The thought disturbed him, and he shook it loose to set it free, never to think of it again. A decent father didn’t muse over such things. But even in the flurry of the announcements and calling the other girls into the room to fill them in on the latest … even in the excitement of being told by Helen Leigh—their youngest—that he was an old man now … reality struck him. In a few months, he’d become both a father again and a grandfather. Not that anyone, other than himself, would know it. Not in this room, at least. But he would know it. And he would have to live with it.
Yet, for all the punishment of living with the knowledge that he had a son, it wasn’t too long after that Patricia laid his first grandson in his arms, kissed his cheek, and called him, “Papa.” Nothing in this life could have prepared him for the rush of emotion that engulfed him. He had thought before that he’d known love. He loved Mary Helen. She was, after all, his wife. The mother of his children. And, since meeting Nola Edwards, she’d opened herself up to him in ways he could have never begun to expect. Something he still didn’t understand but refused to question. He merely accepted and delighted in it.
He also loved his daughters. They could be self-centered—as daughters often were, especially in the teen years—but they were the heart and soul of him.
So, yes, he knew love. But, this …
In that first encounter he held little Monty in such a way that heart touched heart until his own skipped in its rhythm. Perhaps Monty’s had, too. Patterson believed they bonded at this exact second. As far as Patterson was concerned, there was no one in the world like this little person. Somewhere out there he had a son, yes. But this was his grandson who, wonder of wonders, looked like Patterson had spit him out of his own mouth, a fact proven even more so as the child grew. Life simply couldn’t get any better.
“Is the traffic awful?” Mary Helen now asked as she approached him for a kiss.
“The usual,” he answered, inhaling her floral aura. “But it’s a Friday so I didn’t mind it as much.”After six months of gracing and blessing their world, Patterson and Mary Helen had gifted little Monty’s parents with every Friday night and Saturday all to themselves. Which, of course, wasn’t really a gift they gave, but one they stole.
Mary Helen reached toward the kitchen counter where a red-and-white flyer announced the opening of a new pizzeria. “Well, I hope it’s not too bad because Patricia brought this.” She eyed their grandson who had laid his cheek against Patterson’s shoulder, relaxing his body against the strength of his grandfather in the process. “But not before telling you-know-who that we’d take him.”
Patterson squeezed the boy. “Do you want pizza tonight, Monty?”
“Pizza, pizza, pizza,” came his answer, which made both Patterson and Mary Helen laugh.
Patterson kissed the boy’s head. “Let Papa get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable and we’ll go, okay?”
“’kay …”
He handed the child back to Mary Helen. “Won’t take me five minutes,” he said.
“Take your time,” she called after him. “We have plenty.”
He should have seen her coming. Or at least noticed her when Mary Helen and Monty and he walked into the pizzeria. He should have caught a whiff of her perfume—the scent of her had been ingrained in his memory, after all. He should have heard her laughter, low and throaty. Or seen her hair, waves of it, spilling over her shoulders, framing a face that had grown more beautiful with new motherhood. And marriage.
But he hadn’t. He had slid into a booth with his family—his wife, his grandson—and enjoyed a pie and a light beer and the joy of watching young Monty devour first one slice and then another, intermittently swigging down Coke, which, when sucked through a straw, made his nose crinkle and his eyes illuminate.
And he should have guessed when the music overhead changed from Steve Perry’s “Foolish Heart” to Lindsey Buckingham’s—Lindsey Buckingham of all the artists—“Trouble,” that the house of cards he’d so carefully erected since the day he met Little Stevie Nicks was about to topple.
It only took a moment. The recognition by Cindie’s husband—“Dr. Thacker! Hello!”—to the exchange of glances—Kyle Lewis to Patterson’s wife, the boy, Little Monty—for understanding to take hold. A full moment for Mary Helen to do the same. To see the resemblance in the children. To see Cindie’s face change from blush to the whitest shade of pale.
The music stopped. Or perhaps it kept going. “Ohmygosh …” Mary Helen sighed. “Ohmygosh,” she repeated, now looking at him. “Patterson, what have you done?”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Allison
Our daughter had become an old soul. Truth be told, she’d always been. There had been a knowing that grew naturally within her. I couldn’t think of a time when she hadn’t seemed focused. Hadn’t known exactly what she wanted and what steps were necessary to achieve those things.
She had also excelled at everything she put her hands to—she was the star of her jazz dance company, played classical piano as though she were performing at Carnegie Hall, even when she was simply practicing in our living room. Michelle excelled in school—never made lower than an A—and after-school activities. She ran track for the school team, often bringing “fear” to the students from rival schools. If Michelle Houser was running … well. They may as well sit down at the starting line. She and Sylvie—a leggy blonde with a quirky sense of style who cheered for OHS—were both considered leaders in their youth group at church. Neither of them had ever given us or Sylvie’s parents a moment’s trouble. “Almost too perfect,” Nikki once commented
