MICA HAD BEEN a jerk to Grace.
Again.
He’d put up his defenses because he was hurt. The shock of finding out he was a father had been one thing. The fact that Grace had not called him all those months ago and told him the truth had cut him in places he hadn’t known he had. He’d wanted to hurt her back, but striking at her repeatedly about not telling him the truth now made him ashamed.
He owed her an apology and he had no idea where to start.
He had to move fast because Grace was leaving in a week.
That was another thing. Why did she have to leave so soon? Couldn’t she stick around another week? Or three. How does she expect me to learn to be Jules’s dad in a matter of days?
They had things to discuss. Serious, life-changing decisions had to be made.
He reached for his iPhone and searched his contacts for her name. When he found it, he stopped.
Instead of Grace, he should rename the contact “Miss Hit and Run.” That’s what she was always doing, wasn’t it? She rolled into his life like an earthquake, stirring up his emotions, and then vanished, leaving him breathless and shaken.
And why was that? For that month they’d shared, he’d hoped to continue the relationship, even if she was across an ocean. He’d expected to exchange emails and texts. Talk to her on the phone. Fly over for holidays. He was more than open to seeing where they would go. But her silence had cut to the heart. For a brief time, he’d hoped that he might have something with her—something that might bring joy to his life.
But her silence told him that he’d lived a dream. And all dreams fade.
Yet now they had a son who would keep them connected forever. Even though it was too late for them romantically, they had Jules.
And it was all...
Because of the accident. No matter how Mica tried to reprogram his mind-set, he couldn’t seem to get over the fact that he wasn’t the capable man he had been. And maybe Grace couldn’t, either. It wasn’t just his injured arm, but the way the injury had changed his life. He was being edged out on the farm. He was directionless. He didn’t know what it was going to take to get past that roadblock, if it was possible at all.
Meanwhile, Grace was ambitious, focused and determined to take her career to the next level. No wonder she didn’t want to be with him.
During their time together last October, he’d told her about the way things used to be, what he’d planned for his life.
What he hadn’t done was tell her where he thought his life was going now. Which was nowhere. But it must have been pretty obvious to her.
True, Grace was entrusting Mica with their son. Though his insecurities wailed inside him, he was determined to be a good father, to do the honorable thing. But the fact that she only seemed to see Mica as a convenient childcare provider hurt. A lot.
He tossed the phone onto his desk, next to his computer. For weeks, even months, he’d been working on designs to retrofit the old tractor, but in the cold light of day, his ideas always seemed as inoperable as his arm. And Mica had found himself tumbling into a tunnel of depression.
Since the accident, and the brief interlude with Grace last October, nothing in his life had had purpose or meaning, except...
“Jules.”
Mica leaned forward in his desk chair and rose to his feet. “Jules Barzonni.” He paused and let the sound of his son’s name roll around in his head. It was a good name. A sturdy and sound name. He liked it.
“The only problem is...”
He picked up his iPhone again and this time he tapped Grace’s number.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Hello? Mica?”
“Grace,” he said, feeling a bit off-balance after hearing her voice. Sweet and tentative. Melodic and haunting. A voice that, for over a year, he had wished he could forget. “I need to talk to you about our son.”
“Our son?”
“Yes,” he replied. “If I drove into town, could we talk?”
“I’m just about to give Jules his dinner. Then he needs a bath and—”
“Okay,” he replied. “Tonight’s not good.”
“I’ve been on the phone and at the computer all afternoon and evening. I haven’t had time to get to the store. I don’t have anything here to fix for dinner. So I’m not sure...”
“What’s with you, Grace? You fly back here, specifically to hand Jules over to me, and then you shut me out? You make no sense.”
“My fault,” she said. “After the way we left things, I didn’t know what to say or how to say it.”
“So you pull the silent act on me again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We need to talk, Grace.”
“We do. But not tonight. I’m dead tired and to be honest, I have a mountain of work I simply have to get done in the morning. By sunrise, my team will be on the phone and I have to take care of some very pressing matters, and I—”
“Grace,” he interrupted. “I get it. What about tomorrow night? I’ll get some Chinese takeout. Okay?”
