'Tis the Season (15 page)

He twisted around, then pushed himself up to sit. “This book is cool,” he said. “Can I hang on to it?”

“Sure.”

“I thought I wasn't gonna like it. It's so long. I don't usually like chapter books, 'cause it takes forever to read them. But this is good.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“I mean, the way the animals all have different personalities. It's like they're people, only they're animals.”

“Exactly.” Filomena grinned. That was the gist of her thesis—the use of animals in children's literature as a metaphor for human society.

“So it isn't really like they're magic or anything. I mean, in some books, talking animals are magical. But here it's more like they're just people or something.”

“That's right.” Her smile expanded. She was proud of Billy for having made the distinction, and pleased that she could share a book she adored with someone who seemed likely to adore it just as much.

“You sure you don't mind if I borrow it for a little while?”

“Not at all. I've got another copy back at home.” She heard voices drifting down the stairs, Gracie's and Evan's, and she felt a sudden urgency about leaving. She needed to get out before she saw Evan again, before she thought about him brushing Gracie's hair, or painting the back porch, or kissing her, or being so upset by his chil
dren's dangerous behavior that he'd nearly cried. In another day or two, Filomena hoped she'd feel more comfortable around him. But if those few minutes when he'd stood in the bathroom doorway—if that one second when his fingers had grazed her hand—were an indication, she lacked any perspective when it came to him.

She exited into the kitchen to get her jacket and purse. Shrugging her arms through the sleeves, she returned to the den to say goodbye to Billy. Not quick enough. Evan strode into the room from the stairs, saw her in her jacket and stopped. “You're leaving?”

“I think I'm done here.”

He didn't look as tense as she felt. In fact, he seemed tired but relaxed, his shoes off, his hair endearingly tousled and his smile both sheepish and hopeful. “I owe you some money,” he said.

She ought to let him pay her. It would help to remind her of the nature of their relationship. But he was far too appealing to her right now, in his faded jeans and wool socks, his hands in his pockets and one shoulder cocked. “There's no rush,” she said, referring to the payment.

“Are you sure?” He approached her, digging his wallet out of his hip pocket. “Gracie told me you spent a fortune on the groceries.”

“I didn't spend a fortune,” she assured him, realizing she didn't want that reminder, that reality check, the concrete evidence that she was working for him. “Really, Evan, it can wait.”

If he heard tension in her voice, he ignored it. He took her arm and steered her out of the den, down the hall to the front door. At the door, he pulled her to a halt, but his hand remained on her arm, his fingers arching around
her elbow. “I wanted to thank you again. You didn't have to give Gracie a bath.”

“Well…it seemed like a good idea,” she said vaguely. She couldn't tell him she'd wanted to give Gracie a bath because it made her feel that much more like a part of this household.

“I worry sometimes,” he confessed, his gaze locked onto her. “She's a girl, and I'm a man, and I worry that maybe I shouldn't be there when she's in the tub.”

“You're her father,” Filomena assured him.

“I know, but…” He sighed. “I worry, Fil. I worry that I'm not doing things right.”

She recalled where he'd just spent his evening. “Did you learn anything useful in the Daddy School?” she asked.

“Yeah. It was good. I'll definitely go back. But…” He sighed again and released her arm. “I appreciate your giving Gracie a bath, that's all.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said honestly.

“Even though she dumped a ton of water on you?” He ran his fingertips across a damp spot on her sweater. She should have closed her jacket. She should have escaped before he could corner her in the confines of the entry hall. She should have been able to accept his touch without going all tingly and soft inside. “I could run your sweater through the dryer if you want to wait a few minutes.”

“No. Really, it's fine.” She was already feeling too close to his family. To have her sweater spend five minutes in his drier would be much too intimate.

He seemed on the verge of saying something, then changed his mind and dropped back a step. “One of the
things the teacher talked about was that fathers need to learn how to listen. So…I'm listening. Okay?”

She frowned, unsure of what he was getting at.

He smiled crookedly. “I'll pay you the next time I see you. You want to leave. See? I'm listening.”

She could have told him she
didn't
want to leave. She wanted to stay here, to hold Gracie in her lap and discuss
Freddy the Detective
with Billy and allow herself to admire Evan's angular face, his tall, lean body, his humor, his devotion to his children. If he could listen to her heart, that would be the message he heard. But he could listen only to her words, and they were telling him she wanted to leave.

“You can have tomorrow off. It's my poker night, so I'll be leaving work early. I'll be able to pick up Gracie at preschool.”

She almost protested. She didn't want the evening off. She wanted to pick up Gracie, and then circle over to Billy's school and get him, and drive them here, and putter in Evan's kitchen until he arrived home. But he was listening to her, and if she had half an ounce of sense in her brain she would be grateful for that.

“All right,” she said. “I'll see you Wednesday.” And before she could say anything more, before she could spend another instant staring into his mesmerizing eyes, she swung open the front door and stepped out into the dark, chilly night.

 

S
HE DIDN
'
T SLAM
the door, but she might as well have. He stood in the foyer, the quiet click of the door latch echoing in his mind. Through the sidelight, he watched her bustle down the front walk in her bulky boots, climb
into her car and back out of the driveway. Not until the taillights had disappeared did he turn from the door.

He'd wanted her to stay, to talk to him. The Daddy School class had pumped him full of all kinds of ideas, and he'd wanted to discuss them with her, to see if she thought he'd learned the right lessons.

He hadn't realized how desperately he needed adult companionship until he'd had the chance to experience it with her. He had his friends—Murphy, Levi, Brett and Tom—and his colleagues at work, and reliable neighbors. But a true friend, a woman friend, someone not just beautiful but smart and interesting and eager to share her thoughts with him…

He needed Filomena.

