Chapter 1

 

 

Present day

 

 

James stood in front of his house and watched his ex-wife leave. She reversed her dark gray Mercedes out of the driveway, not giving him another glance.

He remained there until the taillights of her car disappeared behind the neighbor’s hedge. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his despondency, while a torturous emptiness ached in his stomach. Barbara’s contention that it was his fault they were no longer a family was a real blow. He felt like hitting something—anything. But, instead, he just stood there like a beaten dog who’d been abandoned by the side of the road.

Much to his shame, he had to admit that Barbara was right—about everything.

And she had good reason to reproach him. The misery they both felt was his fault—and his alone. Yet James still harbored the hope that she might finally be ready to forgive him, two years after they’d divorced. Of course, he knew he’d lost her as his wife for good. But the fact that this was the woman he’d fallen in love with fourteen years ago, and really at first sight, the woman he still loved with all his heart, while she no longer held anything but disgust for him, that was the part that drove him to despair. If only they could have remained friends …

His life was a shambles. It was safe to say he’d run his life into a wall and come away with a totaled car. Granted, he still had two amazing sons, a job that fulfilled him, and a nice house, but the fact that his wife had divorced him, and that she apparently couldn’t bear to spend even five minutes in his presence, caused an excruciating unhappiness.

He strove to let bygones be bygones, to stop thinking about what a complete idiot he’d been, and how he’d cast away the best thing that had ever happened to him. But as soon as he saw Barbara or heard her voice, there it was again: The bitterness of knowing he had destroyed his own marriage.

Barbara was the mother of his children and the love of his life, and she’d also been his best friend—the woman he’d wanted to grow old with. But that had been destroyed by a deplorable, meaningless, casual mistake. He’d been unhappy ever since, and he would have done anything to change the way she looked at him now. Her gaze was filled with disgust, and it tore him to pieces. By everything that was sacred, the thought that it was his fault, that she’d been hurt by him, all but killed him.

He still loved her more than anything in the world.

Although James was not the type to wallow in self-pity, he pitied himself. Deeply.

“Dad! Can I mow the lawn?”

He finally tore his eyes away from the street where Barbara had disappeared, swallowed against the painful lump in his throat, and went into the house. “Wait for me, Scott! Please don’t touch the lawn mower when I’m not around.”

“Okay, Dad!”

James closed the front door with a sigh and walked down the hallway plastered with drawings and photos of his kids. He’d put them there so he wouldn’t feel as damned lonely as he was, living here on his own. He ran a hand through his hair.

As he walked toward the backyard, he thought about how pitiful he must appear to others, getting divorced and then buying a house that was not only in the same neighborhood as his former wife’s, but that also looked like an exact replica. Even the furniture was similar to Barbara’s. He always told himself he’d chosen this house so he could be close to Hamilton and Scott, and so they’d feel comfortable when they were with him, but even a blind man could see he just couldn’t let go of his ex-wife.

When he stepped out into the yard, he had to smile in spite of all the bitter thoughts.

His youngest was circling the lawn mower with obvious fascination—he was always intrigued with technical equipment—while his oldest was squatting next to the small pond, probably looking for the toad he’d spied there a week earlier.

James buried his hands in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts as he watched Scott, who was just as fearless as the character on his T-shirt—Iron Man. The seven-year-old was an adorable little troublemaker who reminded James of Barbara’s brother Stuart, a veritable mess in his late twenties, his head in the clouds and mischief always twinkling in his eyes. Hamilton, on the other hand, was the quiet, thoughtful kind. James’s oldest had never pulled a prank or done anything even remotely like misbehaving. He was unusually considerate for his nine years. Although the brothers, who’d been born exactly two years apart, were nothing alike in their character, they looked as alike as identical twins, the only obvious difference being that Hamilton was starting to grow faster.

They were as thick as thieves, too, and deeply attached to each other.

James smiled as he watched Scott inspect the lawn mower. The boy stuck out his chin, looking thoughtful, while he wrinkled his nose in a way that reminded James of the boys’ mother, who wore the same expression when she was concentrating. Although both kids were spitting images of their father, they also had a lot of mannerisms and expressions he knew from their mom, so James’s heart rose every time he studied his offspring.

His gaze softened as he focused his fatherly pride on Hamilton, who was still squatting next to the small pond, giving no sign that he would ever lose interest, though he still hadn’t spied the toad again.

