Beneath the Night Tree (29 page)

I exhaled a little, but the rest of my breath caught on my raw joy at seeing him. It flattened me that he could still elicit that sort of reaction, that I was still just an infatuated girl in his presence. Maybe I should have worried about my worn jeans and my dad’s ugly, old Mack jacket that I had thoughtlessly layered over a lined fleece. Maybe it should have hit me that Michael was too good for me—too beautiful, too brilliant, too perfect in every way—but it didn’t. I dashed across the space between us and threw myself into his arms.

He seemed equally excited to see me. Instead of backing out of my fervent embrace or even pausing to say hello, Michael took my face in his hands and touched his lips to mine. It was as if we hadn’t seen each other in months. And in many ways, we hadn’t. For those moments in the mudroom, I kissed him with the pent-up passion of all the things we had left unsaid. With all the unexpressed delight of the adoration I still harbored for him. I wound my fingers through the long hair at the nape of his neck, the place where his dark ringlets just began to curl, and moaned.

“Julia,” he murmured after a while, his lips still nipping at the corner of my mouth. “We have to stop.”

I traced the line of his jaw with my mouth and nuzzled into the soft spot just below his ear. “I know,” I whispered. And just like that an errant thought dispelled the magic of our reunion: What would Simon do if he caught us like this? The passionate kisses I shared with my husband-to-be could be interpreted as just another reminder of Simon’s uncertain future.

Michael felt the shift in me and put his arms around my shoulders to pull me into a less fiery embrace.

I rested my head on his chest. “Welcome home.”

“I think that’s the best welcome I’ve ever received.”

I would have laughed, but I didn’t think that my need for him was very funny.

“Why are you wearing a jacket?”

“Oh.” I pulled away from him a little and surveyed my ensemble all the way down to my feet. The snow boots I had donned were ratty and frayed, but they kept the cold out better than the new pair I had bought only a month ago. “I wanted to show you something.”

“Of course. The mysterious something. It’s outside?”

“Yeah,” I said reluctantly. With Michael at my side, my news seemed less urgent. Was this really the right time to tell him? Did I really have to take him out to the night tree and try to explain everything? But even as I questioned myself, I knew the answer.
Tell him
still rang in my ears like a chorus I couldn’t get out of my head.

Michael seemed hesitant to leave the warmth of the house behind, but he didn’t complain as I took him by the hand and started toward the grove. I had forgotten to bring along a flashlight, so I led the way and Michael followed close behind, moving his hands to rest securely on my hips so he could mirror my every step.

We were at the tree in minutes, and though I had expected an aura to surround the place or the moon to shine brighter, in the dim nighttime light the ornamented fir was less than inspiring. I pursed my lips in disappointment and willed it to be enchanting. I willed it to glow for Michael the way it seemed to shimmer for me. But it was just a tree hung with dried apple rings and cranberries as small and hard as pebbles.

“What is it?” Michael asked, for in spite of its shabby appearance, it was obvious that we had tried to do something special with the tree.

“It’s a night tree,” I told him weakly. “The idea came from a children’s book by Eve Bunting. . . .” But I trailed off because I didn’t really know what else to say.

After a minute or so, Michael rubbed my back as if I were a child and said, “It’s nice. I’m sure the boys had fun doing it.”

“They did,” I agreed. “It’s for the birds. And the animals that live in the grove during the winter. It’s a place to come and be still.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

I loved Michael for trying, and because he was making an effort, I decided that I had to do what I set out to do. He deserved that much from me.

“It’s been a neat project for the boys,” I forced myself to continue. “It gives them something to look forward to. The last few weeks have been really hard.”

Michael wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “I know.”

“But the tree has been helpful. And so has . . .” I swallowed. “So has Parker.”

“Parker?” Michael asked, obviously nonplussed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and grounded myself, pressing my weight into my heels so that when Michael removed his arm from me, I would be able to stand on my own. “Actually—” I cleared my throat—“his name is Patrick Holt. He’s Daniel’s father.”

Michael did move away from me, but it was a slow departure. His hand slid off my arm and traced my spine before he came to stand face-to-face. “Daniel’s father?”

I could just make out his features in the pale light. He didn’t seem angry or even mildly upset. He seemed confused. “Yes,” I whispered. “Do you remember that guy you ran into on my porch the day you proposed?”

“The UPS guy?”

“He’s not a UPS guy.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you remember him?”

Michael shrugged. “Sure. Some guy on your porch.”

“That’s him.”

“That’s Daniel’s biological dad?”

I nodded. “He contacted me several months ago. He wanted to get to know Daniel, to be a part of his life. And it just sort of happened.”

“What do you mean, it just sort of happened?”

“I mean, it seemed like a good idea to let Daniel spend some time with his dad. So Parker’s been coming by.”

“A lot?”

“Twice a month?” I guessed, trying to tally up his visits. “But Daniel doesn’t know that Parker is his dad. At least, not yet.”

Michael was mute for a long time, and I tried not to fill the silence with explanations and excuses. I shouldn’t have kept this from him for so long, and he had every right to be furious with me. His gaze was fixed on me, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt the appraisal of his stare with a hot shame. I couldn’t stand to even look in his direction, but I didn’t budge once as he scrutinized me.

After a while I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I was still studying the way my boots disappeared into the darkness, but I ventured to say, “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry. I should have told you a long time ago. . . .”

“You should have.”

“I know. And I’m so, so sorry . . .” I would have gone on, begging his forgiveness and confessing my own shortcomings, but Michael stopped my outburst by placing a finger over my lips. I looked up.

