A Son's Tale

“I’ll agree to change some things, agree to twenty-four-hour security, extended visits with you all, to include you in any major decisions I make to get your opinion in case I miss something, and in exchange, Daddy drops his case.”

Silence hung on the line.

“Sammie is my son, Mom. He belongs with me.” She stopped short of telling her mother that Sammie wanted her, that her son had officially chosen her. She wouldn’t put Sammie in that position with his grandparents.

“I’ll talk to your father, Morgan, but I can tell you right now, you’re only making things more difficult on yourself. You’re just proving your father’s point. You can’t see what’s best for Sammie.”

Shored up by the two men in her life, and by her own heart, Morgan said, “I believe I do see, Mom.”

Maybe she didn’t always see others clearly, but she knew her own heart and she knew that no one would look out for Sammie more fervently than she would. Yes, she’d made some bad choices when she was younger. Yes, she’d been a little over-the-top where bucking her father was concerned.

She’d matured. She had her eyes wide open.

Morgan was smiling again by the time she walked up the stairs to Cal’s class.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CAL STAYED BUSY that next week. He had papers coming in from both of his classes and while he had a month to get his grades in, he wanted his calendar clear the second the semester ended. The days until then—and until Morgan’s next hearing—loomed interminably. And yet, he couldn’t remember a time he’d caught himself whistling so much.

“What’s with you?” his father asked on Tuesday night, a week after Morgan’s first custody hearing—a week after they’d spent the half hour in her kitchen that had changed his life.

“What do you mean?” Cal was chopping onions.

Frank had come in after playing basketball with Sammie and taken hamburger out of the freezer. The two men were making homemade spaghetti sauce—something they hadn’t done together in years—to go on the pasta they were having for dinner.

“You’re whistling. Staying home every night. And you’re going to bed earlier rather than locking yourself in that office of yours for half the night.”

His group of young artists didn’t start meeting again until the fall. He’d had his junior arts league meeting already this month. He’d arranged appointments for potential funding during his lunch hours—not on purpose, they’d just happened that way. The various university functions he attended didn’t begin again until September.

And he couldn’t very well go out. Not now that he was going to have a woman in his life in a few weeks.

“I didn’t stay up half the night. And how would you know? You were in your room most nights before I started writing.”

“Writing?” Frank’s spoon stilled in the pot of freshly cut tomatoes and garlic as he looked over at Cal. “Writing what? You never told me you were writing. You said you were researching. For class.”

“I never said it was for class. You assumed it was.”

Frank stirred. A minute passed. “I might have assumed it was for class,” he said, his tone less accusing. “What were you writing?”

“Nothing, Dad,” he said. What on earth had loosened his tongue so much lately? Whatever it was, it had to stop. Safety lay in privacy. “Just typing up notes from the research I was doing.”

“So you were researching.” Adding a couple of tablespoons of white wine, some bay leaf and oregano to his sauce, Frank sounded appeased.

“Of course. I don’t lie to you.”

Another couple of minutes passed quietly while Frank stirred and tasted and adjusted and Cal browned his onions in a small touch of olive oil and added a pound of hamburger.

“But there’s only one thing I know of that we don’t talk about, and if your research wasn’t for class, I’m fairly certain it had to do with Comfort Cove.” Frank’s voice was barren.

He’d just said he didn’t lie to his father. “It doesn’t matter, Dad.”

“You’re writing about what happened?” The sauce was put on a back burner.

“It’s just notes.”

“Do you think that’s wise, Cal? To put things down on paper? What if someone gets ahold of your notes?”

What if? Cal lost his appetite. And his compulsion to whistle.