ALTHOUGH ANDY HADN’T exactly jumped for joy about helping with the play, Pam noticed his attitude improved when Angela showed sudden interest in assisting him with props. By mid-November, the weeks had fallen into a comfortable routine. When she and Andy arrived home after rehearsal, he would go for a bike ride, giving her time to straighten the house, work on lesson plans, do laundry—all in peace. If you didn’t count Sebastian and Viola, who vied for her undivided attention.
She was relieved, too, that football season was over and basketball was in full swing, helping to keep her arrangement with Grant more businesslike. He was gone more and more, and when he was home, he was busy. That left little time for conversation—or temptation. Since she was usually in bed long before he was, their paths rarely crossed. What little spare time he did have, she encouraged him to spend with Andy.
It was best that way, because she’d come to an irrevocable decision—she couldn’t lull herself into depending on a husband, especially a short-term one. Especially one as attractive and appealing as Grant.
This particular afternoon, Pam had popped a roast into the oven and stood at the sink peeling potatoes and carrots, noting the lengthening shadows out the kitchen window. The trees were nearly bare of leaves and a cold northwest wind whistled around the corners of the house. The days were growing shorter and shorter as winter crept closer. Had Andy worn his jacket on his bike ride? She chuckled to herself. He’d be indignant if he guessed what a mother hen she was.
He and Grant seemed to have arrived at some kind of unspoken truce—they still went for Andy’s driving lessons, but so far as Pam could tell, they weren’t really communicating. It was nuts for Grant to protect Shelley at the expense of his son’s understanding of the past. But then again, Pam wasn’t the parent. Surely there was a way Grant could talk to Andy without putting down his mother.
Pam set down the vegetable parer and massaged the base of her neck. This was one of those evenings she’d love to be curled up in her flannel pajamas on the sofa of her condo, soft show tunes on the sound system, a pot of tea by her side, a cozy gas-log fire in the fire-place. Instead, she needed to finish dinner, clean both bathrooms and work on a staggering stack of college recommendation forms.
Today’s confrontation with Beau Jasper hadn’t helped her frame of mind. He’d barely passed her midterm exam, then his grades had gone abruptly downhill. He was a talented athlete with Division I college scouts on his trail, but arrogant beyond belief. Irritation welled up again as she pictured his insolent, oh-so-charming smile when he stood at her desk after school. “C’mon, Ms. C., we both know you’re not gonna flunk me.”
“Not if you turn in passing work.”
“What’s the matter with my work?”
She’d clenched her fists in the folds of her skirt, silently wondering if he was deliberately playing dumb or if he could really be so clueless. She’d taken out his latest paper and attempted to go over it with him, but he was far more attentive to his watch than to the intricacies of syntax. “I’m gonna be late to practice.”
“Read my lips, Beau,” she’d finally said. “No passing English, no playing basketball. Is that clear enough for you?”
She rarely descended to sarcasm, but he’d tried her patience once too often. The boy actually felt entitled to a passing grade based on his stature as an athlete. She’d tried talking to his mother, whose grip on reality, alas, was obscured by blind adoration of her son. He had no father.
Picking up the parer, Pam plucked the eyes out of a potato with irritated little thrusts. How would Beau ever learn responsibility for his actions? She’d like to have been able to motivate him herself. Now she’d have to use the last resort. Appealing to his coach to apply pressure.
It didn’t help that his coach was Grant.
GRANT CROUCHED on the sideline, every muscle tensed, willing Chip Kennedy’s free throw into the basket. This was the first home game of the season, and the Knights needed a lead going into halftime. His body uncoiled to a standing position when Chip’s shot whooshed through the hoop. Now for the second attempt. He scanned the floor. Beau Jasper was on the line between the defenders, and Cale Moore, the point guard, stood poised at half court. When the shot hit the rim, Jasper, arms extended, grabbed the rebound and rifled it to Moore, who hit a three-pointer. Grant exhaled, barely conscious of the explosion of sound from the Keystone stands. A four-point advantage. Not much, but something to work with.
