Every Time We Say Goodbye. Liz Flaherty
that ever took place on the campus of Notre Dame University.
Tracy was pregnant by a man she found out too late was married. When he was running one night, Jack found her standing on a bridge over the St. Joe River. “I can’t get an abortion and I can’t jump,” she’d said, turning tear-filled eyes to him. “It’s not the baby’s fault its parents are losers.”
As much as Jack liked Tracy and enjoyed her company, there was no real attraction there. Not to mention, he believed his time to love had passed him by. He didn’t particularly want children of his own, but neither had his father—something he and Tucker had known every day of their lives.
What if this had happened to Arlie? What if she’d been alone and pregnant? She hadn’t been—they had never been intimate after the accident—but what if she had and he’d never known? He’d have wanted someone to do what was right for his child.
Life had granted him no illusions about marriage, happily-ever-after or being a proud father at someone’s graduation. But he’d hated that his father hadn’t wanted him and Tuck.
“How can I help you?” He’d wrapped his jacket around Tracy and laughed, the sound nervous. “We could get married for a while. Get you through finals and decide what you want to do.”
They’d spent the first months of their marriage studying, learning to cook without poisoning themselves, watching Matlock reruns and deciding what to do after the baby was born. Finally, eight months into Tracy’s pregnancy, they’d made the decision to release the baby for adoption and have their marriage annulled. No harm, no foul, just gratitude for getting each other through a rough time.
But then there was Charlie. In the space of time between the obstetrician saying “you can push now” and a red-faced baby squalling his head off, Jack and Tracy learned that while love had definitely complicated their pasts, it just as certainly defined their future. They had ended their marriage, but that was the only part of the plan that came together.
Jack brought his mind to the present, looking back over his shoulder to smile at the boy who’d changed his life. Who’d made him decide maybe living was worthwhile after all. Whom he was afraid to spend too much time with.
“Did you bring homework with you?”
The boy rolled his eyes, their whiskey color reminding him of Arlie’s. “I did. It’s algebra and it’s probably going to be the sole reason I’m never accepted to a reputable college.”
“Good. Tucker can help you.”
Tucker tossed Jack a look of outrage. “I flunked algebra. In my freshman year. Remember? He’s in the eighth grade and can already run rings around me in anything mathematical.”
“I know you flunked it, but you did okay when you took it the second time. I, on the other hand, only passed it because Arlie helped me.”
“She’s a girl and she helped you with algebra?” Charlie scoffed.
“She did.” Jack unbuckled his seat belt when Tucker pulled in at the winery. “And I double dog dare you to take that tone with her. Unless she’s changed a lot, you won’t come out of it real well.”
Charlie squinted. “Double dog dare?”
Tucker laughed. “Don’t do it, Charlie. You’ll be sorry.”
Twenty minutes later, having bought two bottles of wine and a carryout pan of apple dumplings Charlie had salivated over, they pulled into the driveway of Christensen’s Cove. Jack sat still in the passenger seat, a white-knuckle grip on the bottle of zinfandel in his lap. He met his brother’s eyes across the seat. “I don’t know if I can do this. Or if I should.” He was aware, peripherally, that Charlie had got out of the car, but he was incapable of calling him back. He seemed to be just as unable to move. “I should go.”
“No.” Tucker gripped his shoulder hard. “You’ve done that. To her and to me both. It didn’t work worth beans for any of us. It’s time to stay, Jack.”
Charlie was already taking off his jacket when they stepped through the front door of Gianna’s house. “We brought enough apple dumplings for everyone, but if Dad doesn’t eat his, I already called dibs on it. Did you really help him with his algebra?”
“I did.” Arlie hung up his coat. “But in all fairness, he helped me with biology—I couldn’t get the whole mitosis and meiosis thing—and Holly helped us all with English.” She grinned at her sister, the expression all delightful wickedness that made Jack’s heart do the jumpy thing again. “However, she charged us.”
Holly nodded. “Believe me, Charlie, I earned every nickel of it, too.”
“Is there any chance you’d help me with my algebra?” Charlie asked Arlie. “Dad said Tucker could, but I don’t trust him much.”
“Well, sure. We’ll let...uh...your dad and Tucker help Holly with the dishes and we’ll do your homework.” Arlie put an arm through his. “Let’s go in and talk to Gianna. I hope you like spaghetti—she cooks enough for an army—and her bread sticks are the best thing since burgers and fries.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder at Tucker, ignoring Jack entirely. When they walked into the kitchen, there was a definitive martial aspect to her posture.
Dinner was more comfortable than Jack expected, even though it was obvious Arlie had nothing whatever to say to him. It shouldn’t have bothered him, since he knew very well it was his own fault, but it did. When they’d spent time together the evening before, it had felt as though one of the letters he’d written had been sent and delivered. She’d understood and he’d been forgiven.
But he hadn’t been. Of course he hadn’t. Forgiveness for sixteen years didn’t come about in a single day, especially when a whopping lie of omission was added to the mix. He asked himself once again, in the long span of silence between Arlie and himself, why he hadn’t just told her about his marriage and his son.
He knew the answer. Because it had been the ultimate betrayal. Raising a family had been the life Arlie wanted and he’d been ambivalent about, yet here they were in their midthirties and he had Charlie and she had a cat.
She was nice to Charlie, though, and that was what mattered. By the time dinner was finished, the kid had charmed her last bread stick off her plate and extracted a promise from Holly to show him how her prosthetic foot worked as soon as the dishes were done and he and Arlie had finished his algebra. When Jack objected to Charlie’s over-the-top curiosity, the Gallagher women had all rolled their eyes at him, so he’d thrown up his parental hands and eaten another helping of spaghetti.
“You should either bottle this sauce for public sale or be arrested for leading innocent young men astray with it,” he told Gianna.
She laughed. “I do bottle it, but not for public sale. I think the girls and I spend most of August canning tomatoes in the form of sauce, juice, salsa and catsup.”
“Catsup?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “You make catsup?”
Gianna nodded. “And Arlie and Holly help me. It’s kind of like homework—they don’t want to, but they do it.”
“That is so cool. I had to google a tutorial to show my mom how to open the Heinz bottle.”
“Charlie!” Jack objected, although he couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that went with the remonstrance. Tracy was the worst cook in the Northeast Kingdom, and she made no pretense at being anything more.
“She’s a lawyer,” Charlie explained to his captivated audience. “She says she can’t cook because she has to use her legal prowess to keep me from getting arrested for being a smart-a—”
“Charlie!” Jack and Tuck spoke together that time.
He gave them a withering look. “Smart aleck. That’s all I was going to say.” He turned his orthodontic-wonder smile on Gianna. “May I have more?”
When the dishes were