James remembered wistfully how, on the final day of their honeymoon cruise, Barbara had revealed to him that her apparent seasickness hadn’t been seasickness at all—but morning sickness. Seven months later, Hamilton had been born. They’d wanted to have a child, so his birth had made them the happiest people in the world. When Scott was born two years later, James would never have guessed that everything would go down the drain another five years after that. They had been so damn happy with their life.

“Dad, what’s this cable for? And where do you turn it on?”

The corners of James’s mouth twitched. Scott looked at him with an exaggeratedly innocent expression, but the little rascal was still circling the lawn mower, like a cat waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on a mouse.

James walked slowly across the lawn, kicking a soccer ball out of the way—a reminder of their Sunday breakfast game—and stopped behind Scott, putting both his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He pulled his son into a bear hug as he patiently explained, “Okay, I’ll show you how to mow the lawn, but you have to promise me you will never try to start this thing on your own, Scott.”

“Daaaaaaad!”

“You have to promise me first, pal,” he insisted in the gravest voice he could muster in front of his boys.

The little one sighed heavily. “Okay, fine, I promise.”

Scott sounded like he’d just signed his own death sentence, and James bent down with an amused smile to kiss the top of his head. Then he straightened again and looked over his shoulder to include Hamilton, who’d found a seat on a lawn chair and was staring up into the sky, lost in thought.

“Hey, big guy! Come and join us, so I can show both of you how to mow the lawn.”

Hamilton didn’t seem to need any more goading. He was beside them in record time.

As James showed his sons how to handle the mower, and let them take turns pushing the heavy piece of machinery across the grass, helping only a little, his heart swelled with pride. He so wished he could spend every day with them again, as he had when his life and his family were still intact.

After he’d gotten the lawn mowed, thanks to their enthusiastic help, he was treated to a display of Scott’s latest soccer skills—some dribbling maneuvers. The kid was indefatigable when it came to soccer practice but quickly lost interest when faced with a math problem for homework. Meanwhile, Hamilton sat at the patio table and created a beautiful drawing of his dad’s pond.

Two hours later, James was standing in the kitchen with Hamilton, calling himself an idiot for letting Scott watch a cartoon on the large TV in the living room. The rascal had begged so pitifully that James had had no choice but to give in, but when the terribly annoying theme music jingled through the house, he regretted his lack of resolve.

“Hamilton, you have to promise me you won’t tell your mom I let your brother watch that.” He sighed and glanced at his older son, who was pulling apart a head of lettuce, frowning with concentration. “She’d gut me.”

“Mom lets him watch it sometimes, if he’s done with his homework,” Hamilton reassured him in a good-natured tone.

James smiled as he looked down at the little blond head. “I’m just glad you’re on a school break then. I always dread getting Scott to do his homework. You know how difficult it is to get him to sit still for more than a minute. Gotta tie him to the desk.”

Scott’s giggle tugged at his heart. “Dad! Are you really gonna tie Scott to a desk?” Hamilton snorted with mirth.

“What’s so funny about that?” James asked with feigned innocence. “You know Scott hates homework. He always just wants to play soccer or watch TV.”

Hamilton turned his sweet face toward his dad and grinned. He was tall for his age and exceptionally handsome, James noted as Hamilton explained, “Mom always says the exact same thing! That’s what made me laugh. She tells Scott she’ll tie him to his chair if he doesn’t start his homework in three … two … one.”

James lowered his eyes and stared absently at the tender chicken breasts he was marinating and readying for the grill. He cleared his throat. “Your mom is a smart woman, no doubt about it.”

Hamilton, still preparing the lettuce for a large salad, replied with flawless kid logic, “I don’t think she’d really try to tie him to his chair, though. She’d need more than two hands, considering how he thrashes around and fights her every time she tries to get him to take a bath.”

James couldn’t suppress a chuckle at this accurate reflection. “You’re right, pal. You’re absolutely right.”

After a harmonious barbecue lunch in the yard, and only a tiny altercation with Scott, who wasn’t in the mood to help with the dishes, James and the boys relaxed for a while. Later, in the afternoon, they headed out for ice cream. They ordered huge bowls with multiple scoops, and then the boys told their father about their plans for the rest of the break, and Hamilton talked excitedly about his new cousins, who’d been born just the night before.

