She adored Michael, too. But now she could be only his
teacher, not his friend. Not a woman who shared a life with his
daddy, who had been in his living room Christmas morning and
watched him unwrap his presents.

The day dragged for her—and it raced by
before she had a chance to brace herself for pick-up time. If she
once again resorted to hiding in the storeroom when John entered
the building, he would consider her a spineless wretch—which,
admittedly, she was. But if she remained by her desk, greeting the
parents as they came in to get their children, she would have to
see him. And the minute she saw him, she would probably start
blubbering.

She glanced at her watch. One week ago, that
wrist had held the most magnificent charm bracelet in the world.
Now it felt naked, deprived.The bracelet was lying on her night
table so she could torture herself by letting it be the last thing
she saw before she fell asleep, and the first thing she saw when
she awakened. No, she couldn’t face John, not yet. She hadn’t even
glimpsed John, and already her eyes were beading with tears.

As soon as the door opened at five,
signaling the arrival of the first parents, she waved Arlene toward
the entry. “You go greet the parents,” she said. “I’m going to help
Shannon keep the kids occupied.”

Nodding, Arlene headed down the hall to the
front desk while Molly joined the circle of children sitting on the
floor, singing “The Wheels On The Bus.” Molly had her back to the
hall, but her gaze lingered on Michael. Once he bellowed, “Daddy!”
and leaped up, she would know John was there. Waiting for that
inevitable moment made her head ache.

Arlene came to fetch Abigail first. Then
Keisha let out a whoop and raced to the entry shouting, “Mommy!”
Taylor was the next to depart.

Across the circle from her, Michael wore a
toothy grin and bounced on his bottom, singing, “The people on the
bus go up and down, up and down, up and down!”

For the zillionth time that day, Molly had
to fight the urge to dissolve in tears.

“
The wet-wipes on the bus
go swish, swish, swish,” he belted out, “all through
the—Daddy!”

A sharp pain seared through her heart and
embedded itself in her soul. Even before Michael had announced
John’s arrival with a shout, she’d felt his nearness subliminally.
Without turning, she’d known he was there, just a few feet behind
her, breathing the same air.

She could be a coward and remain in the
circle. She could be even more of a coward and sprint for the back
door. Or she could pretend to be composed and confident. The third
choice required her to stand up, turn around, and smile politely at
John.

She could not recall ever attempting such a
difficult task, but the cowardly choices didn’t sit well with her.
Inhaling deeply, she pushed herself off the floor, wiped her
suddenly damp palms on the legs of her jeans, and turned.

Oh, God. He looked wonderful and terrible
all at once. He looked as if the most sorrowful piece of her soul
had split from her and infected him. In his eyes she could see her
own pain mingled with his.

She could also see resignation. He wasn’t
going to ask her to forgive him—as if there was anything to
forgive. He was what he was, and that wasn’t going to change.

He looked gaunt and tired, his hair mussed
and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His mournful
eyes locked onto her. He showed no sign of backing away from her,
but he didn’t appear interested in starting a conversation,
either.

“
Daddy, I saw Molly!”
Michael boasted. “We played all day. I had a new teacher and we
played all day, and we saw movies! We saw
The Lion
King
!”

John spared his son a quick glance, then
lifted his eyes to Molly. Tension hardened his jaw as he moved his
lips. She prayed for him to say something, but he didn’t. Not with
his mouth, anyway. His eyes communicated all sorts of profound
messages—if only she could translate them.

“
I made a dog with the
clay,” Michael prattled, tugging at his father’s pants. “I made a
doggie.”

“
Very good,” John managed,
his voice barely audible above the chorus of children singing about
the wipers on the bus going swish-swish-swish.

“
It got a big tail,”
Michael continued. “I’m gonna put on my boots. Can Molly come with
us?”

“
No,” John said softly,
his eyes searching her face. What should she say? That she would
gladly come with him only if he got rid of his gun and quit police
work?

He wouldn’t give up his gun. And she
couldn’t ask him to.

A sharp scream from the other end of the
front hall jolted them. John spun around, groping under his jacket.
“Don’t!” Molly whispered, fearing that he was going to draw that
horrible gun again. Whoever was screaming—a mother, from the sound
of it—didn’t call for John’s macho cop routine.

Pushing past him, she hurried down the hall.
Elsie Pelham, Abigail’s mother, stood in front of the front desk,
shouting unintelligible curses at Arlene, the substitute
teacher.

Molly clasped Elsie’s shoulder and eased her
away from the dismayed teacher. “Elsie, what’s wrong?”

“
That idiot—” she wagged
an accusing finger at Arlene “—let Abbie leave with my ex-husband!
He’s kidnapped my baby! He’s stolen her!”

Molly turned to Arlene, who shrugged
helplessly. “He came in and said he was Abigail’s dad. And then
Abigail saw him and shouted, ‘Hi, Daddy!’ I just assumed—”

“
That bastard doesn’t have
custody of my daughter,” Elsie wailed. “He told me if I didn’t give
him custody, he’d take it! Oh, my God, oh, my God!” She broke down,
sobbing, sagging against the wall as if her legs could no longer
hold her up. “Oh, my God, I’ll never see her again! My
baby!”

“
What kind of car does he
drive?” John’s voice, though muted, cut through her hysterics to
capture her attention.

She blinked at him through tear-filled eyes.
“What?”

“
What kind of car does he
drive?” John pulled a notepad and pen from an inner pocket of his
jacket. When Elsie continued to blink dazedly at him, he added,
“I’m a police detective. We can track the car down if you tell us
what he’s driving.”

“
A Volvo,” she said, her
voice dulled by her sobs. “Dark red. Maroon, actually.”

John scribbled on his pad. “Do you know the
plate?”

“
No.” She shook her head.
“It’s a New York plate. He moved to New York, and he’s going to
take her across the state line, and I’ll never get her back. He
said there’s a judge there who’ll give him custody. He told me—he
warned me—he was here for a holiday visit and I thought he was
leaving today, but he stayed. He stayed just to do this. He stole
my baby.” Her voice shattered into a low howl of rage.

“
What’s his name?” John
asked, as calm as Elsie was frantic.

“
Who? Oh. Frank. Frank
Pelham.”

“
Description?”

“
He’s about five-foot-ten
and he has brown hair. Everyone says he looks like Robert Downey,
Jr.”

John dutifully wrote this down. “And you’re
sure he has your daughter with him?”

“
Of course he does! She
doesn’t know there’s a custody fight. She doesn’t know the kind of
man he is. I let her see him, but I know he’ll never let me see her
if he keeps her. He hates me. He’s going to keep her from me
forever!” She succumbed to sobs again.

“
All right.” John clicked
his pen shut and turned to Arlene. “When did they
leave?”

She shrugged again. “Five minutes ago.
Molly, I’m really sorry...”

Molly shook her head. She kept files filled
with detailed instructions regarding who was and wasn’t allowed to
pick up a child. Her staff was required to memorize the
information. But Arlene wasn’t a staff member. She hadn’t known any
better.

“
What are you going to
do?” she asked John, her worry about Abigail Pelham pushing aside
her selfish worries about her broken heart.

“
I’m going after him. If
he’s heading for New York State, he’ll likely be on I-84. I’ll
radio a description of the car and we’ll see if we can stop
him.”

“
Abbie won’t come with
you,” Elsie Pelham warned. “She thinks her dad is fine. She doesn’t
understand the custody arrangement. She won’t leave her dad’s car
for a stranger.” She lifted her chin, though she still seemed
barely able to stand. “I’ll come with you. If she sees me,
I—”