He recalled what she'd said at her house on Saturday: she didn't want to become dependent on him. He couldn't let himself become dependent on her, either. She was all set to leave town, and unlike Debbie, she'd given him notice of her impending departure. She wasn't going to abandon him on a whim. He knew exactly how long he could count on her, and it was nowhere near long enough.

But being forewarned that she was planning to leave at the start of the new year didn't make him desire her any less.

Maybe what he needed wasn't Filomena but just a woman in general. He'd been single more than two years. Of course he would enjoy spending an evening with a woman—and without the kids. Just him and a lovely lady dining out, attending a non-kiddy movie, returning to her place or his, and…yeah, sex would be nice. Maybe it didn't have to be Filomena. Maybe any decent, intelligent, reasonably attractive woman would do.

Except that he knew decent, intelligent, reasonably attractive women. He worked with two—Heather and Jennifer. He'd dated a few others. But none of them had ever infiltrated his mind and taken it over the way Filomena had. None of them had ever given his son a book or his daughter a bath.

Damn. What kind of guy had he turned into, judging a woman's appeal by her willingness to shampoo Gracie's hair and expose Billy to a novel about a talking pig? Being a single father definitely skewed a guy's concept of the perfect woman.

He wandered back into the den and flopped onto the couch, feeling the weight of a long, overstuffed day on him. Billy peered up at his father, then closed the book, using a Pokémon card to hold his place. “This book is cool,” he told Evan.

“It was nice of Fil to lend it to you.”

“Yeah.” Billy pushed off the floor and joined Evan on the sofa, evidently buying a few extra minutes before Evan sent him to bed. “She's cool, Dad.”

“I know.” Even his son was smitten, Evan thought disconsolately. “Did you have fun with her tonight?”

“Well, mostly we just shopped for Thanksgiving. We got four cans of cranberry sauce, so each of us can have our own can.”

“That sounds like about three cans too many,” Evan said with a laugh. “Did you get your homework done?”

“I did it at the after-school program,” Billy said. “Scott said you're supposed to spend Thanksgiving with relatives. Do you think it's okay that we're having it with Fil?”

“Sure. You can spend it with friends, too.”

“Scott said only family.”

“Scott's wrong. You can share Thanksgiving with anyone you want.”

“Good.” Billy sighed happily. “'Cuz I really want to spend it with Fil. How was that thing you went to tonight?”

Evan was touched that Billy had thought to ask. “It was very interesting. The teacher is a nurse at Arlington Memorial Hospital. She knew her stuff.”

“So…what? She taught you, like, first aid?”

“No. It was a class to help make men better fathers. She taught us how important it is to listen to our children. She said fathers aren't always good at listening. Do you think that's true, Billy? Am I a bad listener?”

Billy considered the question for a minute, which pleased Evan. He didn't want his son blowing him off with an easy answer, one he thought would please his dad. “Sometimes,” Billy admitted. “Like when you're rushing to broil something for dinner, you really don't listen to us at all.”

“Because I'm rushing. I think it's better if you save the important things to tell me when I'm not rushing. I guess I should communicate that better.” That was one of the things Allison Winslow had discussed in class: When it was impossible to listen to your children at a given moment, you had to schedule a time when you could give them your full attention, and then be there and listen.

“Or, like, if something happens at school and I tell you about it, sometimes I feel like you're just sitting there, waiting to lecture me about what I should've done or what I should do next time or something. It's like
you're
telling
me
what happened, instead of listening.”

“You're right.” Evan curved an arm around Billy and
gave him a hug. “It's because I want to help you. But you're right. I should keep my mouth shut and listen more. If you catch me doing that, I want you to point it out to me, okay?”

“You won't be mad?”

“No. I might be mad if you say you did something you shouldn't have done, but I won't be mad if you ask me to shut up and listen. Just don't say, ‘Shut up.'”

“I'll say, ‘Put a lid on it, Dad.'”

“I think I can handle that.” He gave Billy another hug, then nudged him off the couch. “It's bedtime for you.”

“Put a lid on it, Dad,” Billy said, then grinned and scampered off before Evan could take a swipe at him.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. In a few minutes, he would go upstairs to tuck Billy in and make sure Gracie was all set for the night. But first he wanted to unwind, to let the tension seep from his shoulders, to assimilate everything he'd endured since his alarm had roused him that morning.

There had been a snafu with one of his suppliers—a train derailment; no injuries, but a whole lot of hockey sticks and pucks destined for his stores had been on that train—and he was going to have to spend the entire day tomorrow making sure trucks picked up all his hockey inventory and delivered it to his stores. He'd told Jennifer that because of the derailment, she'd have to accompany Tank Moody to New London tomorrow, and she'd thrown a fit, although finding out that Tank provided his own stretch limo and was actually a nice guy had mollified her. “He's just an overpaid jock,” she'd sniffed, “but the limo might make the whole thing bearable.” Evan had come home, broiled hot dogs and then headed out to the YMCA to attend the Daddy School class.

He'd gone expecting it to be a waste of time. What could a neonatal nurse from Arlington Memorial teach him? His kids were long past the days of diapers and strained peas.

But she'd been good. She'd addressed the eleven men in the room not as a nurse but as the mother of a two-and-a-half-year-old girl, as someone who'd observed a father and his child at close range—and as Molly Saunders-Russo's best friend and cofounder of the Daddy School. Most of the other men in the class seemed to be married, but Evan had gotten as much out of it as they had.