James listened to it all with an indulgent smile, blanking out the other patrons also enjoying the bright sun and wonderful weather in the courtyard of the building that held the ice cream parlor.

But his attention was ripped away from his sons when someone stepped up to their table.

While the boys continued to demolish their ice cream, James saw Laura Philipps, whose daughter was on Hamilton’s swim team. The woman who had just gotten divorced, a fact the other parents from the team had been discussing rampantly over the last few weeks. Thanks to his situation, over the past two years, he’d always been the first person to be told—through the parental grapevine—which woman was newly divorced and might be on the lookout for her next husband. It didn’t seem to matter how often James insisted he wasn’t looking for anyone, or that he certainly didn’t want to date a woman who might be active in the same clubs and charities as his ex-wife. Nope, the other fathers, and sometimes even the mothers, kept right on informing him of all available women in their social circle.

“Hello, James,” Laura Philipps said. “Hello, boys. I thought I saw you out here. What brings you here on this gorgeous day?”

Laura was a blonde with a neat hairstyle, a neat style of dress, and almost too neatly plucked eyebrows. The fact that everything about her screamed luxury—she wore heels even for a stroll to get ice cream—told James everything he needed to know. Not to mention that he’d never heard a more ridiculous question than what the three of them were doing at an ice cream shop on a beautiful day.

Still, he was determined to remain polite. Handing Scott a napkin, he leaned back in the tiny bistro chair. “We’re having ice cream,” he said cordially, though it might have come out a little forced.

He saw that there was no vacant chair anywhere in sight and relaxed a little. As a single man in an environment where people were constantly getting divorced, ex-wives quick to look for a new man with a substantial bank account, he was used to all manner of flirting attacks, but he had never learned to like them. They annoyed him now just as much as they’d annoyed him two years ago, when he’d found himself suddenly single.

“That is so nice,” Laura chirped, fixing him with her gaze. “I think it’s heartwarming to see how much you care about your sons, how much time you spend with them. Lisa’s spending the next few days with her father. This is the first school break since the divorce, so it feels a little strange not spending every day with her, to be home … all alone … all of a sudden.”

Aha, there it was again.

He was grateful Hamilton and Scott were still stuffing spoonful of ice cream into their mouths and not really listening to her prattle. But James had gotten her not-so-subtle hint. First, Laura had paid him a compliment about his parenting, then she’d reminded him she was divorced, and finally, she’d pointed out that she’d be alone for the next few days. James had heard the same shtick more than a dozen times before.

“Mm-hm … yeah,” he replied, unimpressed and unenthusiastic. “That takes a while to get used to.”

“Oh, well.” Laura continued to smile at him, fiddling with her shirt in a compulsive manner, as if subconsciously trying to draw his attention to her surgically enhanced breasts, which he wasn’t the least bit interested in. “Maybe once Lisa gets back, we could all go for ice cream together.”

James’s enthusiasm was still less than lukewarm, but he replied with a polite, “Sure, maybe.”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “That would be great, James! You have my number, don’t you?”

“Yep.” He nodded and vowed not to look it up on the list he’d gotten from the kids’ swim coach. He felt relief as he watched Laura leave the patio after she’d finally taken her leave—with way too much verbiage.

As soon as she was out of sight, Scott looked up from his ice cream. “Lisa Philipps is a mean girl,” he complained with his mouth full. “She laughed at Hamilton when he slipped on the edge of the pool and his head bled. Dad, please don’t go on a date with her stupid mom!”

James blinked, surprised that his seven-year-old even knew what a date was, and it took him a moment to find the right words. Finally, he shook his head and glanced at Hamilton, who was playing with his spoon, looking thoughtful, as usual. “Don’t worry, guys. I’m not going out with Lisa Philipps’s mom.”

“But do we have to go for ice cream with them?” Scott’s face scrunched up like the cup in front of him held cod liver oil instead of the rest of his chocolate scoops.

James uttered an amused laugh. “No way, pal. Now finish your ice cream before it melts.”

 

 

***

 

 

James carried his sons’ backpacks as they walked back to his ex-wife’s house.

Instead of taking the car, he’d decided on a stroll, since the weather was beautiful again. And afterward, he’d be driving to the office, where he would be at his desk until late in the evening.

So he and the boys were walking the short distance from his house to their mom’s, laughing about the capers of his youngest, while Hamilton took his dad’s hand and walked beside him.

