Gia had never been so grateful for Paul than when she went back in the house. He took one look at her face and volunteered to watch the kids. Her expression must have said it all. She was so angry, so hurt. A rage headache pounded behind her eyes. Even the heavy bag wouldn’t be enough to work off this mad. Nothing short of pounding in Beckett’s face would make it stop.

She climbed in her car and briefly entertained a fantasy of taking out Beckett’s mailbox as she backed down the drive. She’d found early on in her marriage that entertaining violent fantasies usually prevented her from physically following through on them. She thought of Trudy and suddenly felt a kinship to the crazy woman.

How dare Beckett place judgment on her like that? How dare he filter her life through his own issues? He missed his father? That was no excuse for trying to make her feel guilty for doing what was best for her kids.

It was best, wasn’t it? Dragging Evan out of the school he’d just started to get used to because Paul had a “new gig” with a “guaranteed record deal.” The permanent ambivalence with which he’d viewed his parenting responsibilities. He wasn’t a “bed and bath-time” kind of dad. He was a “spend the night at the recording studio” or “call from the road” dad. He’d missed birthdays, anniversaries, story time, groundings, and bad dreams.

She brought up the last straw in her mind’s eye. She’d come home from a yoga class. She’d just started teaching a few months earlier as a way to earn some extra money. When Paul had lost his job again, she picked up a few extra classes at one of the studios where she worked.

It was after nine, she hadn’t eaten, she still had to pack Evan’s lunch for the next day, and the school bake sale she’d promised brownies to had snuck up on her.

She stopped at the grocery store for brownie ingredients and crossed her fingers that her debit card wouldn’t be declined. Money was tight and Paul once again was making noise about following his music career rather than buckling down and making ends meet.

It’s my dream, G. Can’t you understand? If I lived like every other stiff in a suit out there, I’d wither up and die, he’d told her over and over again.

But things were different when there were little mouths to feed and feet to cover and back rent to pay. Dreams had to be shuffled into the luxury folder, at least until basic necessities were met. She’d had dreams too, and, had nearly given up on every single one of them while she became the sole breadwinner, the primary caregiver.

Carrying her measly bag of eggs and brownie mix, she’d come home to chaos. A couple of Paul’s friends had stopped by. The sink was filled with empty beer cans and Stale cigarette smoke and raucous laughter wafted into the house through the open patio door. She could hear them out there, someone fiddling with an acoustic guitar while another one told a loud story about a prostitute who played a mean keyboard in Des Moines.

There was an ashtray with a joint in it on the third-hand coffee table.

And Evan was in his pajamas on the couch trying to comfort a crying Aurora.

Gia had been mad then, too. But then it had been more resignation than rage. Because she’d expected it, she realized. Paul was up front about who he was and what he wanted out of life. She’d been the one to think she could deal with it or worse, change it.

But watching her 10-year-old play parent to her daughter while their father chased his dreams in the backyard, she realized she couldn’t do either anymore.

She’d shut the patio door, tucked the kids into bed, and made three dozen brownies. And when Paul came inside to try to charm a plate of brownies out of her, she’d quietly told him she was filing for divorce in the morning.

There had been no fight, no discussion. No requests for custody or even visitation. And that’s what broke her heart for her kids. He should have wanted them. He should have wanted her. But he didn’t. Not then.

And not now, either. Beckett was wrong.

She parked on the street and stared at the cozy townhouse. She could see the TV flickering in the front room through the window.

On autopilot, she got out of her car and climbed the steps to the front door. She rang the bell and when the door opened, she fell into the arms of the only man who had never let her down.

“Hi, Daddy,” she sniffled in his warm, safe embrace.

Franklin had seen enough female tears in his time to know that now wasn’t the time for words. It was time for the silent comfort that only a father could give. She let him guide her into the living room and was beyond mortified when she realized Phoebe was curled up on the couch, a Cary Grant movie paused on the TV.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I wasn’t thinking.” Gia wished the cream colored carpet would swallow her up and put her out of her misery.

Phoebe gave her a warm smile as she rose from the couch. She was wearing cotton pajama pants and a tunic length sweater. A bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table.

“Don’t be silly.” Phoebe patted her hand. “I’m going to go make us some tea.” She laid a gentle hand on Franklin’s shoulder as she made her way back to the kitchen.

The gesture wasn’t lost on her, even in her current state of rage-induced hysteria.

“You two really love each other, don’t you, Daddy?”