Walking, head down, to the locker room, he reviewed the remarks he needed to make. This was a team that could go all the way. But they had to do it game by game. He worried about their weakness from long-range and about Jasper’s hotdogging. Winning consistently required a team effort. Jasper had all the skills, but he resisted coaching. Unfortunately, some of the other players relied on him when they should have been perfecting their own abilities.
Bottom line, though, they needed Jasper. Somehow he’d managed to stay eligible throughout the football season, but offhand remarks Grant had overheard the kid make at practice suggested he already had a terminal case of senioritis.
The familiar locker-room odors of rank bodies and liniment focused him. Several players sat with towels over their heads, and one emerged from the can. Beau Jasper stood front and center adjusting his jockstrap, a smug smile on his face. “I did good, huh, coach? Thirteen points.”
Grant ground his teeth, for a fleeting moment imagining Pam correcting the self-absorbed kid’s grammar. “Give your teammates some credit. Remember the game’s only half over and the other team is good.”
“Those pansies? We’ll whip their asses. You watch.”
“I hope so,” Grant said dryly. “Meanwhile, gather ’round, men.”
Grant outlined the strategy for the second half, then gave a short pep talk. Walking back out onto the court, he briefly searched the crowd. His wife, looking gorgeous in a new magenta maternity top, sat with Darla Liddy and her month-old baby boy. When Pam spotted him, she gave a broad smile and a thumbs-up. His heart thumped. One look and he was lost. With effort, he forced his concentration back to the game. Basketball could be all-consuming. Which was good, he told himself. So long as he was eating, breathing, sleeping basketball, he wouldn’t be lured into thinking long-term about Pam. The one “game” he couldn’t bear to think of losing.
PAM COULDN’T FIGURE Andy out. He bared his soul to her in his journals, but in person, he was deferential, though guarded. It wasn’t unusual for students to feel safer sharing their feelings in writing, especially when she guaranteed them confidentiality. Sometimes she’d catch glimpses of him walking through the hall, holding hands with Angela, or loitering by his locker with Chip and think maybe he was beginning to fit in at Keystone. But at home, he preferred to be by himself, communicating primarily in monosyllabic teen-speak.
About once a week he perfunctorily asked her how the baby was. Her other students showed more interest and enthusiasm than he did. They’d even put a file box on her desk so they could all submit possible names for the baby. So far her favorite was Byron Milton Chaucer Gilbert.
But the other students didn’t feel in danger of losing their fathers’ affection. Andy did.
She looked again at his latest journal entry. Something needed to happen. Soon.
My mother calls me once a week. She wants to know all this stuff like how am I doing. I tell her, “Fine.” Like she’d really understand about you or Dad or Angie. Usually she just tells me what she and Harry are doing. Her big “woo” is this new game she’s playing. Maw-jong, or something like that.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about Dad buying the airplane ticket for me to spend the summer with him. It must’ve been that time Mom sent me to this dorky camp in North Carolina. So I’ve been kinda wondering if there’s more stuff she hasn’t told me. Like maybe there were other times that he wanted me to come that I didn’t even know about.
But probably not. It’s maybe just me wishing he’d really cared. Well, I know you won’t tell him. ’Cuz maybe I’m wrong. Probably I am.
Pam set down his notebook, carefully closing the cover. She’d promised to keep his confidences. But these two men needed to talk.
Much as she longed to, it wasn’t her place to fix their relationship. That was up to Grant and Andy.
Whenever. However.
“I THINK MAYBE I’m taking advantage of you.” Grant had just come in from a cross-town game, had helped himself to a bowl of chili warming on the stove and now straddled a chair at the kitchen table opposite her.
“Who me?” Pam adopted a puckish grin. “The housekeeper?”
