Fourteen
Anne Marie Roche
“Blossom Street Books.” Anne Marie answered the phone in her usual pleasant tone, assuming the caller would be asking about her hours or whether a particular title had come in.
“Anne Marie, this is Tim Carlsen.”
Anne Marie froze and drew in a deep breath. She’d known it was too much to hope that she’d never hear from him again. Fortunately she was alone in the bookstore. “What can I do for you, Mr. Carlsen?” she asked stiffly.
He ignored the lack of welcome in her voice. “Have you given any more thought to our conversation last week?” he asked.
It’d been ten days since she’d heard from Tim Carlsen. Ten days since the Monday afternoon he’d told her he might be Ellen’s biological father. From that moment until now, Anne Marie had been waiting, wondering if he planned to follow through with his threat to take legal action.
“I assumed the next move was yours,” she said, hoping her bluntness would tell him she had no intention of allowing him into her daughter’s life. It was too late—and besides, the law was on her side.
“Listen,” Tim said, “I’m not going to get an attorney. You’re right. Ellen’s your family now. Whether I’m her biological father or not isn’t relevant.”
Anne Marie was prepared to battle him all the way to the Supreme Court. That he’d capitulated so readily took her by surprise. “Thank you,” she whispered, hardly knowing what else to say.
“If you ever decide you’d be willing to have Ellen tested...”
“I won’t.”
Undaunted, he continued. “Or if one day Ellen asks about her father, I hope you’ll contact me.”
Anne Marie wasn’t sure if this was a ploy. “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
“At some point there might be a medical issue,” he countered.
“What do you mean?” she asked anxiously. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, not at all. I just want you to realize you can call me if anything like that ever surfaces.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t contact you again. I’d like to leave my phone numbers with you, though. If at any time, for any reason, you have a change of heart, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”
He slowly recited three numbers: his home, office and cell, which she dutifully copied down and repeated, although she didn’t plan to use any of them except in the direst of circumstances.
A silence followed before he said, “I guess there’s nothing more to say.” There was no denying the misery in his voice.
“No, there isn’t,” Anne Marie agreed. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.
“If Ellen—” He didn’t finish what he’d started to say.
“What about Ellen?”
“If she ever needs anything or if you’d ever consider letting me into her life...”
“We’ve already discussed this, Mr. Carlsen. You have my answer.”
“Yes,” he said. He sounded utterly defeated. “Thank you, Ms. Roche.”
Anne Marie replaced the telephone, although her hand lingered on the receiver. She was grateful Tim Carlsen wasn’t going to fight her on this, and the tension in her chest slowly dissipated. She hoped, for Ellen’s sake, that she’d made the right decision.
That very evening, Anne Marie had reason to doubt she had.
Ellen returned from day camp full of enthusiasm, chattering about the games she’d played and the song she’d learned. She collected Baxter and took him for a walk along Blossom Street, skipping down the sidewalk with boundless energy, greeting her friends along the way.
Standing in the doorway of the bookstore, Anne Marie watched her daughter. Ellen was a happy child now. She remembered how reticent and quiet Ellen had been when they first met. Where was Tim Carlsen then? Where was Ellen’s father when she’d needed him most?
Anne Marie recognized immediately how unfair she was being to Tim. He’d had no idea Candy Falk had given birth to a child. Even with the little she knew about Candy’s history, Anne Marie was well aware that any one of a number of men could have fathered Ellen.
That night, when Anne Marie went to check on her daughter, she found Ellen sitting cross-legged on her bed holding a pencil and pad. Baxter lay curled on the bed beside her. Ellen appeared to be deep in thought.
“What have you got there?” Anne Marie asked, sitting beside her.
“My list of twenty wishes.”
“Are you adding to it?”
Ellen chewed on the end of her pencil. “No. I’m looking at all the wishes I already wrote down.”
“A lot of them have come true, haven’t they?” Anne Marie asked. The girl had wanted to learn how to knit, which she’d done. She had her own bedroom furniture now and a friend from school had recently spent the night.
“Not every wish has come true,” Ellen said. “Not this one.”
“Which one is that?”
“The one about finding my father.”
What was going on? It was almost as if Ellen had heard her phone conversation with Tim Carlsen earlier that day.
“What do you think my father looks like?” Ellen asked.
To hide her discomfort, Anne Marie grimaced. “I bet he has warts.”
“Warts?”
“Yup, big ones. All over his face.”
Setting aside her pad and pen, Ellen giggled and got up on her knees.
“And really big feet. Size thirty-six shoes,” Anne Marie added. “As big as those shoes clowns wear.”
Ellen giggled again.
“I bet his arms are really long and drag on the ground.” Anne Marie stood up and walked around the bed, hunching her shoulders, apelike, and letting her arms dangle so they brushed against the carpeted floor.
Her antics got Baxter’s attention and he started barking frantically until Anne Marie stopped, sat down again and petted him. Mollified, Baxter returned to his nap.
Ellen petted him, too. “No, he doesn’t,” she said. “Not my father.”
“Well, what do you suppose he looks like?” Anne Marie asked.
Ellen’s eyes shone with excitement. “I bet he’s really handsome.”
Her daughter wasn’t far off the mark there, Anne Marie mused. Tim Carlsen was attractive. Of course, there was always the possibility that he wasn’t Ellen’s father, but that was likely wishful thinking on her part.
“I wonder if he has hair like mine.”
That, he did. Anne Marie realized how much Ellen resembled him. She had Tim’s coloring, his dark, straight hair and the same deep, brown eyes. This conversation was becoming more difficult by the minute.
“I bet he likes animals, too.”
