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1873
“The mail came,” Michael called out to no one in particular. He settled into an armchair with a groan and flipped through the envelopes clutched in his hand.
At the sound of rapid footsteps, he braced himself. Blond locks flying about his face, young Michael launched himself into his father’s lap. Michael grunted, then swung his son upwards with one arm. The envelopes slid into the floor.
“Papa!” the boy shrieked from his upside-down position.
Michael turned him about and looked into a pair of eyes remarkably like his own. “I warned you,” he said.
The boy’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Aye,” Michael burred, and lowering him into his lap, dug his fingers into the boy’s side. Young Michael erupted into giggles.
“My turn,” came another small voice. Michael met the innocent gaze of Gerritt Finnegan.
“No. No,” whined young Michael as he squirmed in his father’s lap. “You’re not supposed to want to be tickled.”
Michael grinned then reached down and scooped the envelopes from the floor. Yet no sooner had he returned them to his lap than a female hand plucked them out. His hands still aloft, he stared at the now empty space for a moment before turning his gaze upward.
Anne smiled at him then kissed him on the nose. “Such a handsome man,” she said. She plopped herself down in his lap.
He pressed his mouth to her neck and began kissing his way down to her shoulder.
“Stop that,” she said sternly.
He paused briefly.
“Michael, this letter is from Nicky,” she said.
He glanced around her to the envelope she held in her hand. Nicholas Sawyer, fondly called Nicky by his big sister, seldom wrote. In the last four years, they’d received maybe a dozen letters from him whereas her mother and father wrote once a month.
He plucked another envelope from between her fingers. “New York.” Who would write to him from New York?
Anne stood to her feet and wandered to the settee. Slitting the envelope with her thumb she pulled out a single sheet of paper. Nick’s broad scrawl bled through the thin page.
“Well?” he said. “You going to read it?”
She cleared her throat. “Dear Sis, I’m writing in the hopes you’ll do me a favor and get me out of here.”
“Oh boy,” Michael remarked. “That sounds promising.”
She made a face and continued. “Milton ...” She paused. “I do wish he’d call him Papa and not Milton.” She made a face. “Milton and I aren’t getting along so well. Frankly, we never have, but you know that. I have hung in here because you asked me to, but now feel I have fulfilled my duties. Our two youngest brothers, Chase and Nate, are respectfully three and seven years old, and though I love them, I’m told I am not setting the best example.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “Wonder who told him that.”
She speared him a look. “Please write back and say I can come there for the benefit of all here and my own peace of mind. Your brother, Nick.”
“His own peace of mind?”
She pressed her lips together firmly. “I wonder what the real story is. You know I can’t deny him. I’ve seen him, what? Twice since we moved here?” She lowered the paper to her lap.
“The more the merrier,” Michael replied. “I like your brother, but he’s headstrong.”
“Like Papa.”
Michael nodded. “Exactly. I like your father too, but the two of them butt heads because they are so alike.”
“Stubborn men.”
He smiled at her. “Are we?”
“Not you, love. You are perfect.”
He smirked.
“So what’s in your envelope?” She nodded towards his lap.
Lifting it, he tore it open and gulped immediately at the letterhead. His pulse sped up and his fingers tingled. “Good God.”
“‘Good God’ good, or ‘Good God’ bad?”
He ran a hand over his head. “That depends on your point of view.”
She stood to her feet and crossing the room, snatched it from him. At sight of the letterhead, she sank down into his lap. “Michael, this is ... is ...”
“I know.”
Their gazes locked. “A concert all your own and at the biggest venue in New York. I’m speechless,” she said. “They want it soon. Two months from now, it says.”
He leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes, the old familiar wave of numbness crawling through his limbs. He focused on his breathing and the rise and fall of his chest.
“Michael,” her hand went to his cheek. “Will you do it?”
He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “Do I have a choice?”
There was always a choice. He could refuse, but he’d promised himself never to do that. Never again would he go against God’s will for his life. “It’s a huge opportunity,” he said. Huge. Enormous. “But I won’t go without you.”
She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. “And I won’t go without the children. But Michael, what about Nicky?” She raised the crumpled page from her lap.
“Write and tell him he can come after we return. Surely, he can wait a few months.”
She sighed. “I hope so. When he gets like this though ...”
“It says to send a telegraph.” He returned his gaze to the letter.
“Mama?”
Michael glanced with Anne toward the entrance to the parlor and his heart filled. Except for the eyes, his daughter was Anne recreated. Her golden hair falling over her shoulders almost to her waist, she swayed uncertainly.
“Come, love,” Anne said, extending her hand.
She tiptoed across the room, at the foot of the chair raising her hands over her head. Looping one arm around her waist, Michael tugged her upwards and deposited her in his lap.
“What is it my sweet Maire?” he asked.
She laid her cheek to his chest. “They won’t share the cookies.”
He concentrated on her voice. At two and a half, she still garbled her phrases. “Well, now, where did they get cookies?”
Her tiny hand clasped hold of his shirt. “Amber.”
“Ah.” He patted Anne’s bottom until she stood to her feet. Swinging Maire onto his right arm, he stomped toward the doorway. “We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we? What if I want a cookie?”
Turning left, he headed toward the kitchen.