Father and daughter looked at each other and raised their dark eyebrows. The dual effect was a devastating mirror image, and Molly wondered for the dozenth time why she hadn't realized Carrie's paternity years ago. They were so alike: pale-haired, dark-eyed and with smiles that began as grins, then grew into laughter. They'd have to tell her soon, she thought, but not tonight. It was too sudden. She wanted them to get to know each other better before the major announcement was made, although there was no denying their compatibility.
“Mom, you know you hate those games.”
“I never said that.”
“Did so.”
“Well, I suppose I might have said it's not my favorite type of amusement.”
“Right after Ping-Pong, you always said.”
“She doesn't like Ping-Pong, either?” Carey inquired in mock affront.
“Hates it,” Carrie replied with finality. “Mom's not much good at any games,” she added, matter-of-factly, in the way young children had of explaining adult idiosyncracies.
“Oh, your mom likes some games,” Carey said, catching Molly's gaze over their daughter's head.
“She does?” Carrie asked, her dark eyes intent on Carey. “What?” In her memory, her mother had rather systematically rejected all games, period.
And while Molly blushed, Carey replied, “Big people games.”
“Oh, you mean like bridge and backgammon?”
“Don't you dare,” Molly quietly warned as Carey's grin widened.
At her mother's warning, Carrie's gaze went from Carey to Molly and back again. “You mean mushy stuff,” she declared.
“Could we change the subject?” Molly said, not as unflappable as her daughter.
“What do you want for your birthday, Pooh?” Carey inquired, angelic innocence prominent in his expression.
Carrie's interest was immediately diverted. “How did you know my birthday's coming?”
“Er-” the twinkle in his eyes was boyish and lighthearted, reminding Molly of the young man she'd once known before the “international director persona” had taken precedence. “Your mom and I discussed your birthday last night.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Carrie's head swung back toward Carey. “Can you get me a date with Chachi from Happy Days?”
“Charlotte Louise, for heaven's sake!”
“Something smaller, huh?”
“I'm sorry, Carey, I thought I'd taught her some manners.” Molly's apology was part rueful but only mildly serious; after nine years she was familiar with her daughter's frankness.
“Hey, it's all right. I asked her, and it doesn't have to be small at all, Pooh, only not Chachi just yet,” he said with conspiratorial delight. “I don't think your mom would approve of you dating. Why don't you make a list when you get home and we can avoid the frown forming on your mother's face.”
Tardily remembering her manners, Carrie said, “You don't have to buy me anything. I mean, if Mom-”
“I want to buy you a present, and your mother doesn't mind. Do you?” he said with unmistakable emphasis.
Molly sighed, knowing she was the only voice of moderation between father and daughter's cheerful insistence. “No, I don't mind, but I'd like Carrie to-”
“Remember her manners. Okay. Make the list a polite list, Pooh,” he said kindly, “and everyone will be happy.” It was going to be an incredible, exhilarating experience to go birthday shopping for his own daughter. Something like a bona fide twenty-four-carat gold miracle. And after all the tragedy of birth defects he'd seen in the offspring of his platoon members, a beautiful, healthy daughter of his own was heart-stopping jubilation. As she sat between them with her hands in her lap, he quickly surveyed the five perfect fingers on each of her hands and thought of Denny's baby boy who was missing all the fingers on one hand. Then a swift perusal of her Reebok-clad feet assured him no deformities existed. Lloyd's baby girl had had six operations on her clubfoot before she was three. And Carrie was free of the other birth defects attributed to Agent Orange too. Thank you, God.
Why them and not me? The question silently looped through his mind… Why, why, why? Maybe he'd been in the hospital when his platoon had been most heavily sprayed; maybe the damn purple heart had saved him from the moonscape they'd all talked about at Ashau when they'd bathed in the bomb craters. Or maybe pure luck had kept him out of the most toxic areas just sprayed for “mosquitoes.”
The Vietnamese birth defects had been reported very early in the Saigon papers, but the military administration had called it VC propaganda. American servicemen had been told the spraying was harmless to humans and animals. Another instance of war contractors placing profits over people. Legal research of the chemical companies after the war had proven they'd known about dioxin's deadly consequences as early as 1957. Carey always had the urge to kill when he thought of the chemical companies' derivative sovereign immunity defense which argued they had been employed by the government as war contractors and, like the government, couldn't be sued. The defense so often used by war criminals: “We were only following orders.”
Brushing a hand over his forehead, he forced away his black thoughts. Count your blessings, he reminded himself. But a twinge of guilt colored his own happiness. How lucky he was and how unlucky so many of his friends were.
“Headache?” Molly inquired, their daughter deep in thought as she mentally cataloged her birthday list.
He smiled. “Hell, no… too much happiness,” he said softly. “I'm not used to it. But,” he added with a small smile, “I'm damn well going to enjoy getting used to it.”
“You're glad I stopped at Ely Lake to look you up?”
“Do fish swim?” he said, glancing at her with a quick lift of his eyebrows and a flashing grin. “I'm considering shackling you and Pooh to my wrist. That's how glad.”
“That's pretty glad,” she teased, “for an independent man.”
“What time is it?” he murmured in return, insinuation clear in his voice.
She looked at the dashboard clock. “Almost nine.”
“Good.”
“It's too early,” she warned.
“When.”
“Bedtime's at nine-thirty.”
“I think I can wait.”
“You have to.”
There was a moment of considered silence before he said, “Maybe…”
“Carey!” Her whisper was hushed, but in the single breathy word, beneath the small indignation, was piquant anticipation.
“You make the hot chocolate, and I'll do the bedtime story.” Urgency threaded lightly through his words, but then his expression changed, his dark eyes surveying the young girl between them and he very quietly added, “May I?”
It was the first time in his life he'd ever tucked a child into bed, the first time he'd told a bedtime story, and the first time he'd had to fight back tears since Dhani Maclntosh. Molly was in the habit of telling an extemporaneous story which drifted off on tangents like an Alice in Wonderland narrative. So Carey picked up the plot and added some creative color of his own with wizards and princesses and a quest for a treasure in emeralds.
“Thanks, Carey,” one sleepy young girl murmured as the chapter ended, “you're nice.”
He wanted to crush her in his arms and tell her he loved her, tell her he was her father, map out their entire future together, but Molly wanted to proceed more slowly until they knew each other better. Instead, he said, “You're nice, too, Pooh… the very nicest little girl I know.” Bending low, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Sleep tight.”
She was staring thoughtfully at him when he straightened, her face framed by the pink-flowered pillow. “Your eyes are a lot like mine.”
The plain words hit him like a jolt, and in a flurry of mental activity he discarded the first dozen unsuitable answers that came to mind. “Lucky me,” he finally said.