Soaring (7 page)

I thought, when the kids came, I could indulge, kids being kids and liking cookies and glossy, frosting-topped cupcakes with sprinkles.

But I’d been wrong. Conrad had acted like any sugar they consumed was akin to feeding our children poison.

In fact, he told me it
was
poison, “And should be avoided at all costs, pookie.”

Thus I’d been reduced to sneaking them cupcakes, cookies, pies and cakes when their dad was away at conferences.

Other than that, I’d buried that part of me.

And I had to admit, when I’d started baking hours ago, no matter how tired I was, I’d lost myself in it.

It was just that now the fatigue had settled deep, I wasn’t enjoying it as much.

Regardless, Mickey was right. The house smelled like a bakery. Sugary and sweet.

And heavenly.

Thus I decided right then I was going to bake again. For me. For the kids.

In fact, the next time they came maybe I’d get them to stay home and in my presence for more than five minutes, bribing them with cupcakes.

“Earth calling Amelia. You there, babe?”

I shook my head sharply and focused on Mickey, who was calling me, laughter in his deep voice, that and his saying my name with that laughter doing things to me I refused to feel.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“I bet it has,” he murmured, his eye on me dancing (something I refused to see). He hefted the box in his arms an inch. “Junior called, said the big day was tomorrow. You didn’t tell me.”

I didn’t and not because I was avoiding him (which I also was) but because I completely forgot.

“I didn’t, Mickey,” I admitted. “I’m so sorry.”

He kept grinning. “No apologies, babe. Not lost on me your house has been a hub of activity the past week. But the kids and I had a troll through our place and thought we’d pop these by to do our bit.”

“And to get a cupcake.”

This came from one of the beings with him and I finally gave my attention to the boy and girl that were standing on either side of Mickey. Taking them in, I saw that Mickey and his ex-wife had flip-flopped what Conrad and I had created.

This included his daughter clearly being the oldest and looking a lot like her father, except female, shorter and very curvy to the point of being a little plump, still carrying what was probably some pre-adolescent baby fat.

His boy had dark blond hair, but luckily got his father’s blue eyes. He also had a body that had yet to declare its full intentions seeing as, at a guess, Mickey’s daughter was around thirteen or fourteen and his son was maybe ten or eleven.

“My girl, Aisling,” he said, jerking his head to the girl. “Said starting with the Ash, but spelled Irish with an a, i and s.” This came out practiced and I knew he’d given his girl a beautiful name but one many messed up. “Cillian, also spelled Irish,” he stated, jerking his head the other way, to the boy. “Spelled with a c not a k.”

“Got it,” I mumbled. “Ash with an a, i, s and kill. I’ll be certain to get that right on your Christmas card.” This made Mickey smile, Cillian grin and Aisling’s blue eyes twinkle like her dad’s. “How about the three of you come in, drop that and get a cupcake?” I invited.

“
Awesome,
” Cillian decreed and raced in, straight to the kitchen, something that caused a pang around my heart, most likely because I wished just one of my own children had done that.

“Thanks, uh…Miz…” Aisling said, allowing that to hang.

“Miz nothing,” I replied on a smile to her, moving out of the way. “I’m Amelia.”

She looked to her father as he shifted into the house, then nodded to me and followed him.

I closed the door behind them and repeated my invitation. “Help yourself to a cupcake. Or a bag of cookies if you prefer.”

Aisling wandered toward the kitchen.

“Just sayin’,” Mickey started and I looked to him to see he’d put the box on the floor at the lip of the top step to the sunken living room. “My kids aren’t allowed to call adults by their given names.”

“Oh,” I murmured, feeling rattled, thinking I’d put my foot in it.

“Not a big deal,” he said quietly and quickly, then came another of his easy grins. “She wouldn’t have called you Amelia anyway. She woulda probably avoided calling you anything until the go-ahead was given to call you
Aunt
Amelia, which is how they address their elders that they’re tight with.”

It would seem that Mickey was kind of strict with his kids.

I didn’t know how to take this outside of reminding myself it wasn’t mine to take in any way. So I just nodded.