Hamilton was already nine years old, so this clear gesture of affection really touched James. It warmed his heart. But Hamilton was a sensitive boy, and the divorce had left him devastated. He seemed to constantly need reassurance that his parents were on his side, at his side, that neither of them were leaving him. Since Hamilton was seven when his parents’ marriage had failed, which was old enough to witness their breakup firsthand and remember it, James was especially considerate and patient with his firstborn. It pained him to know how Hamilton suffered under their separation. Meanwhile, Scott had been younger, not fully able to understand what was happening. Add to that his naturally robust confidence, and the little man had simply accepted that his mom and dad were no longer living in the same house.

“I hope we can go visit Aunt Amy and the babies today,” Hamilton confided, while Scott bounced along the sidewalk like an overenergetic puppy.

Keeping one eye on Scott, James turned to Hamilton. “I’m sure your mom will take you if you ask her. Do you know the babies’ names yet?”

Hamilton nodded and gave him a sunny smile. “Mom said they called them Aaron and Alexander. And they have more names, of course, but I forgot the rest.”

James squeezed his son’s hand and chuckled. “So now you’ve got a cousin named Audrey and two new cousins called Aaron and Alexander? Does your uncle Patrick intend to have more children with A names?”

Hamilton’s button nose wrinkled. “Uncle Patrick says they went through a lot of names that start with A and found lots and lots of terrible ones.”

“Like what?” James asked.

Hamilton giggled. “Axl and Adolpho.”

James’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Oh, wow! Imagine your little cousin was called Axl Ashcroft.”

“Or Adolpho Ashcroft,” Hamilton added, making a show of shivering. “I’m glad that’s not my name.”

“Did you know your mom wanted to name you Archibald?” James replied cheerfully. “And Scott was supposed to be Miles.”

Hamilton tilted his head back to give his dad a shocked look. “What?”

“It’s true.” James nodded with a grin. “When your mom and I found out we were having a boy, she suggested we name you after one of your grandfathers. You know your grandpa’s full name is Archibald Scott Campbell …”

“And Mom’s dad’s name was Miles Hamilton Ashcroft,” Hamilton murmured, ever the quick thinker.

“Exactly.” James’s voice was affectionate as he continued, “I couldn’t tell your mom I didn’t want to name my son Archibald Miles or Miles Archibald. She might have been offended. So I suggested we call you Hamilton. And then it was clear that your brother would be Scott.”

“What would you have done if I hadn’t had a brother?” Hamilton asked quietly.

James squeezed his hand again. “I’m sure we would have found a solution.”

They were both silent for a moment. All they could hear was Scott’s high-pitched voice as he skipped down the sidewalk reciting a rhyme.

“Dad?”

James glanced down at Hamilton again. “Yeah?”

“Thank you for not naming me Archibald.”

James struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re very welcome, pal.”

They spent the last hundred yards merrily chatting about the TV show they’d watched the night before while lounging together on the couch. Only when they reached his ex-wife’s house—his ex-house, really—was James was haunted by a familiar angsty feeling. It caught up with him every single time. Even after two years of separation, he was reminded of how he and Barbara had fallen in love with this house, how he’d carried her across the threshold, how he’d brought home newborn Hamilton in his car seat, how he’d watched Scott attempt his first steps in the living room, and finally, how he’d carried his own suitcases out of the house and left.

They’d barely stepped onto the neatly paved path that snaked through the front yard when the door opened and Barbara appeared, welcoming them with a smile that James knew was reserved for his sons—and not him.

“Hey, guys!” she called out cheerfully. She looked gorgeously unkempt on this bright morning.

James actually liked her best like this—in comfy sweatpants, her dark brown hair tied back into a loose ponytail, without any make-up on. When Barbara left the house, she never failed to look perfect, always well-dressed, her hair coiffed and neat, fulfilling the image of a high-society woman. At home, however, she didn’t care about expensive shoes or sophisticated outfits. James had always liked that about her.

“Mom, we had waffles with whipped cream for breakfast!” Scott shouted as they reached Barbara, who pulled her youngest into a hug and ruffled his hair.

“Thanks a lot, you little traitor,” James sighed, playfully shaking his fist. “Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to tell Mom about our waffle party?”

Scott wasn’t intimidated at all. He smiled. “Oops.”

James snorted. “Next time you’re getting porridge, you rascal.”

