Читать книгу And Baby Makes Six - Linda Markowiak - Страница 9

THAT NIGHT Mitch brought home fried chicken and coleslaw, and discovered Jenny had set the table already. “Jason helped me, showed me where everything was,” she explained. “Crystal helped, too.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Wouldn’t mind? He sure didn’t mind. When was the last time he’d come home to find the table set? Really set, with the napkins folded, with a fork on the left, and a knife and spoon on the right, and glasses that all matched? Not very many times since Anne had died. They went to restaurants for things like that.

Jason said, “It wasn’t that hard. I remembered where everything went.” When they sat down to eat, Mitch noticed that the boys had better table manners than usual.

It made him feel a bit warmer toward the cool blonde who sat across from him, eating her fried chicken.

When dinner was over and the twins were loading the dishwasher, Jenny waylaid him on his way to the study, where he was taking the paperwork he’d brought home.

“It occurs to me,” she said quietly, “that we didn’t resolve one point this morning.”

Mentally, he groaned, but he made sure to smile at her. “What point was that?” Ma’am.

“Are you going to punish the boys for playing so rough with Crystal?”

He kept up the smile, though it was hard. He pressed his back to the hallway wall. The hallway seemed narrower than usual. Everything seemed a little odd, a little different with a woman in the house.

“I talked to them. I told them not to play so rough with Crystal.”

“And that’s all you did?”

He nodded.

“You aren’t going to discipline them?”

Discipline wasn’t his strong suit, and he certainly didn’t see the need for it in this case. “I don’t think so.”

She pursed her lips as prissy as could be. “It was fortunate that Crystal wasn’t badly hurt, but it could be a whole lot worse next time.”

“I talked to them, okay?”

“But some sort of consequences—”

He lost patience. “When did you get to be an expert on parenting?” Wrong approach, because her lips got tighter than ever.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with Crystal—”

“But you don’t have kids.”

There was a kind of charged silence. He felt bad, then, and added, “I know that not having kids doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion, but believe me, I’ve learned in the past four years that parenting day in and day out gives you a whole different perspective.”

She spoke finally. “You’re right, of course. They’re your children, and I’m only visiting. You know best.”

He felt an urge to explain. To tell her that his kids had been through too much for him to be a heavy-handed parent. He could have said that it was easier, too, to ruffle their hair, to throw an arm over their shoulders, to just love them the way she did Crystal. But he didn’t. If she was going to judge him, he didn’t owe her anything.

Instead, he said, “Well, okay, if we’ve got all that straight, I’m going to the rink. I promised Luke’s coach that I’d help with the drills. Tommy’s in charge of the kids tonight.”

“I’ll be here.” But she said it a little timidly. As if being left with the boys was more than she’d bargained for. He winced as he heard a loud crash from the kitchen.

He made good his escape then, to the hockey rink, where it was definitely a man’s world.

THE ZAMBONI CAME OUT and started circling the rink as slowly as a street cleaner, smoothing the ice after a full practice session of the Northern Lights. Though it was nearly midnight, a youth league of smaller boys would be playing soon.

Mitch sat on the bench and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was cold out here so close to the rink.

Once upon a time, it hadn’t been cold around a hockey rink. Once, he’d been so warmed by each ninety-second session of play that his hair had been soaking wet, and he’d trickled sweat under his arms and on the inside of his palms in their gloves.

Once, sitting with the other first liners on a bench like this had been all he’d ever wanted out of life.

“Hey, guy, how’s it going?” The Northern Lights coach, Buddy Campbell, put a hand on Mitch’s shoulder and squeezed lightly before flopping into the seat beside him. A little puff of air escaped him as he sat.

“It’s going,” Mitch said briefly. The Zamboni was finishing now, lumbering almost silently off the ice. Some of the younger boys—kids Jason’s age, began to take the ice for their session.

“Can you sign this?” Mitch looked up. Most of the kids were used to seeing him here, but this one was new. A boy of about twelve was holding out his sleeve and a marker.

“Sure thing,” Mitch said, signing his name on the kid’s sleeve—the kid turned bright red and breathed Wow—and giving him a thwack on the shoulder.

The boy blushed again. “Thanks.” He took off, over the boards instead of through the doorway, hitting the ice with a burst of speed that ended in an ice-churning dead stop.

“They never ask me for my autograph,” Buddy grumbled good-naturedly. “I’m too damn old. Finished my career before most of these kids were born.”

“Sooner or later we’ll all be too old for these young guys to remember.” Regret pierced him. Five years ago he’d been well on his way to becoming a hockey legend. Then he would’ve been remembered.

That was the same time they’d discovered Anne’s cancer, and there’d been no question about playing hockey. His family had needed him home. There had been a hardship clause in his contract. The team owners had argued, but legally he’d been able to leave.

After Anne’s death, he’d longed to bury himself in the sport, pounding out his grief on the ice, numbing his sharp sadness with a fierce concentration on hockey, hockey, hockey. But there had been the boys to consider. He’d known the day she died that he wasn’t returning.

If only he didn’t miss the game so damn much! If only he hadn’t lost them both.

“Dad?”

It was Luke, with his friend, David Chandler. Luke was the star shooter for the Lights; David was a talented defenseman. They’d grown up together playing on the ice on Mitch’s pond. “Ready to go?” Mitch asked.