“What? No. God, no. Greg is her father.”
“This is not about morality,” he says. “In this case, we could wish you had been promiscuous. However, he will have to prove paternity. Anything else?”
“Violence,” Dad says. “Tell him, Maisey.”
Geoff’s face lights up. “He hits you? Domestic violence can play in the mother’s favor, at least if you have protected the child.”
“He only hit me once. Before Elle was even born.”
“Still,” he says, making notes. “Now, what about the child?”
“He’s slapped her. He’ll say it’s discipline.”
The old man’s eyes soften. “I was wondering what she would want to do and whether she will testify. But if he’s been violent with her, then that makes our job easier.”
All my beliefs about Greg go swirling through my head. A child needs a father. He’s been a good father to her. Discipline is a good thing. When she was little, he spanked her. Now he slaps her face. It’s not that big a deal, if she gets lots of love the rest of the time.
Is it?
I remember that moment. It wasn’t the blow that did the damage. It was the way he dismissed her, demeaned her, discounted her. Maybe an occasional dose of that on weekends won’t do too much harm, but I cringe at the thought of her subjected to him full time.
Still.
“He’s her father and she loves him. I don’t want her put in the middle. It’s not fair to pit a child against her parents like that.”
Geoff looks up at me over his reading glasses and nods. “That may not help your case, but I approve of the parenting decision, young lady. Noted. I would like to have a chat with her in private though, if that’s all right. Just to see what she would like to do.”
“All right.”
“My office, then.” He scrolls through the calendar on his phone. “I have an opening at three p.m. on Monday. Will that do?”
“That will do fine.”
“Well, then. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He gets up from his chair and shakes hands with my father. “You take care, Walter.”
“Thanks for coming over, Geoff. Especially on short notice.”
“Oh, I’ll send you a bill.”
“How about I buy you a drink?”
“Make it three.”
They walk out of the room together, two old friends, Geoff’s hand on Dad’s shoulder. I sit in the chair where my mother used to sit, sometimes, while Dad worked. She was always busy. Writing letters, knitting blankets for unwanted babies, giving Dad advice about a business he knew and understood perfectly well.
My hands are empty and still. I close my eyes and try to put myself inside my mother’s body, to feel that force, that drive, that allowed her to re-create an entirely new life out of the ashes of something that would have destroyed me. I need her now, after all the years of tuning her out and avoiding her.
What would she do about Greg?
Whatever it takes. And that’s what I, too, am prepared to do.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tony’s nightmares are out of control. Every night now, not just once a month or once a week, he wakes up in a sweat-drenched bed, breathing hard, pulse pounding. Half the time he doesn’t even remember what he dreamed, but the sound of gunshots is in his head, in his ears, vibrating through his body. Sometimes he can smell gunpowder.
The last few nights, it has been so real, he’s had to get out of bed and walk through the house, turning on lights, checking doors and windows.
Playing Whisper Me This with Maisey triggered a new intensity in his flashbacks. The visit to the evil old man who fathered her completely unhinged him.
On that day, in that dingy, smoke-filled room, listening to Walter tell the story of exactly what Boots had done, Tony had wanted to kill. He’d stared out the window, breathing, working his system of getting calm but the whole time all he wanted was a gun in his hand. The smooth glide of the trigger. The recoil.
The old bastard’s blood.
For Leah. For Marley. But mostly for Maisey.
He hasn’t seen her since that day, but his avoidance tactic is getting increasingly difficult to maintain, thanks to Mia. And his mother. The two of them have adopted the entire Addington family. Elle runs in a pack with Tony’s nieces and nephews and is in and out of his house with them on a regular basis. Tony has worked extra shifts to avoid dinners at his mother’s house when he knows Maisey will be present.
If he wasn’t a coward, he could handle this situation better. But he’s afraid that when he takes one look at Maisey’s face, he’ll kiss her again. He can’t do this. Won’t do this.
She’s called him and left voicemail, once to say thank you, once to ask him if everything is okay. He hasn’t called her back. She doesn’t need a man like him in her life. She doesn’t even need a bodyguard anymore. Maybe Boots was dangerous once, but he’s toothless now.
On this particular day, the problem has intensified to the point of being intolerable. Mia’s chatter has been full of Greg and his legal quest for custody of Elle, so Tony’s well up on the situation. His protective instincts are running high, and there’s no outlet for them. He’s exhausted and useless and literally pacing the living room, one side to the other, when the door opens and his family traipses in.
Mia. His mother. All his sisters. None of the husbands or kids, and they all have that expression on their faces that means he’s in for some kind of lecture. They are also far too quiet. No laughter. No chatter.
“God have mercy,” he says, watching them arrange themselves on chairs around the room. “What is this?”
Mia stands in the doorway and folds her arms over her chest like a bouncer on duty. “This,” she says, “is an intervention.”
“Sit down, Tony,” his mother says. “We need to talk to you.”
“I think I’ll stand.” He leans his back against a wall, surveying the forces arrayed against him. He loves them all, but knows full well that when they unite in a common mission, they are formidable. His mother. His oldest sister, Theresa, fourteen years older and in many ways more mother than sister. He’s a foot taller than she is now, and has about a hundred pounds of muscle on her, but inside he still quakes when she looks at him like she is looking now.
Vanessa and Jess, only one year apart and always attached at the hip. As little kids, they shared everything and even had a special language for a while that the rest of the family couldn’t interpret. They married brothers and live on the same street, sharing kids and household chores. Between them, they manage school fund-raisers, community blood drives, two husbands, and seven kids. There is no project they won’t tackle, and right now that project would appear to be Tony.
Barb, quiet and thoughtful. Generally she minds her own business, and he knows it’s a busy time of year for her. She’ll be working horses, keeping an eye on the cattle, helping to get the fields planted on the ranch. The fact that she is now sitting in his house, with her hair braided to stay out of her way and mud on her boots, is possibly the most ominous sign of all.
“I’m frightened,” Tony says, lightly. “You are all far too serious for my own good.”
And he is frightened, although he hates himself for this fear. The blood is loud in his ears. His breath keeps catching in his throat. His knees are even a little wobbly, and he wishes he’d opted to sit down.
“It’s time we had a little talk about your father,” his mother says. “Well past time, really.”
Tony’s throat constricts. “And if I politely decline?”
“Not an option.” Theresa leans forward in her chair and sets both of her capable hands on her knees, bracing herself. “This isn’t easy for any of us, Tonio. But there are things that need to be said.”
“Why now?” he asks. “We’ve managed not to talk about it for, what, twenty-seven years? Seems like there should be a statute of limitations on certain topics of conversation.”