Laughing boisterously, Scott stuck out his tongue at him, while Hamilton still clutched his hand.

“I see … You had waffles at your dad’s house, huh?” Barbara smiled at her sons, before explaining in a jokingly sinister voice, “Then I guess we’ll have to postpone our spaghetti feast …”

“No, Mom!” Scott protested immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Not the spaghetti feast! I love spaghetti!”

The pealing laugh that came from her lips made James weak in the knees. He couldn’t help but recall the many times he’d heard that same laughter directed at him. He watched her kiss the top of Scott’s head, watched her beautiful lips curl into a genuine smile and her gaze turn thoughtful, while the little guy hopped up and down next to her, imploring and begging.

“Alright, alright. The spaghetti feast will go ahead, but you’ll have to tidy up your room first, Scott.”

Hamilton, who was still holding James’s hand, chimed in right away. “Aren’t we going to the hospital to visit Aunt Amy and the babies, Mom?”

Barbara let go of her youngest, ignored her ex-husband, and focused on Hamilton. “I don’t know if we can do that today, honey,” she murmured apologetically. “Maybe a little later, after the plumber comes.”

James cocked his head to one side. “The plumber? Did something break?”

Apparently, Barbara could no longer avoid meeting his eyes. She looked at him, her eyes distant. “It’s no big deal. The drain in the bathroom sink is blocked, that’s all.”

Although James could guess she wouldn’t like it, he asked anyway: “Do you want me to take a look at it? You know I—”

“No, thanks,” she cut him off primly. “Like I said, I already called the plumber. He promised he’d be by today.”

“But I’m already here,” James tried again, making sure to sound calm and patient. “Maybe it’s just a small thing, and I can take care of it.”

“I can help you, Dad,” Scott chimed in eagerly. “And Hamilton, too.”

“You’re going to be busy taking care of your room,” Barbara reminded him. “The plumber’s already on the way, and I’m sure your dad has a lot of work to do.”

Just as James opened his mouth to object, her icy glare made him think twice. Nothing had changed since her reproach yesterday afternoon.

She turned to Hamilton. “Would you help Scott clean up his room, honey?”

Of course, Scott protested a bit more but then said goodbye to his dad, high-fived him, hugged him again, and finally trotted off into the house. Hamilton hugged his father tightly and said with an impish half smile, “Thanks again, Dad, for not naming me Archibald.” Then he disappeared inside, too.

Alone with his ex-wife, without the buffer of their kids between them, James immediately felt at a disadvantage. And her scowl only reinforced that.

“When I tell you I’ve called the plumber—”

“Okay, Barbara.” He raised both hands in defense. “I only meant to help.”

“I don’t need your help, and I didn’t ask for it,” she replied hollowly as she took the boys’ backpacks from him, careful not to touch him in the process.

“Jesus, Barbara,” he whispered, appalled. “Has it really come to this? Can we no longer talk to each other like civilized people?”

“If you mean to insinuate that I’m not acting like a civilized person, I can—”

“What I mean,” he interrupted again, grinding his teeth at her bitchy voice, for the Barbara he knew had never before been bitchy or haughty, “is that it hurts when you treat me like someone you actively hate. We promised each other we’d remain on friendly terms, if only for the boys’ sake.”

Her green eyes were veiled with an expression he couldn’t interpret.

Instead of a heated answer, all he got was silence, which seemed to last forever. Until she demanded, in a slightly scratchy voice, “What was Hamilton talking about when he thanked you for not naming him Archibald?”

“I told him how he got his name,” James replied, his voice a little rusty as well.

“Oh.”

James swallowed hard as he looked into her face, and his fingertips ached with the need to touch her. “Do you remember how we discussed his name?” he asked hoarsely. “We’d just finished renovating the kitchen, and you were always wearing those maternity pants you bought in Norway. Downstairs, there was stuff everywhere, boxes and furniture, and the only appliance that was working was the juicer, because you wanted to have your glass of that dreadful beet juice every day. I still can’t fathom how you managed to drink that stuff and keep it down.”

She shook her head.

“Barbara …”

“Cut it out, James,” she demanded hollowly.

“But …”

She took a step backward into the house and moved to close the door, but then she stopped. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t hate you, but I don’t want to talk to you either. Least of all, about things like this.”

And before he could say anything, the door was shut in his face.

For the rest of the day, all he could think of was how beautiful she’d looked in her maternity pants.