It’s my dream, G. Can’t you understand? If I lived like every other stiff in a suit out there, I’d wither up and die, he’d told her over and over again.
But things were different when there were little mouths to feed and feet to cover and back rent to pay. Dreams had to be shuffled into the luxury folder, at least until basic necessities were met. She’d had dreams too, and, had nearly given up on every single one of them while she became the sole breadwinner, the primary caregiver.
Carrying her measly bag of eggs and brownie mix, she’d come home to chaos. A couple of Paul’s friends had stopped by. The sink was filled with empty beer cans and Stale cigarette smoke and raucous laughter wafted into the house through the open patio door. She could hear them out there, someone fiddling with an acoustic guitar while another one told a loud story about a prostitute who played a mean keyboard in Des Moines.
There was an ashtray with a joint in it on the third-hand coffee table.
And Evan was in his pajamas on the couch trying to comfort a crying Aurora.
Gia had been mad then, too. But then it had been more resignation than rage. Because she’d expected it, she realized. Paul was up front about who he was and what he wanted out of life. She’d been the one to think she could deal with it or worse, change it.
But watching her 10-year-old play parent to her daughter while their father chased his dreams in the backyard, she realized she couldn’t do either anymore.
She’d shut the patio door, tucked the kids into bed, and made three dozen brownies. And when Paul came inside to try to charm a plate of brownies out of her, she’d quietly told him she was filing for divorce in the morning.
There had been no fight, no discussion. No requests for custody or even visitation. And that’s what broke her heart for her kids. He should have wanted them. He should have wanted her. But he didn’t. Not then.
And not now, either. Beckett was wrong.
She parked on the street and stared at the cozy townhouse. She could see the TV flickering in the front room through the window.
On autopilot, she got out of her car and climbed the steps to the front door. She rang the bell and when the door opened, she fell into the arms of the only man who had never let her down.
“Hi, Daddy,” she sniffled in his warm, safe embrace.
Franklin had seen enough female tears in his time to know that now wasn’t the time for words. It was time for the silent comfort that only a father could give. She let him guide her into the living room and was beyond mortified when she realized Phoebe was curled up on the couch, a Cary Grant movie paused on the TV.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I wasn’t thinking.” Gia wished the cream colored carpet would swallow her up and put her out of her misery.
Phoebe gave her a warm smile as she rose from the couch. She was wearing cotton pajama pants and a tunic length sweater. A bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table.
“Don’t be silly.” Phoebe patted her hand. “I’m going to go make us some tea.” She laid a gentle hand on Franklin’s shoulder as she made her way back to the kitchen.
The gesture wasn’t lost on her, even in her current state of rage-induced hysteria.
“You two really love each other, don’t you, Daddy?”
Franklin gestured toward the couch and Gia flopped down, hugging a corduroy pillow to her chest. He sat down next to her, a smile breaking through the worry on his face when she nudged him with her foot. “Don’t you?” she said again.
He nodded. “I never expected to find this at my age,” he sighed.
“At your age?” Gia rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like you’re a million years old.”
Broad-shouldered with his kind, crinkle-eyed smile, he’d always been handsome. In high school, all the friends who’d crossed their threshold did so carrying a torch for Franklin Merrill. Even when his hair had gone from dark to silver, it only made him more distinguished.
“I’m a lucky man,” he sighed with contentment.
“Phoebe’s a pretty lucky lady,” Gia said, nudging him again with her toes. “I hope I’m that lucky some day.”
“Your luck seems to have been improving,” Franklin said, patting her knee. “Beckett is about as far from Paul as you can get. He clearly cares about you and the kids.”
“And yet he just broke up with me.”
Her father frowned. “Has he suffered a recent head injury?”
Gia laughed in spite of herself. She shook her head. “No, but he may end up with one if I have anything to say about it.”
“Uh-oh,” Phoebe said, carrying a tray laden with steaming mugs, slices of lemon, and a box of tissues. “Beckett?”
“I don’t want to speak ill of the soon-to-be-dead in front of his mother.”
“Sweetie, you can’t say anything that I haven’t already thought about all of my boys. I love them to pieces but every single one of them can be an idiot.”
“Do they ever snap out of it?” Gia helped herself to a tissue and blew her nose.
“Eventually.” Phoebe sank down in the armchair across from them. “How big of an idiot was he?”