Father in the Making. Marie Ferrarella
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He’d told himself he was better off without her, even though he still loved her. He couldn’t continue to endure the daily fights, the vile recriminations. Or the scenes when they were out in public.
But despite all of that, when he discovered from his father-in-law that Diane was carrying his baby, Blaine was willing to give his marriage one last try. He’d even entertained the idea of finding another career if that was what it took to reassure her.
He could have saved his breath. Diane had taken great delight in telling him what he could do with his “last try.”
He’d given her time, hoping she would change her mind. He had hoped all the way up to the moment the final divorce papers had arrived. It had been Jack who had called him from the hospital telling him he was the father of an eight-pound baby boy.
Blaine had been more than generous in the divorce settlement, making certain that his son would want for nothing. But his easygoing manner had changed when it came to visitation rights. Then he had hung on like a junkyard dog with the only bone in town, threatening to take Diane to court if necessary. She hadn’t wanted him to have any rights at all.
Once again, it had been Jack who had won her over and gotten Diane to acquiesce. Jack had argued that a boy needed to see his father, to have his father in his life, however cursorily.
Blaine had always gotten along with Jack. He’d always managed to get along with almost everyone. Except, it seemed, Diane. Diane, who saw nubile, scantily clad women in every closet, under every bed.
Diane, who had ruined what could have been a beautiful marriage. At least, beautiful was the way Blaine had once envisioned his marriage to be.
But now he knew better. He wasn’t destined for marriage.
Maybe the breakup had been half his fault, he thought now with a posthumous wave of guilt. Maybe he had been too friendly with his models, too outgoing, too enthusiastic about his work. For whatever reason, Diane had misconstrued, misunderstood and misread until the tiny fissures in their marriage had become major faults that brought about an earthquake.
There was no use going over old ground again. There would be no mending of any fences with Diane now. A cross-country trucker who had fallen asleep at the wheel had seen to that.
Blaine hadn’t been here for the news. Or the funeral. He’d come home three days ago from a shoot abroad and pressed the Play button on his answering machine, then gone numb at the knees as he listened. He had melted into a chair, staring in disbelief at the machine. He’d sat there a long time, staring.
Diane had been killed instantly.
All Blaine could think of, over and over again, was thank God Mickey hadn’t been with her. It was only later, after his brain had thawed out and after he’d called Jack to offer his condolences, that he’d wondered: What was he going to do now?
He had known once, or, in his naiveté, had thought he’d known. Ten years ago, Blaine had been all set to be a father, even though he had felt a little shaky at the prospect.
But since then he’d had a great deal of time to become more set in his ways, more entrenched in a bachelor life that was, by definition, solitary. He came and went as he pleased and thought nothing of picking up and going off on a shoot for weeks at a time. There wasn’t a plant in his apartment that needed watering, or a lonesome puppy to hand over to a helpful neighbor. There were no strings, no attachments in his life, save Mickey. And Diane had been responsible for him. Like the wind, Blaine could rustle in and out, leaving behind only a ripple.
But that was all changed now. The wind didn’t have a ten-year-old son to take care of.
Blaine looked over his steaming cup of coffee at Mickey. They hadn’t really talked very much since he had returned to Bedford. He’d held him and hugged him, but they hadn’t really talked. Not even today. There was something forebodingly solemn about Mickey that had Blaine at a loss as to what to say.
Blaine had been here all morning, directing the moving men who were bringing in his possessions and removing some of the pieces that Diane had bought after the divorce. Diane had left everything to Mickey, including the house. Though he would have preferred to remain on his own terrain, Blaine was moving into his son’s life rather than vice versa. He and Jack had discussed it and agreed that this way would be less unsettling than having Mickey move into his apartment, transferring schools and giving up friends at a time when he needed to be surrounded with the familiar.
What was going on in that little head? Blaine wondered. Mickey wasn’t what could be termed an outgoing boy by nature, but Diane’s death had made him so withdrawn, Blaine was concerned.
He studied the small, round face closely. “You okay?”
Mickey looked up at his father with rounded dark eyes that reminded Blaine of two shiny black marbles. His feet swung back and forth beneath the table like unsyncopated windshield wiper blades. One thin shoulder rose and fell as he continued to slowly chew his sandwich, as if he were thinking each bite through to its conclusion before taking the next.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
This wasn’t easy for Blaine. Laughter had always been the hallmark of the times he and Mickey spent together. Deep-seated, darker emotions were part of a place Blaine had never ventured into with his son.
“Because if you’re not okay—” Blaine stumbled over his tongue, searching for the right words like a jeweler searching for the perfect stone. Blaine tried again, “If you want to talk about it, we can.”
There was just the tiniest hint of a cleft in the chin that Mickey raised, his eyes innocently puzzled. “It?” Mickey echoed quietly.
Blaine licked his lips, fervently wishing he was better at this. His talent was in framing photographs, not paragraphs.
He and Diane had gone from being lovers to being antagonists, but he had made certain that none of the animosity spilled over on Mickey. He’d never made derogatory statements about Diane when Mickey was with him. There had been no veiled vilifications or recriminations, no soft underhanded attempt to make Mickey choose sides. Mickey was too precious to taint with what had gone down between Diane and him. As far as Mickey knew, Blaine was as upset about his mother’s death as he was.
“Your mom’s—” Blaine searched for a euphemism, something he could use in place of that horrid five-letter word. But there was only one way to approach the issue. Honesty. “Death.”
Mickey’s black lashes swept his cheek as he looked down at his feet. He laid the remainder of his sandwich down on the plate. A small crescent was left.
“No,” Mickey said quietly. “I’m okay.”
The hell he was, Blaine thought. But all he could do was be here for him.
And love him, he thought.
Blaine reached across the table and squeezed his son’s hand. Mickey looked up, a faint, sad smile on his lips. There was love in the boy’s eyes, love granted without reservation, without qualifications.
God, he hoped he was up to this. He’d never had a responsibility before that even came close to equaling this.
“Hey, buddy,” the shorter of the two moving men called to Blaine from the hall. His biceps bulged as they strained to keep up his end of the bureau. As he stopped, he tilted it so that it was leaning into him. The burly man nodded at the piece of furniture, which appeared to be cradled against him like a sleeping child on his mother’s bosom. “You want this in the same place as the other piece?”
Blaine nodded vaguely. “Yes, put it in the master bedroom.” His mind wasn’t on his furniture. It was on his son.
They’d made this arrangement, he and Jack, because they both thought it best for Mickey. Jack, a retired police officer, was going to remain with them for at least a month to help out. But Jack had been more than willing to take the boy to his house if a transition period was needed. Mickey, when consulted, had opted to remain here. Little