Anne Marie couldn’t venture a guess about that.
“My first mom didn’t. She said she’d get me a dog but she never did.”
“You certainly love animals,” Anne Marie commented.
Ellen stroked the Yorkie’s side. “Especially Baxter.”
“Especially Baxter,” Anne Marie agreed. She looked at the clock. “It’s past your bedtime, young lady,” she said with mock severity.
Ellen didn’t protest. “Can I read before I go to sleep?” she pleaded.
Anne Marie nodded. As was her habit, she knelt next to the bed and listened to Ellen’s prayers. The girl yawned loudly halfway through the list of friends she prayed for every night and ended with a sweet, heartfelt request that God say hello to her Grandma Dolores.
“Are you sure you want to read tonight?” Anne Marie asked as she bent to kiss Ellen’s forehead.
Her daughter’s eyes were half closed. “Maybe...not,” she whispered.
Anne Marie smiled, then turned off the light and tiptoed from the room.
For a long time afterward, she sat in the living room, deliberating about Tim Carlsen. At first she was convinced she’d made the decision that was best for Ellen. After all, Carlsen had no legal rights.
She wasn’t fooled. There was a very good reason he’d decided not to pursue this through the courts. He’d discovered what Evelyn Boyle had already confirmed; because the birth certificate hadn’t acknowledged him as Ellen’s father, the courts had no means of contacting him before the adoption. Which meant Tim wasn’t part of this scenario and had no place in Ellen’s life. Even if he could prove he was Ellen’s biological father, it was too late.
The only way Tim would be able to know Ellen was if Anne Marie allowed it. She wasn’t about to do that. The man had been a drunk and a drug addict. It didn’t matter that he was clean and sober now—or claimed to be. There were consequences when you’d lived that kind of life. Besides, what guarantee was there that he wouldn’t backslide? Anne Marie wasn’t willing to risk that. No, it was better that Ellen never find out about this.
Having justified her decision yet again, Anne Marie was determined to stand by it. She got ready for bed and, unlike her daughter, managed to sit up and read for at least thirty minutes. But despite her most strenuous efforts, her thoughts repeatedly returned to Tim and their telephone conversation.
After she’d read the same paragraph three times and still missed its meaning, she slammed the book shut and set it on her nightstand.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, switching off the lamp. She slid down in bed, arranged her pillows and nestled against them, then closed her eyes.
Instantly Tim Carlsen’s image rose before her. “Go away,” she groaned out loud. “Leave me alone.”
She turned onto her side and tried to force herself to sleep.
An hour later she was still awake.
After Robert’s death, Anne Marie had difficulty sleeping. For a while she’d taken coated aspirins that were supposed to aid sleep without upsetting her stomach. They almost always worked.
Retrieving a tablet from the bathroom, she swallowed it, then sat in the living room for another thirty minutes, knitting while she waited to feel sleepy. But even knitting didn’t quiet her thoughts. Anne Marie sighed, feeling confusion, guilt, frustration. If Ellen hadn’t mentioned her father, she would’ve dropped the whole matter and the two of them would’ve gone peacefully about their lives.
What was it with kids? Ellen seemed to have built-in radar, zeroing in on the very topic Anne Marie wanted to avoid.
Finally Anne Marie yawned and went back to bed. She crawled under the covers and closed her eyes with renewed determination to cast out all thoughts of Tim Carlsen and his unreasonable request.
She still couldn’t sleep.
Her mind whirled with a thousand different subjects. She’d talked to two real estate agents that day and had an appointment to look at a house after the holiday weekend. But regardless of what entered her mind, her thoughts always came back to one subject.
Tim Carlsen.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. Throwing on her bathrobe, Anne Marie marched down the stairs to the bookstore. She switched off the alarm and turned on the lights as she went into her office, where she’d left the phone numbers Tim had given her.
She punched out his home number, her jaw tight and her teeth clenched.
His phone rang four times. She half expected a greeting to come on, inviting her to leave a message.
It didn’t.
Instead, a groggy Tim answered. “This better be good,” he said hoarsely.
“Tim?”
A short pause followed. “Anne Marie?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“What time is it?”
Anne Marie hadn’t even checked. “Midnight,” she said, glancing at the store clock. She wasn’t about to apologize for phoning so late. He was the one who’d kept her up.
“Is Ellen all right?”
“Yes.”
“And you phoned because...”
“Because I’ve decided you can have Ellen’s DNA tested, but only under one condition.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Name it.”
“She can’t know.” That was Anne Marie’s stipulation and if Tim balked at that, it was over right then and there.
“Okay.”
She hadn’t expected him to agree so fast.
“When?” he asked.
“I...” Anne Marie hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Could we meet this weekend?”
“That’s the Fourth of July. We have plans.” It was the truth; she and Ellen would be with Melissa and her family for a barbecue.
“Okay,” he said. “Listen, anytime is fine. You say when and where, and I’ll be there.”
Without any deliberation, Anne Marie mentioned a nearby park and suggested they meet late Wednesday afternoon.
“I’ll be there,” he said again.
“What should I tell Ellen?” she asked, wondering how she’d introduce him.
“Tell her I’m your date,” he said after a moment.
“My date?” So he knew she was a widow. He’d implied as much when he’d asked about Ellen’s adoptive father and she’d refused to answer him.
“Have you got a better idea?”
“No... I guess not.”
“It’s settled, then?”
“Yes.” She wished she felt more comfortable with this, but she was committed now, whatever the outcome. “Not a word about the two of you possibly being related,” she warned.
“Not a word. You have my promise.”
Whether he kept his promises remained to be seen.