Franklin gestured toward the couch and Gia flopped down, hugging a corduroy pillow to her chest. He sat down next to her, a smile breaking through the worry on his face when she nudged him with her foot. “Don’t you?” she said again.

He nodded. “I never expected to find this at my age,” he sighed.

“At your age?” Gia rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like you’re a million years old.”

Broad-shouldered with his kind, crinkle-eyed smile, he’d always been handsome. In high school, all the friends who’d crossed their threshold did so carrying a torch for Franklin Merrill. Even when his hair had gone from dark to silver, it only made him more distinguished.

“I’m a lucky man,” he sighed with contentment.

“Phoebe’s a pretty lucky lady,” Gia said, nudging him again with her toes. “I hope I’m that lucky some day.”

“Your luck seems to have been improving,” Franklin said, patting her knee. “Beckett is about as far from Paul as you can get. He clearly cares about you and the kids.”

“And yet he just broke up with me.”

Her father frowned. “Has he suffered a recent head injury?”

Gia laughed in spite of herself. She shook her head. “No, but he may end up with one if I have anything to say about it.”

“Uh-oh,” Phoebe said, carrying a tray laden with steaming mugs, slices of lemon, and a box of tissues. “Beckett?”

“I don’t want to speak ill of the soon-to-be-dead in front of his mother.”

“Sweetie, you can’t say anything that I haven’t already thought about all of my boys. I love them to pieces but every single one of them can be an idiot.”

“Do they ever snap out of it?” Gia helped herself to a tissue and blew her nose.

“Eventually.” Phoebe sank down in the armchair across from them. “How big of an idiot was he?”

Gia relayed the gist of the fight.

“He wouldn’t even let me explain what Paul was doing here in the first place, though being my attorney he should have figured it out.” Gia took a sip of her tea and her eyes widened.

“I hope you don’t mind a little whiskey in your tea,” Phoebe smiled. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Bless you,” Gia sighed and took another sip.

“What is Paul doing here?” Franklin asked.

“He starts a new gig in the city next week and swung through to sign the guardianship papers for Evan. I thought he could spend some time with the kids, you know, present a united front to Evan when we explain what the paperwork means. I don’t want him thinking his father just abandoned him.”

“Did you give Beckett a heads up that Paul was coming?”

Gia shook her head. “That would have required Paul telling me he was coming and not just showing up fifteen minutes before Beckett knocked on the door. I’d left Paul a voicemail yesterday asking if he’d be up for a visit soon.”

Phoebe closed her eyes and shook her head, her stubby ponytail twitching. “And Beckett decided that Paul was here because he wants a second chance.”

“And he feels very strongly that I should give him one.” That stung as much as anything. Not only had Beckett accused her of selfishly splitting up her family, but he walked away from her without a look back. Just like Paul.

“Dad, did I give up too quickly with Paul?” She shoved the words out before she could bury them again. “Would the kids be better off if I had stayed?”

Her father took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly. “I know you kept quiet about many of the details about why you and Paul ended things, but your sisters have big mouths. What does your gut tell you? Do you think you should have stayed?”

Gia closed her eyes, went back to that night again in her mind. She was already shaking her head. “No. If anything I should have done it sooner.” She opened her eyes, blew her nose again. “So what do I do? Evan and Aurora love Beckett. But he just walked away. He didn’t even try.”

Phoebe picked up her mug and Gia could have sworn she heard her mutter “asshole.”

Franklin squeezed her hand again. “It sounds to me like he’s hurting. The Beckett Pierce that I know is a rational, loyal, kind man. Usually the only thing that can turn men like that into raving lunatics is love. You must really matter to him to have him act like such an idiot.”

Gia gave her father half a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

“He’s a good man, honey. Give him a little time to realize how stupid he was and I promise everything will work out.”

She heaved a mighty sigh. “Thanks for letting me barge into your quiet evening like this. Both of you,” she said.

“I’m glad that we’re close enough for barging in. I’ve missed you and your sisters. Missed being needed.”

Gia crawled over and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’ll never not be needed, Daddy.”

* * *

Franklin and Phoebe waved a stronger, steadier Gia off from the porch. Phoebe was already dialing her phone as Gia eased away from the curb.

“Now, who are you calling at this hour?” Franklin asked, sliding an arm around her waist.

“I’m calling in the reserves,” Phoebe said. “My sons have a diabolical stubborn streak that doesn’t usually right itself. Beckett’s going to need a pretty good push.”