“Uh, sure. I guess.”
“See you about six?”
Mica ended the call. He looked down at his battered jeans and scuffed boots. He remembered when he’d seen Grace at The Louise House when she’d first arrived back in Indian Lake. He’d looked like crap. Dirty. Muddy boots. She hadn’t liked it.
Before tomorrow night, he had work to do. Laundry. Boot polish.
Soap. Shower. That’ll help. He rose from the chair and turned off the computer.
I hope.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN a long day at the computer for Grace.
She’d been surprised to find over forty emails from her team. She’d expected to put in some hours during her time off, but she’d thought they’d give her at least a day or two before flooding her inbox.
The first email she opened was from Etienne. He’d sent three photos of designs he’d executed per Grace’s directive. She groaned at the too-yellow chartreuse silk dress and the sky blue plastic rain poncho she’d thought would be killer. “Well, I need to bury it,” she mumbled as she typed a reply email to Etienne.
When Grace had left Paris, she’d sketched fourteen day-wear designs and two gowns. She needed every single one of these pieces to stand out so she could secure a place in a show. These first stabs were a disaster. She’d been too rushed trying to leave Paris, distracted by thoughts of Mica and caring for Jules. Just hours ago, she’d doubted her decision to bring her son here, but now this proof of her subpar work renewed her confidence that she was doing the right thing. For Jules and her career.
She sent the email back to Etienne and told him to scrap both pieces. The fabric for the dress was wrong, and the poncho didn’t sit right. It would be cumbersome to wear. She needed a different rainproof fabric. Perhaps a waterproof twill or a waterproof microfiber. She promised she would send new designs by the weekend.
Rene sent his detailed spreadsheets regarding their menswear sales. She’d left him in charge because his business acumen was akin to hers. As expected, he ended his email with affectionate concern about her and Jules’s trip.
She emailed him back that all was well.
Grace opened her sketch pad, took her pencil and closed her eyes as she always did, allowing inspiration to come into her head. She made the first strokes and then her hand began flying across the paper. She imagined a muddy brown caplet with blood-red lining over a pencil-thin brown wool skirt and brown boots—cowboy boots, like the ones Mica always wore...
Jules started to cry. He’d dozed off in his baby carrier and she’d let him rest. She needed the break to get her work done.
Or some of it.
She set aside her sketch pad and lifted Jules out of his carrier. “Oh, sweetie. Guess what? Your daddy will be here—” she checked her watch “—in ten minutes. And I still have to give you a bath and get your PJs on.”
Jules swatted her face with his tiny palm and giggled. She nabbed his hand and kissed it. “You’re my fella. You know that? Not so tall, but dark and very, very handsome.”
She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of formula and a half-used jar of pureed baby food. She heated both in the microwave.
“So, how about carrots and if you’re lucky, some applesauce for dinner?” she said, cooing to Jules.
She settled him back in his carrier, put a bib around his neck and had just given him the first few spoonfuls of pureed carrots when her doorbell dinged.
“I’m guessing that’s your daddy.”
Jules smiled and toyed with his bib.
“I’ll be right back.”
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. She couldn’t help it. She had to brace herself against the onslaught of Mica’s presence.
He wore clean jeans, a plaid shirt and a sheepskin-lined leather jacket, which was dusted with snow. He carried two paper sacks in his right arm.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a bunch,” he said with a smile that could melt glaciers.
“Come in,” she said.
He wiped his black boots on the mat. “I remembered. No dirt on the boots. I wouldn’t want you to have to scrub floors on my account.”
“I appreciate that,” she replied, marveling at the fact that he remembered something she’d said to him fourteen months ago. It had been a mean remark. “Mica, I’m sorry for being so harsh back then. I was just...”
“Angry?” he asked.
“Yes. I was. I thought...well, you know. I thought a lot of things and they were wrong.”
“I remember,” he said, walking down the hall that led to the kitchen.
Jules was making all sorts of noises as he heard them approach. When Grace and Mica entered the kitchen, he started twisting and rocking and nearly pitched himself and the carrier over the edge of the table.
