The Family Man. Irene Hannon
during the first half of their senior year, since he was the editor of the school newspaper, but only when he came to her rescue did she really notice him. He’d spent every evening for the next week—surviving on high-caffeine soda—helping her to salvage what she could, even as he tried to keep up with the demands of his classes and his duties as newspaper editor. As she’d discovered, he was the kind of guy you could count on. Dylan was lucky to have him for a father. And the woman he’d married had been lucky to have him as a husband, Amy acknowledged.
“How about we stop at the Bakeshoppe? I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning, and I don’t think Bryan did, either. He fixed oatmeal and scrambled eggs for Dylan, but he didn’t eat anything himself.”
Ethan’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and Amy turned back to him. It would be safer if she sent the two men for a meal and headed back to her office. And far more conducive to her peace of mind. She was just about to suggest that when Bryan looked her way. His bleak expression and the grooves at the corners of his mouth told her just how hard the parting had been for him. Sensing his aloneness, she wanted to do her part to help him over this hurdle.
“Sounds good to me. I’ll meet you guys there.”
As Amy walked back to her car, she wondered if she was making a mistake. Bryan had only been at the magazine for a few days, and their contact had been limited, but already her long-buried feelings were bubbling up, like boiling water from a covered pot. Still, given the look on his face just now, spending a little time with him seemed like the compassionate thing to do.
But she wasn’t sure it was the smart thing.
Chapter Three
Ethan and Bryan were already ensconced in a booth at Betty’s Bakeshoppe by the time Amy arrived. Although the popular eatery was crowded as usual, the two men had managed to snag one of the small niches. But she noted with dismay that Ethan had brought his precious camera equipment in with him instead of dropping it in his office at Hamilton Media across the street. It now occupied the seat next to him. Meaning she’d have to sit beside Bryan.
For a second her step faltered. They hadn’t seen her yet. She could still make a quick escape, use some excuse about a crisis at the office. But just then Ethan caught sight of her and waved. Too late. With a sinking feeling, she urged her feet forward. Bryan eased over in the booth as she approached, giving her as much space as possible. Almost as if he didn’t want to be any closer to her than necessary, Amy thought with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sliding onto the bench, she stayed as close to the edge as she could.
“Did you order yet?” she asked, striving for a casual tone.
“No. We waited for you.” Ethan handed her a menu, then motioned over her shoulder. A few seconds later, Betty appeared.
“My now, isn’t this like old times.” The owner whipped out her order pad and turned her attention to Amy and Bryan, her eyes twinkling. “Seems to me your favorite order used to be hot-fudge sundaes, but I expect you’d rather have something else for breakfast.”
A hot flush crept up Amy’s neck, and she stole a look at Ethan, who was watching the exchange with amused interest. From his expression, it was clear that Heather had filled him in on the history between Amy and Bryan.
“I think I’ll just have some toast and tea, Betty.” Amy handed her unopened menu back to the owner.
Betty tucked it under her arm and gave Amy a concerned look. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always order an omelet for breakfast.”
Gritting her teeth, Amy prayed that the flush on her neck wouldn’t work its way up to her cheeks. “I’m not that hungry today.”
“Humph.” Betty made a notation on the order pad. “How about you, Bryan?”
“Coffee. Black. And scrambled eggs.”
“What about some bacon or sausage? Maybe a pancake or two? And you know our cinnamon rolls are to die for.”
“Not today, thanks.”
“Humph.” Again, she scribbled on her notepad. “Ethan?”
“A three-egg omelet with ham and mushrooms, a side order of country potatoes and a biscuit. Oh, and coffee with lots of cream.”
“Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” Betty nodded her approval as she jotted down the order, then stuck her pencil in among the strands of brown and gray hair that were woven into a bun on the back of her head. “Coffee and tea will be right out. Amy, you better slide yourself in a little or you’re going to end up on the floor.”
As Betty hustled away, Amy lost her battle to keep the warm color from invading her face. It surged onto her cheeks, intensifying as she risked a peek at Bryan and found him watching her with an unreadable expression as she eased in an inch or two. Ethan, on the other hand, seemed amused by the whole thing, and she glared at him across the table.
Clearing his throat, the photographer had the good grace—and the good sense—to change the subject. “So…Dylan is a cute kid, Bryan. But being a father must be a challenge. I admit I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since Heather and I got engaged. To be honest, raising a family wasn’t one of my top priorities until I met her. But it’s amazing how love can change your perspective. Still, the responsibility of that whole parenting thing kind of blows my mind.”
Betty deposited their mugs and joined right in on the conversation. She’d been in Davis Landing so long that she knew everyone—and felt like part of their families. “You’ll be a natural, Ethan. Don’t you worry about it. Just love your kids. That’s the main thing. And you bring that son of yours in here soon.” Betty directed her last comment to Bryan. “Get him one of those hot-fudge sundaes you and Amy used to like. My treat for his first visit.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Bryan watched her leave, then turned back to Ethan. “Betty’s right. Love is the best thing you can give your kids. Just let them know that they come first in your life, and that you’re on their side. My dad and mom did that with my brother and me, and I’m trying to follow their example with Dylan. It’s a little harder when there’s just one of you, though.” A shadow passed over his face, and he reached for his mug and took a sip of coffee.
“Heather told me you’d lost your wife,” Ethan sympathized. “I’m sorry. Was it very long ago?”
“Five and a half years.”
Twin furrows appeared on Amy’s brow, and she turned to him for the first time since Betty had deposited their drinks. “How old is Dylan?”
“Five and a half.” As Ethan and Amy stared at him, Bryan answered the unspoken question suspended in the silence. “Darlene had a condition known as preeclampsia. It’s not an uncommon complication of pregnancy, and most of the time it’s mild. Hers wasn’t. In its most severe form, it can endanger the mother and put the child at risk. There’s no cure except delivering the baby, and timing is everything. Ours was off. Darlene suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and Dylan was taken eight weeks early by C-section. He made it. She didn’t.”
Horrified, Amy stared at Bryan. His spare, curt speech had been delivered in a clinical, dispassionate voice as he stared into the murky depths of his coffee. But his white-knuckled grip on the handle, the deep creases of strain around his mouth and the tense line of his jaw spoke of a pain and trauma undimmed by the passage of years. She wanted to say something, anything, to comfort him, but her throat was too tight to let any words through, even if she could find some that were appropriate.
Ethan seemed just as much at a loss as she was. As they exchanged a What-do-we-say-now? look, Betty came to their rescue and deposited their plates on the table.
“Here you go. Ethan, I put a packet of honey on your plate. I know you like that with your biscuits. Bryan, I had Justine add a little parsley to those scrambled eggs. Dresses them up quite a bit.