“And also just sayin’,” he went on, talking lower, “you’ve worked your ass off, that’s plain to see.” He tossed a hand toward the room. “So we’ll unload this and tag it. Not cool for us to dump last minute shit on you.”

It felt good he noticed.

I still didn’t think it was healthy for him to hang around (this being healthy
for me
), so I assured him, “That’s very nice but I’ll be okay. Your box is small, it won’t take too long.”

He didn’t look assured and he didn’t look this for a while and this was because he did it studying me.

Then he asked, “You doin’ okay?”

I thought that was an odd question so I answered, “Sure.”

He kept studying me as he continued, “You eatin’?”

It was then I realized I hadn’t had anything except licking the spatula of cupcake batter since I had my Cream of Wheat that morning.

“I’m fine, Mickey,” I told him.

He didn’t stop studying me for several moments before he looked to the kitchen, murmuring, “It’ll be good this sale gets done, you can settle in and then relax.”

He was wrong.

I had been relaxing a good long while.

Now I needed to kick my own behind for a variety of reasons.

“Yes, it will,” I fibbed and kept on doing it. “When tomorrow’s done, it’ll all be good.”

“Help with that,” he stated. “Sunday, I’ll get in the food and the booze and you come over. I’ll fire up the grill, cook some brats, some chicken. You kick back with a beer and shoot the shit with me and my kids, get as loose as you want.” He awarded me another grin with dancing blue eyes, something I wanted at the same time I wished fervently he wouldn’t keep giving them to me. “You need me to pour you into my truck to drive you across the street at the end of the night, won’t be any skin off my nose.”

As good as his comment about my house smelling like heaven felt, that invitation felt the same amount of bad.

A bad I wasn’t allowed to feel.

A bad that I felt because no man who was interested in a woman in a certain way would bring his kids over to her house on the spur of the moment then invite her over for a Sunday cookout to “kick back” and “get loose.”

A man who was interested in a woman would carefully time and meticulously plan such meetings with progeny, and they would happen only after he knew he wanted the woman he was inviting to be invited again.

And again.

Until she stayed, maybe forever.

Or, at least, that was what I would do with my kids.

And that was what Conrad did with them. Unfortunately, when he started these endeavors, he’d still been married to me.

“Jesus, Amelia, you asleep on your feet?” Mickey asked and again I jerked to attention and focused on him.

“Sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I’ve got my mind on a million things.”

Before Mickey could reply, “I don’t know what to pick!” was shouted from the kitchen.

We both turned that way to see Cillian standing amongst the sprinkled cupcakes and bags of cookies looking like he’d just been let into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but hadn’t been given the go ahead to make a glutton of himself.

“Take whatever you want, Cillian,” I called.

Cillian’s eyes grew so huge at this offer I nearly burst out laughing.

“Miz…uh…hey!” Aisling called back to me. “You want me to finish frosting these?” She pointed at the unfrosted cupcakes.

“She’s good at that shit,” Mickey muttered, his voice sounding further away and I turned then tucked my chin to see him crouched by his box. He tipped his head back to catch my eyes. “Let her do it.”

“I…” I looked to Aisling and suggested, “How about we do it together?”

She beamed.

With nothing for it, I moved that way.

Cillian shoved a cupcake in his mouth, peeling back the wrapper expertly with his lips as he did it.

I’d never seen anyone do that so I noted on a smile as I made my way to the kitchen, “You got a special skill with that, kiddo.”

“Toad-ag-lee,” he said with his mouth full and kept going, “Prag-dis.”

My smile got bigger.

“Keister over here, boy, help your dad unload this stuff and tag it,” Mickey ordered.

Cillian dashed by me and toward his father.

At that moment, the oven binged.

“You do those, honey,” I said to Aisling, moving into the kitchen. “I’ll grab the last batch.”

Aisling nodded and nabbed the spoon from the bowl.

As I pulled the tray out of the oven, Mickey called, “Babe? Tags?”

An unusual-when-it-came-to-Mickey unpleasant sensation slithered down my spine.

Conrad called me “babe.” Conrad called me every endearment he could think of.

I’d later learned none of them were special since I’d heard him call Martine some of the same things.

And I knew the casual way Mickey said them was the same way, but worse. Any woman was “babe” to him. Or his other, “darlin’.”