“Whoa! Hold on there, buddy!” Mica shoved the bags onto the counter and shot over to Jules, catching him before he tumbled to the floor.
“What the heck?” Grace said, rushing over to them.
“I’ve got him,” Mica said. “Shouldn’t he be in a high chair? He looks too big for this thing.”
“He is. But I haven’t been able to borrow or rent a high chair from anyone here yet.”
“You should have told me. I could have arranged it.”
“You? Mica, two days ago you would barely even—”
He spun around to face her, his blue eyes flashing so intensely that Grace had a hard time remembering where she was or what she was doing here.
“Grace. You come here, out of the blue, to tell me I have a son. That you want me to take care of him. Fine. But then you have to include me.”
Grace sighed. “You’re right. I’m so used to doing everything on my own, I didn’t think... And a week ago, Jules was fine in this carrier. He just got excited when he saw you, is all.”
“Yeah.” Mica’s face softened, along with his tone. “He did. Didn’t he?”
“He likes people.”
“I’m hoping he likes me.”
“Me, too. I want him to get to know you. For you to learn to be a real dad to him.”
“Put ’er there, buddy,” Mica said, holding out his hand for Jules to grasp. Jules pulled Mica’s hand to his mouth.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Not since I left the house.”
“Then take off your coat and go over to the sink and wash up. Then he can suckle your finger all you want. I’ll get us some plates for the food.”
“Good. I’m starving. Hey, can he eat any of this stuff yet?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
“Not even the rice?”
“He could choke. But he does have six teeth. Maybe if I cut up some of the steamed broccoli, he might try a smidge.”
“I gotta see this,” Mica said eagerly.
Grace took out two plates and silverware and opened the steaming boxes of shrimp fried rice and kung pao chicken.
She filled two glasses with water from the tap. “Sorry I don’t have any wine or tea. I haven’t been to the store since I landed. All I have is food for Jules. Mrs. Beabots gave me some leftovers...” She stopped. She was rambling.
She frowned as she placed paper napkins from the brown bag on the table. In Paris, she always prepared pretty meals for company. But she was only in Indian Lake for a short time. Accoutrements for dining were not on her priority list. She hadn’t planned to serve dinner to anyone. She should have realized that Mica might be a guest. Or more than that.
There was a great deal she hadn’t thought through and she wished now she had.
She cut up some broccoli, speared the tiniest piece with her fork and held it out to Jules. He leaned forward, put it in his mouth. In less than two seconds, his face soured and he spit the broccoli onto his bib.
“I take it that was a no-go,” Mica said.
“I should have started with something he’s used to. I puree most of his food at home. He’s had carrots and green beans, but broccoli is new to him.”
Mica smiled. “Kinda cute, though, the way he knows what he likes and doesn’t like.”
“Yeah,” she agreed tentatively.
With her fork hovering over her golden chicken, she asked, “Why are you here, Mica?”
“Well,” he said wiping his fingers on a paper napkin, “I think we should move on since you’re not here for very long.”
“Move on?”
“Yes.” He looked at her with earnest eyes. “We need to get married.”
Grace’s heart banged once in her chest and stopped as if it had no reason to beat again. “Married.” Shockingly, she realized this was what she’d always wanted to hear from Mica. This was her teenage dream come true. Mica was asking her to marry him. She should be on top of the world.
But she felt cold, as if she’d just settled quite permanently in her grave. Something was wrong. Every ancient instinct a human could call upon in a moment of crisis had gone on alert. She should run. Seek shelter. The world was not beginning, but ending.
She knew better than to allow her ears to hear the rest of what he was saying.
“I want Jules to know his roots. His heritage. I want him to know all of my family and be a real part of our family. He’s a Barzonni. I want this for my son.”
Mica hadn’t said that he wanted her or cared about her. He hadn’t even said he loved Jules. He was performing a responsibility that was expected of him because he was a Barzonni.
A pang speared her heart.
She had only one choice and she took it.
“No, Mica. I won’t marry you.”