“It’s okay,” he said, shaking his head as if I were being ridiculous. “I wish you would have told me sooner, but I’m not upset. Daniel should have his father in his life.”

“He should?”

“Of course. My dad died, Julia. I know what it’s like to want a dad. Before my mom married my stepdad, I used to wish for a father of my own. I would never deny Daniel that chance.”

“But I thought—”

“I’m fine, Julia. Really. It’s not that big of a deal.”

I was floored. Completely stunned that Michael was not only taking it well, he seemed to be almost welcoming the news about Parker. “It’s not a big deal?”

“Nah.” Michael rubbed his hands briskly up and down my arms. “Can we go in now? I’m freezing.”

I nodded meekly and let him lead me back down the well-trod path. I should have been ecstatic that he wasn’t angry. I should have jumped up and down. But I felt numb.

We didn’t say anything on the walk back to the house. What was there to say? Worst of all, the same thought circled in my mind like an intent vulture, a scavenger that threatened to haunt our relationship until I confronted Michael with what I had always believed to be true. Until now.

I thought you wanted to be Daniel’s dad.

Tagalong

Since Michael seemed relatively unconcerned that Parker had weaseled his way into our lives, as the winter stretched on long and frigid, I permitted Parker greater access to the boys. I might be marrying Michael, but I didn’t see any harm in allowing Daniel and Simon the joy of Parker’s affection. After all, Michael had encouraged it. Maybe he could be my boys’ stepdad and Parker could be their honorary dad.

I was surprised at how little that thought troubled me.

And I wasn’t the only one happy with our new arrangement. Michael seemed relieved that I was no longer trying to fill his already-overflowing plate with fatherly duties, while Parker loved the fact that he was welcome to spend nearly every weekend with my boys. As for Daniel and Simon, they reveled in all the masculine attention. Parker took them ice fishing in January, skating in February, and introduced them to the wonderful world of golf when spring arrived in an unseasonable frenzy of snowmelt and sunshine in mid-March.

By the time the tulips were starting to press heavenward, their bowed heads small and soft and sweetly reminiscent of turtles poking glass-green noses through the dark soil of our flower beds, everything bore the faint fragrance of newness. Spring carried with it a certain sense of satisfaction, of finally being able to exhale a deep sigh of relief. As the weather began to gently warm, I couldn’t escape the tingling sensation that I was waking up. Everything reverberated with a sense of purpose, of life, and I realized that the winter we had endured was just a season after all.

The earth around me whispered praises, and what could I do but join in? Grandma was doing better, the boys were flourishing beneath the gentle hand of Parker’s ministrations, and my wedding was less than two months away.

Two months. The thought was both exciting and terrifying, a confusing tangle of emotions. My pulse quickened with every detail that fell into place like another bolt sliding home, securing our fate. I just couldn’t figure out if my heart beat faster out of love or fear.

Surely it was love.

But there was a hesitant quality to our planning too, a place where everything seemed to simply fall off the edge of the earth. The particulars of the wedding were there, as well as the reception and even a quick honeymoon, but the days after that were blurry and indistinct, lost in a fog that seemed thick with uncertainty. Would Simon come to Iowa City with us? Would Grandma?

Michael tried to broach the topic of our long-term plans on several occasions, but I devoutly refused to be drawn into a conversation that I both did and did not want to have. Simply put, I wasn’t ready. The days of our old life were precious and fleeting, and with the spring sun warming the world, I wanted to savor every minute. Maybe I should have forced myself to grow up and face the inevitable, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to.

My selfish interlude lasted until the second week of April.

When Michael called one Friday night as I was finishing up the supper dishes, his voice was thin and pinched, filled with something cool and unexpected that took me several minutes to identify.

“Got plans for the weekend?” he asked after we had chatted about the boys, the above-average weather.

“Yeah, Parker’s coming down to take Simon and Daniel fishing.”

“Simon and Daniel?”

The question caught me off guard. I wondered if my finger had slipped in front of the mouthpiece of my small phone. Adjusting my grip, I said, “Yup. Simon and Daniel.”

“And you?”

“Maybe,” I admitted before I could wonder at his reason for asking. Sometimes I accompanied Parker and the boys on their adventures, but sometimes I used the break to catch up on housework or homework or spend time alone with Grandma. She liked to walk out to the night tree—our impromptu gathering place that prevailed long past the holiday season—and sit in the Adirondack chairs that Parker had given us as a Christmas present.

They were a pretty pair of whitewashed loungers that we had set in a little clearing near our decorated tree. Parker spoke of digging a fire pit when the ground thawed, and though it hadn’t happened yet, we continued to congregate around the chairs, drawn by the subtle magic of the place.

Afternoons with Grandma were undeniably a treasure, but the truth was, I had been looking forward to fishing with Parker and the boys. Simon and Daniel had begged me to take them fishing for years, but I had demurred because although I could bait a hook no problem, I couldn’t bring myself to grasp a poor, writhing fish and tear the curved barb from its gaping mouth. The very thought made me sick to my stomach. But Parker apparently had no issues with the ethics of fishing. This weekend would mark my boys’ very first time. A monumental expedition if ever there was one. I had once hoped that Michael would be the one to walk them through this rite of passage, but it was no secret that he hated fishing.

Michael must have caught the hesitation in my tone. “What do you mean, maybe?”

“I was thinking about it,” I admitted.

There was an impatient huff on the other end of the line. As Michael released his obvious frustration, it hit me that his brusque tone resonated with the slap of jealousy. Was he jealous of Parker? of the time Parker got to spend with the boys?

“Michael,” I rushed to pacify him, “you don’t have to—”

“Don’t patronize me,” he interrupted.

“But I—”