“That’s probably exactly how you feel.” He paused, a spoonful of chili halfway to his lips.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Coach Gilbert, that’s precisely what I signed on for. I suspect I’m not so different from a lot of actual wives.”
“You’re different, all right,” he said before shoveling the chili into his mouth.
She leaned forward as if to urge him to tell her how she was different. But when he looked up again, there was no hint of flirtation. She must have imagined the nuance. “I appreciate the attention you’re giving Andy. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
“Are you?” She hadn’t meant to be confrontational, but his apology was too smooth, too pat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
Logic told her he was tired, stressed from a game the team had barely won in overtime, but emotion overtook her. “I think you’re content to let me handle Andy. It’s simpler. You can go on deluding yourself that he resents you because you’ve been, in your own words, a lousy father. For you, that may be easier than actually leveling with him. Or, heaven forbid, getting involved. Shelley is hardly mother-of-the-year material, yet you’ve let her get away with outright lies and manipulation. What’s the matter? Are you afraid to let Andy know his mother isn’t perfect? Or how much you’ve missed him? How much you care?”
She felt herself gaining a potentially fatal head of steam, but she couldn’t stop now. “What have you got to lose? Andy already thinks you don’t care. That he can’t measure up. But that doesn’t stop him from hoping. So what’s stopping you, Coach? Guilt? Fear of emotional attachment? What?”
She rose from her seat at the table. “Whatever it is, you need to get over it. If you want to claim your son, that is.” She stared down at him. “Meanwhile, offering my services as the housekeeper is the least I can do.”
He stirred his chili, head bent over his bowl. For some reason, studying the few silver strands gilding his head, she wanted to run her fingers through his hair, take back all the harsh judgments, comfort him. Then he looked at her as if she was some stranger he thought he ought to recognize. “Are you finished?”
“Quite.”
“Good.” Without another word, he opened the box of saltines, extracted one and began chewing.
She waited, hoping for some reaction. When none came, she said as levelly as she could, “Help yourself to the cobbler for dessert. Good night.”
She fled to the den, aware that she had just risked a great deal. And lost.
Sebastian joined her on the daybed. She lay awake for a long time, stroking him and wondering how she was going to handle her strong, unhousekeeperlike attraction to this man who seemed so afraid to love.
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Grant couldn’t stop thinking about Pam’s outburst. He’d never regarded himself as a coward, or, worse yet, a victim. What was it she could see about Andy that he couldn’t? Was she right? Had he harbored some misplaced notion of gallantry where Shelley was concerned? He’d figured, since Andy had to live with her, it would be easier if he didn’t make too many waves. But was that rationalization? A throw-back to his own childhood? Had he abdicated his responsibility?
The thought sickened him.
Nor did he feel very good about the accusation in Pam’s eyes.
His aloof son with gangly legs and a suddenly deepening voice was a stranger to him. What had happened to the happy toddler with the Nerf ball? To his own dreams of creating the close-knit family he’d never had as a youngster?
On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Grant happened to answer the phone when Shelley called. “How’s your housekeeper working out?”
She was up to her usual tricks. She knew darn well he and Pam were married. “My wife, you mean?”
“Whatever. May I please speak to my son?”
My son. He grimaced. She’d like it that way, wouldn’t she? But the more he thought about it, the last thing Andy needed was additional exposure to her itinerant lifestyle or her self-serving personality. No wonder the kid didn’t say much. He’d probably long ago learned silence kept him out of trouble. Man, could Grant relate. He remembered all too well. You didn’t talk to the colonel—you listened. “I’ll tell him you’re on the line.”
After summoning Andy, he found himself pacing the living room, angry yet impotent. Pam was right. He’d been far too passive where his son was concerned and he intended for that to end. Today.
ANDY COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. He and his dad stood in the lot looking at used cars. Maybe after he turned sixteen he’d actually have wheels! When he’d gotten off the phone with his mother, his dad had told him to grab a jacket and come along on an errand. He hadn’t wanted to—until he found out where they were going. Sunday afternoons were good for looking ’cause you didn’t have to deal with those greasy salesmen with their fake smiles and “hot” deals.
