“Well, your sister is right,” Rory interjects, kneading my thigh to calm me down.
Look, I like the lad Tamsin is marrying fine. He doesn’t appear to be a serial killer/wife beater/Manchester City supporter. I’m just uncomfortable with handing my baby over to someone else.
And I don’t mean that in the literal way, of course. Tamsin can take care of me better than I do her. But there’s something so final about letting go, about not being the main man in your daughter’s life anymore.
“That is slanger!” Grayson throws his hands in the air.
“It’s slander, you eejit, and it’s not,” Kiki huffs.
Grayson’s name is close enough to Glen, but also far enough that we all feel comfortable about it. Kathleen, however, was named after my first wife and Rory’s sister to honor her legacy. They’re the most infuriating twelve year olds in the universe. Not even my brothers, sister, and mother can handle their lip. After Rory and I said I do (again), we decided to try for a sibling for Tamsin. Good thing we already knew life was not a smooth ride. After two years of trying unsuccessfully, we turned to IVF. And surprise, surprise, now Tamsin has two siblings, and they’re both hellraisers.
“You let her get away with everything. It’s so unfair.”
“Your face is unfair,” Kiki retorts.
“At least it’s not ugly,” Grayson deadpans.
“But it’s very unwitty.” Kiki crosses her arms over her chest, flashing a taunting smile.
“She wins.” I shrug, tapping the wheel and feeling my beautiful wife squeeze my thigh harder in warning. “What? She had the better comeback. I do appreciate a good taunt.”
When we arrive, I allow the valet to park our vehicle, and Rory rushes into the hotel where Tamsin is getting ready for the ceremony. I’m at her heels, and the twins are somewhere behind, probably arguing about what shade of yellow the sun is and who’ll walk through the door first.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket, and I stop and motion for the twins to join their mother down the hall, to help their sister get ready. I plug one finger into my free ear.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Doherty?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Michael Corr. Real estate agent. We spoke on the phone a week ago. You put a bid on the Tolka house on Henrietta Street.”
The house closest to our cottage. The Smiths own it. Well, their children, now that Mrs. Smith is baking cakes in heaven.
“That’s right.”
“Just wanted to congratulate you. They accepted the offer and are happy to go through with the sale.”
I let out a sigh of relief. The past few years, Rory’s mother hasn’t been doing so grand. Thing is, Debbie found a boyfriend six years ago, and she is bloody gaga for him. There’s no chance in hell she’d agree to move in with us, even though we have plenty of space. So I purchased her a house close to ours, so Rory can keep an eye on her. And as for her old-new boyfriend, Antonio Romano? I’m sure he’ll appreciate the proximity to Italy.
Another plus: they’ll be living right across from Tamsin and her husband, James. Which means another set of eyes on my baby. (Yes, this will never get old.)
“Thank you,” I drawl. “You just made a fantastic day even better.”
I kill the call and advance toward the slightly open door of my daughter’s hotel room. I peek inside, letting my heart fill with warm, unfiltered joy.
Grayson and Kiki are on the couch. She is trying to tame his impossible hair, which he got from me, and for once in their lives, they aren’t fighting.
My older daughter is sitting in front of a vanity, a makeup artist and hair stylist fussing around her, holding my wife’s hand.
My beautiful, gorgeous wife’s hand.
“Just remember, you’ll always be my little girl, even when you’re eighty,” Rory says.
Tamsin looks up and smiles at her. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“What for?” Rory smiles.
“Making a family out of Dad and me. Giving me the only thing I truly wanted. Filling a void that couldn’t possibly be filled by anyone but you.”
It’s crazy, but I feel the exact same way about Rory.
I’ve never told my wife what her father said to me when I was a wee lad. I didn’t want to blend her tarnished memory of him with something so pure as our love. But one day, when he was teaching me how to play guitar, he turned around and said, “You know something, Mally-boy? I think one day you’ll be my son-in-law.”
“I’m not going to marry Kiki.” I scrunched my nose.
I didn’t like her that way—that much I knew, even when I was about ten.
“No, not Kathleen. I’m talking about Aurora.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“Not yet.”
“She lives in America.”