Misty and the Single Dad

For there was something about Nicholas…

See, that was the problem. There was something about Nicholas Holt that made Frank think maybe he ought to stick around, be seen, just in case Nicholas turned out to be someone important.

He had the air of someone important.

A painter?

It didn’t seem…right, Misty thought. He had an air of quiet authority, of strength. And he also had money. She knew now what the little dog’s operation would cost and he hadn’t hesitated. This was no struggling single dad.

She cleared up the classroom and headed out to find a deserted playground. What did she expect? That he’d stick around and wait for her?

He’d made one generous gesture and he’d moved on. He had a house to move into. A future to organise.

Boats to paint?

She headed for the car and then to where she always went after school, every day without fail. Banksia Bay’s nursing home.

Gran was in the same bed, in practically the same position she’d been in for years. One stroke had robbed her of movement. The last stroke had robbed her of almost everything else. Misty greeted her with a kiss and settled back and told her about her day.

Was it her imagination or could she sense approval? Gran would have rescued the little dog. She’d probably even have accepted money from a stranger to do it.

‘It’s not like I’m accepting welfare,’ she told Gran. ‘I mean, he’s saving the dog-not paying me or anything. It’s me who has to pay for the dog’s ongoing care.’

Silence.

‘So what shall we call him?’

More silence. Nothing new there. There’d been nothing but silence from Gran for years.

‘What about Nicholas?’ she asked. ‘After the guy who saved him.’

But it didn’t seem right. Nicholas seemed suddenly…singular. Taken.

‘How about Ketchup, then?’ she asked. ‘On account of his broken leg. He’ll spend the next few months ketching up.’

That was better. They both approved of that. She just knew Gran was smiling inside.

‘Then I’d best go see how Ketchup’s getting on,’ she told her grandmother. ‘He’s with Dr Cray. I’m sorry it’s a short visit tonight, but I’m a bit worried…’

She gave her grandmother’s hand a squeeze. No response. There never was.

But dogs had been her grandmother’s life. She’d like Ketchup, she thought, imagining herself bringing a recuperating Ketchup in to see her. Who knew what Gran could feel or sense or see, but maybe a dog on her bed would be good.

It had to be good for someone, Misty thought. Another dog…

Another love?

Who needed freedom, after all?

Nick and Bailey had the house sorted in remarkably short time, probably because they owned little more than the contents of their car. The house was only just suitable, Nick thought as they worked. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to rent via the Internet. The photographs he’d seen appeared to have been doctored. The doors and windows didn’t quite seal. The advertised view to the sea was a view towards the sea- there’d been a failure to mention a fishermen’s co-op in between. There were no curtains, bare light bulbs, sparse floor coverings.

But at least it was a base to start with. They could make it better, and if the town worked out they’d buy something of their own. ‘It’s like camping,’ he told Bailey. ‘We’ll pretend we’re explorers, living rough. All we need is a campfire in the backyard.’

Bailey gave him a polite smile. Right. But the school experience had made them both more optimistic about the future. They set up two camp beds in the front room, organised the rudiments of a kitchen so they could make breakfast, then meandered down to the harbour to buy fish and chips for tea.

They walked for a little afterwards, past the boats, through the main street, then somehow they ended up walking past the vet’s.

Misty had just pulled up. She was about to go in.

He should stay clear, he thought. Paying for the dog was one thing, but he had no intention of getting personally involved.

But Bailey had already seen her. ‘Miss Lawrence,’ he called, and Misty waved. She smiled.

She smiled at Bailey, Nick told himself sharply, because a man had to do something to defend himself in the face of a smile like that.

He didn’t have any intention of smiling back. Distance, he told himself harshly. He’d made that resolution. Stay clear of any complication at all. The only thing-the only one-who mattered was his son.

He’d messed things up so badly already. How many chances did a man have to make things right?

But Misty was still smiling. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you here to see how Ketchup is?’

‘Ketchup?’ Bailey was beaming, and Nick thought back to the scared little boy of this morning and thought, What a difference a day makes. ‘Is that what his name is?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a hopalong. He’ll spend his life ketching up.’

Bailey frowned, his serious little brow furrowing as he considered this from all angles. Then his face changed, lit from within as he got it. ‘Ketchup,’ he said and he giggled.

Nick had no intention of smiling, but somehow… This felt good, he thought. More. It felt great that Bailey giggled. Maybe he could afford to unbend a little.

‘Great name,’ he told her.

‘He’ll be a great dog,’ Misty said.

‘How is he?’

‘He was still under anaesthesia last time I rang. Did you know his leg was broken in three places?’

‘That’s bad,’ Bailey said, his giggle disappearing. ‘When I got shot my arm was only broken in one place.’

Misty stilled. ‘You were shot?’

‘I’m better now,’ Bailey said and tugged up his sleeve, revealing a long angry scar running from his wrist to his shoulder. ‘I had plaster and bandages on for ages and it hurt a lot. Dad and I stayed at the hospital for ages and ages while the doctors made my fingers wiggle again but now I’m better. So we came here. Can we see Ketchup?’

‘Of course,’ she said, but her voice had changed. He could well imagine why. She’d have visions of drug deals, underworld stuff, gangsters… For a small boy to calmly say he’d been shot…

So maybe that was okay, he thought. Maybe it’d make her step back and it suddenly seemed important that she did step back.

Why did he think this woman might want to get close?

What was he thinking? He wanted her to think he was a gangster? What sort of future was he building for his son? Maybe he needed to loosen up.

‘Now?’ Bailey was asking.

Misty glanced at Nick. Okay, he didn’t want to be a gangster, and he had to allow Bailey to form a relationship with his teacher. He nodded. Reluctantly.

And, even if she was thinking he might be carrying a sawn-off shotgun under his jacket, despite his curt, not particularly friendly nod, Misty smiled down at his son and her face showed nothing but pleasure.

‘Wow, wait until we tell Ketchup you’ve had a broken arm,’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to compare wounds.’ She took Bailey’s hand and tugged open the screen door. ‘Let’s see how he’s doing.’

And she didn’t even care if he was a gangster, Nick thought, feeling ashamed. All she cared about was his son.