“I’m not discussing Bradley with you,” I retorted coolly.
He leaned back, his eyebrows going up, and asked incredulously, “Bradley?”
“Yes. Bradley,” I bit off.
“Like, he makes you say the whole thing?” he pushed.
“The whole thing what?” I asked.
“Bradley. Not Brad,” he explained impatiently.
“Yes, the whole thing. He prefers Bradley,” I confirmed.
He looked over my head and let out a puff of disgusted air.
“It is a name, Mickey,” I informed him and his eyes came back to me.
“It’s a name for a douche, Amy.”
All right, enough.
“Are we done?” I asked.
“Probably until your phone call, yeah,” he answered.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening with your marvelous children who I have absolutely no clue how they could have come from your loins,” I bid him.
“And you enjoy the rest of yours in your big house all by yourself,” he returned.
“I will,” I gritted.
“I bet,” he retorted, stepped back and shut the door in my face.
“Jerk,” I whispered to his door.
Then I turned on my beautiful high heel and stomped down his walk (I couldn’t go through his yard, my heels would sink in), down his drive and right to my house.
He couldn’t hear me and he wasn’t looking.
I still slammed my front door.
* * * * *
“Yeah?” Mickey answered.
Charming.
“It’s Amelia.”
“Know who it is.”
“Dela said the kids can come.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
Jerk!
“Can you drop them off at Dove House at ten?”
“Yep.”
“And pick them up at one?”
“Can do.”
“Excellent.”
“Later.”
“’Bye.”
He hung up.
I glared at my phone.
Then I shoved it in my purse and flounced out of Dove House, the flouncing all for me since no one was in reception so no one could admire my magnificent drama caused by a man named Mickey.
* * * * *
“This is gonna be so fun,” Cillian whispered excitedly.
I looked to him standing by me on the walk to Dove House.
I knew no child who thought hanging for three hours at a nursing home would be fun and I wondered, even if he gave no other indications he wasn’t, if Cillian was all there.
“You do what Amy says,” Mickey ordered.
“No probs,” Cillian assured.
“We will, Dad,” Aisling mumbled.
Aisling gave her dad a hug. Cillian and Mickey bumped chests. Cillian ran inside with Aisling trailing and I looked to Mickey.
“One,” he stated, turned on his foot and walked away.
* * * * *
The kids were one hundred percent wonderful with the old folks.
So much so it was astonishing.
Cillian was talkative, exuberant, full of energy and had all the time in the world for everybody, including staffers that asked him to help with things.
Aisling was sweet, attentive, helpful and quietly charmed everyone she met.
Mrs. McMurphy called Cillian by his name.
Mr. Dennison transferred his affections to Aisling.
And me, if I was their mother, I would throw every bottle of booze I had into the sea and do everything I could to show these two amazing beings how proud I was to say they belonged to me.
So it wasn’t only me who was disappointed when I had to tell the kids to say good-bye so I could walk them out front to wait for their father. It was also the residents, who rarely had visitors, and rarer still those visitors were of the young variety.
We got outside to find Mickey was already there, parked out front and leaning against the side of his big SUV, wearing what he was wearing earlier (except now they were dusty), clothes I suspected were his construction clothes as they included construction boots, faded jeans and a snug fitting tee.
Even that outfit he made amazing.
“We’re so doing that again, Dad,” Cillian cried, rushing to his father.
Mickey pushed away from his truck, smiling at his son. “You liked it, boy, I’m so letting you.”
“Cool!” Cillian yelled, turned to me and waved. “Later, Amy.”
“Later, honey,” I called.
“Yeah, later, Amy,” Aisling, at my side, said softly.
I turned to her and lifted a hand to curl it light on her upper arm. “Later, blossom. Thanks for being so lovely.”
She shrugged a shoulder, her head tipping that way, this gesture causing me to feel what was becoming familiar unease when it came to Aisling, before I had to let her go because she meandered to her dad’s truck.
Mickey walked to me.
I looked up at him and braced.
I braced more, tipping my head far back when he got closer than was necessary.
“Seems they had a good time,” he said quietly.
“They did and they charmed everybody,” I replied quietly. “You’ve got good kids, Mickey.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, drew in a breath that expanded his broad chest, something that made me feel odd things, things I quit feeling when he finished, “Later, Amy.”
It struck me then that his kids were supposed to call me Miz Hathaway.
But they’d been calling me Amy.
And he’d said nothing.
I didn’t mention this.
I said, “Later, Mickey.”
He lifted his chin and turned away.
I watched him walk, doing this taking in the natural control he had over his body, thus doing it enjoying it, and I knew I should go in. I knew I shouldn’t stand out there and watch them drive away.
But I stood out there and watched them drive away.
I even did it waving and smiling.
They were making the turn onto the street when I jumped because I heard, “Your fellow is quite good-looking, Amelia.”
I looked down at Mrs. McMurphy, who was wearing a bulky winter coat and standing beside me.
“He’s not—” I started but stopped when she leaned into me.
“Don’t let him loose. Smart woman never lets go of a good man,” she advised.
I stared because I realized we were having a relatively normal conversation and she’d called me Amelia, something she never called me.
Then she shivered, even though it was a sunny, summer day, and looked to the heavens.
She then turned, smartly snapped open an umbrella that had come loose from two of its prongs, put it over her head and started walking away.
I kept staring then I jolted because Mrs. McMurphy had somehow slipped through the admittedly dreadful security keeping the old folks inside and safe, and she was ambling away in a cold thunderstorm that was not happening.