“What do you think of this one?” His dad was standing beside a gray Honda.
“Okay, I guess.”
“But?”
“It’s not exactly a cool color. It doesn’t have a sun roof.”
“Is that a requirement?”
Andy shrugged. “I guess not. But it’d be good.”
“Let’s look over here, then.” His dad walked toward a candy-red Firebird.
That was more like it. “Yeah, I can see myself in this.”
Then his father gave him the spiel about considering more than looks—as if he was stupid or something. He knew about gas mileage, safety features and insurance rates. Not to mention price.
On the way home, his dad, kinda casuallike, said, “Has your mother talked with you about a car?”
“I guess she thinks you’ll get me one.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption, I’d say.”
Andy felt a squirmy sensation in his stomach. He’d never heard Dad use that tone of voice when talking about Mom. Then he went on. “Shelley and I haven’t been very good at communicating. Especially where you’re concerned.”
No shit. What was this about anyway?
Dad was studying the road like he was in some Grand Prix race. “Did you know I used to ask your mother if you could spend summers with me?”
Summers? Plural? Pam had only mentioned the one. “Not exactly.”
“I did. Up until a couple of years ago when I realized I was fighting a losing battle.”
Andy didn’t know if he bought this story or not. “What stopped you?”
Instead of answering the question, his dad glanced at him. “Did you ever know about those invitations?”
“No.”
“Would you have come?”
“I dunno.”
They’d arrived home. His dad parked the car but didn’t get out. Instead, he put a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “I wanted you to come, son. Always.”
Andy felt queasy. “Why didn’t Mom tell me?”
“She always claimed you had other plans—Little League, camps, trips.” He cleared his throat. “I figured that you preferred it that way.”
Andy erupted. “Like I had a choice? Like either one of you ever asked me what I wanted?” He grabbed the handle and leaped from the car, turning back for one last word. “And now what? You expect it to suddenly be okay? To fix it with a car? Hell, Dad, where’ve you been for sixteen years, huh?”
Blinded by a rage he couldn’t express, Andy rushed past Pam and up the stairs to his bedroom. It was too late for some big father-son moment.
Even if it had prob’ly cost him his wheels. Son of a bitch!
“WELL, SO MUCH FOR communicating,” Grant said, sinking defeatedly into his recliner.
Pam eyed him from the sofa, where she sat in her customary place, a pile of student papers in her lap. “What was that all about?” She nodded toward the stairs.
“Testosterone and one blown opportunity.”
“Is it just today or do you always talk in riddles?”
“You were right.”
“About?”
If a grown man could be said to be sulking, Grant was. “Shelley. Andy. Me.”
She nudged the stack of papers aside. He must be upset—he hadn’t even noticed Sebastian mewing plaintively and entwining himself between Grant’s legs. Getting the story out of him was going to require delicacy. “For what it’s worth, I take no satisfaction in being right.”
“Where were you when I needed you all those years ago?”
Nice as it was to be needed, he wasn’t going to lay this off on her. “A better question might be where were you?”
His frown deepened and he didn’t answer. Pam smoothed her maternity top over her slightly rounded stomach, a sinking feeling making her distinctly uncomfortable. This was definitely not the way to let a man know you cared about him.
“Fair enough,” he grunted. “I told him about the times I asked Shelley to send him for the summer.” He looked at her. “He never had a clue.”
“Is that surprising?”
“I can’t believe I was so gullible.”
“It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
“Andy’s angry. At both his mother and me. Justifiably. Shelley and I let our own egos get in the way of what was best for him.”
“Anger could be good.”
He gazed at her as if she’d lost her mind. “How do you figure that?”
“If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be angry. He’d be indifferent. So long as he cares, you can reach him.”
“I wish I knew how.”
“By trying. Just like you tell your team. Keep practicing. No pain, no gain, right?”