It wasn’t just me.

It wasn’t special.

I’d never been special.

I just
was
.

With all the rest, I pushed that aside, put the tin on the cooling rack and looked his way, answering, “Up here.”

“Go get ’em, son,” he said to Cillian.

Cillian darted back my way.

I got the tags and markers out of their drawer and gave them to Mickey’s boy. He raced back to his dad. Thus began a lot of activity, which included Mickey and Cillian pulling stuff out of their box, tagging it and calling to me to ask where to put it, as well as Aisling and me frosting and sprinkling cupcakes while we tidied the kitchen.

As tired as I was, as much as I was fighting my attraction to Mickey, I couldn’t help but admit that it felt good to have company. To feel activity around me. To hear the murmur of voices. To exchange words or shuffle by a body and get or give a smile as you did it.

I hadn’t had that in a while. Not on a regular basis in three years and not even frequently for the last ten months.

I liked it.

And Mickey had good kids, though that part wasn’t surprising.

We were done in no time and when we were, I found that I wished we weren’t.

This was because the second we were, Mickey said, “Time to get outta Miz Hathaway’s hair.”

To which Cillian instantly replied, “Can I have a bag of Reese’s cookies before we do it?”

Mickey grinned at his son. “You’re costin’ me a fortune in food, kid.”

Cillian grinned back, unrepentant, probably because he knew he was but he also knew his dad didn’t care in the least.

“Just to say,” I butted in and got two sets of blue eyes, “for neighbors, the goodies are free.”

“Not gonna raise cash for the league, you do that,” Mickey told me, wandering my way, his son doing the same and doing it close to his dad.

He made it to the opposite side of the counter, scanned the signs I already had set up to announce the prices of treats, and he did this pulling out his wallet.

“Really, Mickey,” I said. “Aisling helped me frost and clean up. Goodies are payback.”

He looked to me. “Really, Amelia, Cill’s in that league so we’re chippin’ in.”

With his eyes on me, warm and friendly, I could do nothing but agree so I did this on a nod.

He tossed a five dollar bill on my counter, declaring, “Junior says this gig starts at seven. We’ll be here at a quarter to.”

My insides clutched in fear at this offer, but before I could get it together to politely decline, Cillian shouted in horror, “In the morning?” His face was wreathed in that horror as he finished, dread dripping from each syllable. “
On a Saturday?
”

Mickey looked down at his son. “You want new head gear, shoes and gloves next season?”

“Yeah,” Cillian muttered like he wished he didn’t have to.

“Then we’re up early and over here to help Miz Hathaway sell all this crap tomorrow,” Mickey decreed.

“That really isn’t—” I started but stopped when Mickey’s eyes sliced my way.

Point taken. Absolutely.

I’d seen Mickey Donovan’s eyes friendly, smiling, laughing, thoughtful, assessing.

But the look in them right then said that when Mickey talked, his children listened and no one said a word to the contrary.

The problem was I didn’t
want
Mickey over at my house first thing. In fact, Josie, Jake, Junior, Alyssa and their families were going to be there at six thirty so I didn’t actually
need
Mickey and his kids there.

I stared into his blue eyes and decided not to share that.

Mickey broke contact and looked from his boy to his girl. “Now, say goodnight to Miz Hathaway and then let’s get home.”

I got two goodnights, one disgruntled (Cillian), one quiet (Aisling) and gave them back as they headed to the door.

Mickey did too.

So I did as well.

At the door, Mickey stopped just outside of it and ordered his children, “Careful of the street, I’m right behind.”

“’Kay, Dad,” Cillian muttered, starting to trudge across my yard.

“Boy, path,” Mickey directed.

“Oh, right,” Cillian looked to me, changing direction and heading toward my front walk. “Sorry, Miz Hathaway.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t think his feet would damage my grass simply treading on the turf and he could take the more direct path to his house, but I didn’t.

I said, “It’s okay, kiddo.”

He grinned at me.

Aisling silently put her hand between her brother’s shoulder blades and guided him down the path.

Mickey stood watching.

I did too.

When they’d crossed the street safely and Cillian was racing up their yard while Aisling meandered behind him, Mickey turned to me.