Sweet Forgiveness (4 page)

I take extra care getting ready that night. After soaking in my favorite Jo Malone bath oil, I stand in front of the mirror in a lacy, peach-colored bra and matching panties, pulling the last section of my hair through a flatiron. Though my shoulder-length locks have a natural wave, Michael prefers my hair smooth. I curl my lashes and apply mascara, then toss my makeup into my bag. Careful not to wrinkle it, I slip into a short, copper-colored sheath I chose just for Michael. At the last minute, I dig out my sixteenth-birthday present, the diamond-and-sapphire pendant. The very jewels that had been plucked from my mother's engagement ring blink up at me, as if they, too, can't get used to their remounted contemporary configuration. All these years, I've kept the necklace in the box, never having had the desire or the heart to wear it. A wave of sadness comes over me as I fasten the platinum chain behind my neck. Bless my father's soul. He was clueless. He had no idea his gift symbolized destruction and loss rather than its intended welcome into womanhood.

At 6:37, Michael steps into my apartment. It's been a week since I've seen him, and he's in need of a haircut. But unlike my hair when it's shaggy, his sandy-blond locks fall in perfectly imperfect waves, lending him a youthful, beach-boy look. I like to tease Michael that he looks more like a Ralph Lauren model than a mayor. His cornflower-blue eyes and fair complexion make him the picture of success, one you might find skimming across Cape Cod at the helm of a Hinckley.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says.

Without bothering to take off his coat, he lifts me into his arms, hiking my dress as he carries me to my bedroom. Wrinkles be damned.

We lie next to each other, staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus,” he says, breaking the silence. “I needed that.”

I roll onto my side and run a finger down his square jawline. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He turns his head and pulls the tip of my finger into his mouth. “You're incredible, you know that?”

I lie still in the crook of his arm, waiting until he catches his breath and we begin round two. I love these interim moments tucked in Michael's embrace, where the world is far away and our slow mingled breathing is the only sound I hear.

“Can I get you a drink?” I whisper.

When he doesn't answer, I raise my head. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Softly, he begins to wheeze.

I glance at the clock. It's 6:55, eighteen minutes from door to snore.

He wakes with a start, his eyes wide and his hair mussed. “What time is it?” he asks, squinting at his watch.

“Seven forty,” I say, running a hand over his smooth chest. “You were sleepy.”

He bolts from the bed, rummaging for his phone. “Jesus, I told Abby we'd pick her up at eight. We better move.”

“Abby's joining us?” I ask, hoping I don't betray my disappointment.

“Yup.” He grabs his shirt off the floor. “She broke a date to be with us.”

I climb from the bed. I know I'm being selfish, but I want to talk about Chicago tonight. And this time I won't be coy.

I fasten my bra, reminding myself that Michael is a single father—and a very good one. He's spread too thin with his demanding job as mayor. I shouldn't force him to choose between time with me and time with his daughter. He's trying to satisfy us both.

“I've got an idea,” I say, watching as he types a message to Abby. “Go out with Abby tonight, just the two of you. Maybe I can see you tomorrow.”

He looks stricken. “No. Please. I want you to come.”

“But Abby,” I say. “I bet she'd like some one-on-one time with you. And there's that job in Chicago I mentioned. I really need some time to talk to you alone. We could do that tomorrow.”

“I want to spend this evening with the two women in my life.” He comes over to me and grazes his lips on my neck. “I love you, Hannah. And the more Abby's around you, the more she'll love you, too. She needs to see us as a threesome, a family. Don't you agree?”

I soften. He's thinking of our future, exactly what I'd hoped for.

We head east on St. Charles, arriving at his home in Carrollton ten minutes late. Michael trots to the door to retrieve Abby, and I sit in his SUV, staring up at the massive, cream-colored stucco home where a family of three once lived.

The same day I met him, at a silent auction for Into the Light, I discovered Michael had a daughter. I was drawn to the fact that he was a single father, like my own dad. As we began dating, I never once thought of Abby as anything but a positive. I loved kids. She'd be a bonus. I swear those were my thoughts . . .
before
I met her.

The iron gate swings open and Abby and Michael step from the house. She's nearly as tall as her father, and her long blond hair is pulled back in a clip tonight, showcasing her beautiful green eyes. She climbs into the backseat.

“Hey, Abby!” I say. “You look so pretty.”

“Hey,” she says, and digs into her bright pink Kate Spade bag to retrieve her phone.

Michael drives toward Tchoupitoulas Street, and I try to engage Abby in conversation. But as usual, she offers only one-word replies, never meeting my eyes. When she does have something to share, she looks directly at her father, prefacing each statement with “Dad,” as if her nonverbal cues weren't enough to let me know I was null and void.
Dad, I got my SAT scores. Dad, I saw this movie that you'd love.