He gave her an arch look that slowly dissolved into a half smile. “You sound just like a wife.” Then he tried to stand up, encumbered by Sebastian. “Jeez, a cat?” He shook his head. “I guess I’m learning tolerance.”
She watched him leave the room, an amused grin twitching her lips. It had felt, for a few moments, like a real marriage. Full of troubles and strained relationships. But solid.
Which goes to show, she thought wryly, that appearances are deceiving.
THE NEXT WEEK was a whirlwind. Two basketball games, dress rehearsal and three performances of Our Town. Grant wished he could be more help to Pam. She had big circles under her eyes and he knew she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Wednesday night he’d awakened and seen the living room lights on. She was curled up in his chair double-checking the ticket sales and seating assignments, her deliciously curved breasts pressing against her knit T-shirt in a way that sent him scurrying back to bed, full of libidinous thoughts.
Andy, too, was involved with the play. Probably a good thing, since they had both needed a time-out. Grant clung to the tiny ray of hope Pam had given him. Maybe Andy did care. If only they could find a way to communicate without anger and recriminations.
Sunday afternoon Grant finally attended an Our Town performance. He’d had games both Friday and Saturday nights. If it hadn’t been for Beau Jasper’s outstanding play, they’d have been outmatched. When the lights went down and the curtain rose, he found himself caught up with the residents of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire. By Act 3, he realized the tightness in his chest was caused by his identification with Emily, the heroine. Dying tragically as a teenager, she’d been permitted to choose one day to return to earth—to experience things anew, do things over. More than anything, he wanted “do-overs” with his son.
When the final curtain came down to thunderous applause, he joined the rest of the audience in a standing ovation. The kids had been terrific. Then the cast beckoned offstage for the crew, and there was Andy, holding Angela Beeman’s hand, smiling, bowing and looking for all the world as if he, single-handedly, had been responsible for the success of the production.
Then the kids pulled Pam onto the stage and the male lead presented her with a huge bouquet of roses. Her eyes sparkled with tears as she turned to hug first one actor, then another. He was ashamed to admit that this was the first drama production he’d been to in several years.
Andy went with Angela and some of the others to a cast party. Grant lingered to help Pam secure the auditorium. As she turned the lock in the door and started to leave the building, a cool breeze ruffled her hair, coppery-gold in the fading light. He took her arm and tucked it into his. “You should be very proud of yourself. It was wonderful.”
“Thank you, but it’s the kids who made it happen.”
“I understand. That’s how I feel about my players. All the same, they couldn’t have done it without you.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “It’s moments like this that make us remember why we chose teaching.”
“I know.” He helped her into the car and drove slowly through the upscale residential area. Since confronting him about Andy, she had seemed guarded around him, and, in truth, he had resented her interference. But she’d been right. In the afterglow of her success today, maybe they could recapture their earlier closeness. He hoped so.
“Andy really enjoyed himself, I think.” Her eyes shone and her skin, almost translucent, called out to be caressed.
“Thanks to you.” He reached over and took her hand in his, grateful she didn’t pull away. “You have a magic touch with kids.”
“Not with all of them.”
Something in her tone abruptly altered the mood. She had turned to look at him, her eyes telegraphing concern. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to have to talk with Beau Jasper.”
Tightness banded his chest. “Beau?”
“Nothing I’ve said has made a dent. Not with him. Not with his ditzy mother.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Short of a miracle, Beau is going to fail senior English.”
He felt as if he’d just been socked in the stomach. “I need him, Pam.”
She withdrew her hand. “I know you do. And I’ve tried to make him understand. Now it’s up to you.”
“Can’t you help him? Figure out something?”
Her voice grew cool. “Take it up with Beau.”
ANDY GAVE HOWIE an elbow, whirled and passed off to Andre, waiting under the basket. When he went up for the shot, James blocked it. Juan picked up the loose ball, bounce-passed it back to Andy, who hit a three-pointer. Andre strutted over, his palm extended. “My man!” he said, giving Andy a high-five.
