“Let them,” Carey replied, “we'll be gone early in the morning. All I need from you is one quiet night. Do what you have to do.”
But before Molly could inquire further, Carrie and Lucy came running into the room, both dressed in party dresses.
“Mom, Mom,” Carrie excitedly exclaimed, the jonquil ribbon in her hair bobbing as she bounced from one foot to the other, “you'll never guess what happened. Some men tried to get into the apartment, but we wouldn't let them in because you've always said, ‘Never let strangers in.' And Mom, when we saw them through the peephole they were gruesome, I mean, all funny-looking like this.” She pressed her cheeks back and stretched her mouth into a grimace. “So we ran away down the backstairs and rang the burglar alarms and fire alarms. And then the police came, and then Carey came. And we never saw the bad men again, even though they came down the basement looking for us.”
Molly's fingers had tightened perceptibly over the chair arms as her daughter's recital unfolded.
“Carey told the police,” Carrie went on, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “he's got a brother-in-law-”
“Ex-brother-in-law,” Carey swiftly interjected.
Carrie took a much needed breath. “Ex-brother-in-law who likes to play jokes.”
Molly's gaze quickly swung to Carey. “Jokes?” she murmured with a cool skepticism.
“It's Egon,” Carey offered, as if the name alone was explanation.
“Connected with the man from Cannes?” Molly inquired in a tone that was a trifle too soft.
“Sort of.”
“Carey Fersten, is this dangerous?” she asked.
“No,” he quickly replied, his glance sliding sideways toward the girls.
“The policemen shook hands with Carey-er-Daddy,” his daughter amended with a smile, “afterward. They know his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he carefully amended.
“And everyone was friends,” Lucy added.
Molly's eyebrows rose. “How nice.”
“Look-” Carey began to say, only to be interrupted by a crashing sound from the vicinity of the hallway.
Allen stood holding two packages while the remainder of those he'd been carrying were scattered in colorful disarray at his feet.
“For me!” Carrie squealed.
At which point Jess came puffing up the stairs from the garden entrance ladened with more presents.
“Mom, Mom! Look at all my presents!” Carrie danced and hopped in delight, her eyes filled with joy. “Wow, wow, wow, wow!”
It was impossible not to share in her daughter's elation, impossible not to marvel at the pride and doting affection in Carey's expression. After all the years of Bart's blatant indifference as a father, a warm pleasure filled her heart. Maybe the reporters weren't so far wrong when they chose bizarre terms like love nest and love child. Carrie was their love child, conceived in love and adored. And with Carey in her home, busy with the girls and Allen and Jess in picking up the packages, his teasing making the girls giggle and laugh, maybe it was a love nest, indeed.
And a second later he was beside her, reaching for her hands and pulling her up from her chair into the curve of his arm. “I'll never be able to thank you enough for giving me Carrie,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her cheek, “if I live into the fifth millennium.”
“I'm happy you're her father,” Molly said, lacing her arm around his waist.
“Not as much as I,” Carey murmured, feeling complete and whole for the first time in his life.
“Can I open them now?” Carrie screamed, disturbing her parents' idyllic moment. Carey turned with an immediate, “Yes,” while Molly simultaneously answered, “After you blow out your candles.”
“Yes, after you blow out your candles,” Carey amended with a wide smile. “Now let's get this special nine-year-old's birthday show on the road.” With a quick squeeze he released Molly. “Come on, Mom, our birthday girl's impatient.”
Allen and Jess politely attempted to excuse themselves in the event they were intruding, but were coaxed to stay. The candles were lit on the cake, Happy Birthday was sung with boisterous cheer, and nine candles were blown out with a pinch to grow an inch.
After a consenting nod from her mother, wrappings were feverishly torn off and Carrie squealed, oohed, and aahed as she opened her presents. Carey had been calling orders into New York for days, not to mention the shopping he'd had Allen handle for him here in town. She received enough frilly dresses and play clothes to open a store, red cowboy boots with her initials embossed on the sides, a string of miniature pearls and tiny pearl earrings in an unusual golden shade (to match her hair, her dad smilingly remarked). There was also a baby doll from France with real hair, complete with doll wardrobe in its own matched set of Hermиs luggage.
“Are you too grown up for baby dolls?” Carey inquired with an indulgent smile.
“Nope,” Carrie replied, cradling the lifelike doll against her flushed cheek. “I've always wanted a brother or sister.”
The portable compact disc machine with earphones was greeted with an ecstatic cry of delight, and the carrying case with a dozen discs was quickly perused. “How did you know all the cool bands, Dad?” Carrie asked.
“Even us old folks know one or two hot tunes, sweetheart,” Carey replied, his hand covering Molly's on the lace-covered table, his dark eyes filled with delight. Last week he'd controlled his impulse to bring in a band from L.A. for her birthday, knowing Molly preferred a smaller celebration.
Molly had bought Carrie the canopy bed she'd always wanted, complete with ruffled buttercup-yellow bedcover. She'd slipped a picture of it into a card saying: Delivery tomorrow, Happy Birthday from Mom.
“Oh, Mom!” The swoon in her voice was reflected in her expression. “Thanks, thanks, thanks. It's exactly the exact one I've always wanted. Exactly!” And Molly realized how little control “parenting” had on the power of the gene pool. Her daughter viewed the world with unrepressed enthusiasm, which she as a mother had neither bequeathed nor imbued in her. Turning to Carey with a smile, she said, “She's like you.”
Smiling back, he seemed to understand. “I know,” he said.
And when their daughter saw the documents tied with pink ribbons making her the owner of her own two-year-old Arabian horse, the birthday proceedings came to an instant standstill, only to explode a moment later.
“My own horse, my absolute own horse! Where is she? When can I see her? Who's going to teach me to ride? Mom! Look! Look!”
“A horse. How wonderful,” Molly said to her daughter, who was waving the papers in front of her face. When Carrie raced away to show them to Allen and Jess, Molly turned to Carey and said, “A horse?” in an altogether different tone of voice. “Here, in the city?”
“No, darling, it's up at my father's farm.”
“Do you still race?” She had forgotten about his love of horses.
“Occasionally,” said the only man in twenty-seven years to win the triple crown in steeplechase.
“Your dad can teach you to ride,” Jess said, “and Leon can help out.”
“Leon's my dad's trainer, Pooh,” Carey explained. “He's the best teacher in the world. And as soon as you can, we'll go up north and see your horse.”
“Mom… did you hear? When can we go?”
Allen and Carey exchanged glances.
“Whenever your Mom says the word,” Carey replied, “we'll head north.”
“Can Lucy come? It's summer vacation. Lucy, your mom will let you, won't she?” and in a quick succession of rapid fire dialogue between the young girls, it was agreed Lucy's mother might be amenable.
Molly merely smiled and said, “We'll see about going, darling.”