We arrive at Broussard's Restaurant in the French Quarter—Abby's choice—where a willowy brunette escorts us to our table. Gaslights flicker as we pass through the courtyard into the candlelit dining room. I notice a well-dressed elderly couple staring at me as I pass their table, and I smile at them.

“I'm a huge fan, Hannah,” the woman says, gripping my arm. “Every morning you make me smile.”

“Oh, thank you,” I say, patting her hand. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate that.”

We three settle in at our table, and Abby turns to Michael, seated beside her. “That must suck,” she says to him. “You're out saving the city, and she's the one who gets the attention. People are so stupid.”

I feel like I'm back at Bloomfield Hills Academy, being bullied by Fiona Knowles. I wait for Michael to defend me, but he just chuckles. “That's the price I pay for dating New Orleans' sweetheart.”

He squeezes my knee under the table.
Shake it off,
I tell myself.
She's just a kid. No different than you once were
.

A thought invades my consciousness. I'm in Harbour Cove. Bob pulls into the Tastee Freeze, my mother in the passenger side. I'm slumped in the backseat, gnawing on my thumbnail. He looks over his shoulder at me, that dumb smile on his face. “How about a hot fudge sundae, Sister? Or maybe a banana split?” I cross my arms over my belly, hoping to muffle the growling of my stomach. “I'm not hungry.”

I close my eyes and try to shake the memory. Dorothy and her damn stones!

I turn my attention to the menu, scanning the entrées for something that doesn't cost more than the dress I'm wearing. Being a southern gentleman, Michael always insists on paying. Being a descendant of Pennsylvania coal miners, I'm mindful of money.

A few minutes later, the waiter returns with the bottle of wine Michael ordered, and pours Abby a glass of sparkling water.

“Would you care to start with an appetizer?” he asks.

“Uh, let's see . . .” Michael says, perusing the menu.

Abby takes control. “We'll have the Hudson Valley foie gras, the black Angus carpaccio, and the Georges Bank sea scallops. Bring a terrine of chanterelle mushrooms,
aussi, s'il vous plaît
.” She looks up at her father. “You're going to love their mushrooms, Dad.”

The waiter disappears and I set my menu aside. “So, Abby, now that you've taken your SATs, have you thought more about where you want to go to college?”

She reaches for her cell phone and checks for messages. “Not really.”

Michael smiles. “She's narrowed it down to Auburn, Tulane, and USC.”

Finally, common ground! I turn to Abby. “USC? That's where I went! I think you'd love California, Abby. Listen, if you have any questions, just let me know. I'd be happy to write you a letter of recommendation, or anything at all you need.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “You might want to take advantage of that offer, Abs. Hannah's one of their star alums.”

“Oh, Michael, that's ridiculous.” It is ridiculous, but I'm flattered that Michael would say such a thing.

Abby shakes her head, her eyes still on her phone. “I've crossed USC off my list. I need somewhere more challenging.”

“Oh,” I say. “Of course.” I grab the menu and bury my face in it, wishing I were anywhere but here.

Michael and I had been dating eight months before he introduced me to Abby. I couldn't wait to meet her. She'd just turned sixteen, and I was sure we'd be fast friends. We were both runners. Abby was on the staff at her school newspaper. We'd both grown up without our mothers.

Our first meeting was casual—coffee and beignets at Café du Monde. Michael and I laughed at the powdered sugar mess on our plates and ate a full basket of the delicious treats. But Abby decided Americans were gluttonous and leaned back and sipped her black coffee, tapping on her iPhone the entire date.

“Give her time,” Michael said. “She's not used to sharing me.”

I look up, aware of a stillness that's come over the restaurant. Michael and Abby stare across the dining room, and my eyes follow. Beside a corner table about twenty feet away, a man descends to one knee. A brunette gazes down at him, her hand covering her mouth. He extends a small box, and I can see his hands shake. “Please marry me, Katherine Bennett.”

His voice is so thick with emotion that I feel my nose burn.
Don't be a sap
, I tell myself.

The woman lets out a whoop and leaps into his arms. The restaurant erupts in applause.

I clap and laugh and brush back tears. Across the table, I feel Abby staring at me. I turn and our eyes lock. Her lips curl upward, but it's not a smile or a grin she's wearing. It's a smirk. No doubt about it, this seventeen-year-old is mocking me. I look away, shaken by her inside knowledge. She thinks I'm a fool to believe in love . . . and, quite possibly, her father.