Howie held the ball, surveying the others. “Wanna go another five minutes?”
“I’m freezin’ my butt off,” Juan said, picking up his windbreaker from the pavement.
“Pretty soon it’ll be too cold to play after school,” Andy said.
“Yeah, man, for dudes like us who aren’t on the big team,” James made two syllables of team, “winter sucks. Tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Andy pulled the Keystone sweatshirt over his head, hopped on his bike and headed for home. Except for not getting to see Angie every day, he was glad the play was over so he could play basketball more. James was right. Winter sucked. For a few moments he allowed himself to wonder if he’d have made the varsity at his old school. He thought so. After watching the Keystone Knights, he was damn sure he could have played here. He and old Chipper would’ve made an awesome pair.
But that’d mean hours a day with his dad. Who didn’t think he was good at much of anything. If he had, he’d have figured a way to get to Florida to watch him play.
Right. He’d had obligations as a teacher. As a coach. What about his obligations to the son he’d walked out on?
GRANT CLOSED his classroom door and, with a nod, indicated which seat Beau should take. The boy sauntered to the chair, only the high color in his cheeks betraying his nervousness. Grant remained standing, arms crossed, as the boy slid into the desk. “So what’s up, Coach? Why’d you wanna see me?”
“I think you know. A little matter called English.”
Beau’s eyes were hooded. “What about it?”
“Ms. Carver tells me you’re in danger of failing.”
Grant thought he heard Beau mutter “that bitch” under his breath. “What’d you just say?”
The boy looked up, defensiveness in every feature. “I said, ‘That’s rich.’ I do my work.”
“Satisfactorily?”
“She doesn’t like me. I know she’s your wife and all, but she has it in for me.”
Grant moved a step closer to Beau’s chair. “That dog won’t hunt, friend. Ms. Carver has showed me some of your papers and tests. If you gave that kind of effort on the basketball court, you’d be lucky to warm the bench. Are you trying to self-destruct?”
“Man, I never get a break. She loves to give me bad grades.”
Grant felt bile sour his palate. There had to be a way to reach this kid. “She doesn’t give you anything. She evaluates what you earn.”
Beau shot him a skeptical look. “I don’t need this crap. O.U., Baylor and Tech think I’m a hot prospect.”
“You have to get there first. Not likely if you fail English.”
“You think I’m stupid, or somethin’? I’ll pull it out.”
Grant ran a hand through his hair. “You better. You have a whole team counting on it.” He paused. “Come to think of it, you have a whole future depending on it. Don’t blow it. Understand?”
The boy stood up, eyeballing Grant. “No sweat, Coach. She isn’t gonna flunk me. You watch.” He ambled toward the door, then turned back. “Anything else?”
Grant stared at the insolent, blindly overconfident youngster. “No. That’s it.”
The only “anything else” he could think of was to turn the kid over his knee and administer the long-overdue spanking he’d probably never had.
But he also knew the winning season had just walked out the door.
EARLY IN DECEMBER Pam sat at the kitchen table staring at the Christmas cards she’d purchased. “Warm holiday greetings to you and yours” read the message. Her family and friends would expect the cards to be signed “Pam and Grant,” yet by this time next year, she’d be explaining about their divorce. She couldn’t avoid a twinge of sadness. For all the awkwardness of their arrangement, this place felt like home. A very important home. The one where she would first bring her baby.
She picked up the pen and commenced writing a cheery note to her college roommate, then signed it, adding Andy’s name to hers and Grant’s. Heck, for now, this was her family.
Grant arrived home about seven-thirty, filling the kitchen with a blast of cold air and the scent of aftershave. His hair was still damp from his locker-room shower. Pam sighed. He looked downright gorgeous. He paused by her chair. “What’re you doing?”
“I thought I’d better get a head start on our Christmas cards.”
He grinned. “You’re something else. I haven’t sent cards in years.”
“I’d like to include your friends.”
He helped himself to a bowl of soup from the pot simmering on the stove. “Tell you what. I’ll put Xs beside the names in my address book.”
He sat at the far end of the table, making sure he didn’t get food near the cards. She continued addressing them, sneaking looks at him from time to time. She liked the way he ate, with gusto but not sloppily. And she liked how his broad shoulders strained his blue oxford-cloth shirt. Best of all she liked the crinkly laugh lines bracketing his eyes.
He scraped the last of the bowl, shoved it aside, then sat back, folding his hands contentedly over his stomach. “You’re cooking is spoiling me.”
“Don’t get too used to it.” She’d meant it as a joke, but the remark came out as an unintentional reminder of their situation.
“I’ll try not to,” he said tonelessly.
“Grant—” As she struggled to lighten the mood, a strange thing happened. A twitch. Like a butterfly kiss. Her eyes widened and her hand went quickly to that spot on her abdomen. Another flutter. To the right. She moved her hand.
“Pam?” Grant was leaning forward, watching her with concern.
Almost as an aside, she felt the tears on her cheeks. At the same time, she smiled, filled with joy. “The baby,” she stammered, “the baby…”
He’d gotten up and moved beside her. “What?”
“Oh, Grant, it moved. I could feel it.”
“Where?”
And before she could stop to think, she placed his big, warm hand on her rounded belly. “There.”
He frowned in concentration, and then there was a definite thump, stronger than before. His eyes were level with hers, warmed by genuine delight. “Awesome,” he breathed.
They remained in that pose until the flutterings subsided. Then, as if on cue, the phone rang. Grant got to his feet and picked up. “Hello, Will. Yes, she’s right here. I’ll put her on. She’s got some exciting news for you.”
Grant handed Pam the receiver. “Hi, Daddy. Guess what? Your grandchild just made himself known. I felt movement.”
“I reckon that’s plumb wonderful.”
“It is. Somehow, it makes everything more real.”
Her father chuckled. “It’ll get a lot ‘realer’ before all’s said and done. How are you feelin’, dumplin’?”
“Great. This second trimester is a breeze compared to the first. How about you? How’s the knee?”
He didn’t answer right away and Pam felt a twinge of apprehension. “That’s partly why I’m calling. I’m having the danged thing replaced.”
“Surgery? Oh, Daddy. Where? When? How can we help?”
“Slow down. Where? Fort Worth. When? I don’t wanna ruin your Christmas plans, but how does December fifteenth sound?”
“I’m so glad you’ll be here where I can keep an eye on you.” She felt Grant’s arm slip around her waist in silent support. She mouthed “knee replacement” to him. “But what about the recovery? You can’t expect to go home.”
“You asked how you could help. The doctor said I could go into a rehabilitation hospital or—”
“You’ll come here, of course.” Belatedly she searched Grant’s face. He nodded. “We won’t hear of anything else.”
“I hate to impose—”
“You won’t. Besides, maybe you can keep Andy company.”
“A fella could do a whole lot worse.”
After she hung up, she turned in Grant’s embrace. “It is all right, isn’t it? I mean, I forgot to ask.”
“You didn’t have to ask, Pam. This is your home. And Will is part of our family.”
“Thank you for that.” Our family. It had such a solid, comforting ring. If only it were true. “There will be some adjustments, though.”
“I know.” Then he grinned in a way that even the most innocent, virtuous maiden couldn’t fail to interpret as flirting. “We’ll have to give your dad the master bedroom. I doubt if climbing steps will be on his immediate therapy plan.”
“But—” The implication set in. They certainly weren’t moving Andy out. And there was only one spare bedroom upstairs. One small bedroom. With one very cozy double bed.
“Trust me. We’ll work it out.” Then he winked and kissed her on the cheek. He steered her back to the table and sat her down. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured huskily just before he left the room.