He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he couldn’t avoid a direct question. “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. I got hit by a car. Hit-and-run driver, actually.”
“No shit? Have they caught the guy?”
“Not yet,” Marshall said grimly.
The lack of progress in the investigation just might be making him crazier than the cabin fever.
“That blows.”
“Definitely.”
It had been a really rough week, but he was glad at least he’d had the chance to talk to his son.
“How long you been a cop?”
“Longer than you’ve been alive,” he said truthfully. “I started as a military police officer—an MP—in the Marines, then became a civilian when I left the military. My dad was the chief of police in Haven Point and his dad before him.”
“Weird.”
That was one word for it. He wanted to tell Christopher he came from a long legacy of men and women who had chosen to protect and serve. He longed to tell the boy he was the spitting image of his uncle who had died one wintry night while helping people in need and about his grandfather who was still much beloved and greatly missed by the people of this community, a year after his death, and about his aunt Wyn, who had been shot in the line of duty while trying to rescue Andrea and her children from a sociopath.
Of course, he couldn’t mention any of that.
The list of topics he had to avoid left him very little to talk about, so he settled on the most boring thing an adult could ask a young person. School.
“I guess you don’t have many more days left before Christmas vacation.”
“Yeah. We get out next week. Can’t come a minute too soon for me.”
They talked about his classes for a moment, though it was obvious Christopher didn’t have much interest in the topic. After a moment the boy made one more swipe with the shovel and Marshall had to regret his driveway wasn’t longer.
“There you go. Next time call me, cop. No sense paying me if you’re only gonna come out and do it yourself.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
The boy shrugged and set the shovel back up on the porch before he headed back to his house, his fleeting interest in further conversation apparently dying a quick death.
“’Night,” he mumbled.
“Good night,” Marshall answered. He watched him until he was inside, then turned and hobbled back along the now-cleared sidewalk to his porch and up the few steps.
By the time he made it into the house, everything felt like one big solid ache, but he didn’t care. He had just enjoyed a halfway civil conversation with his son. Perhaps there was some reason for optimism that he might actually be able to build a genuine relationship with the boy.
You should tell him.
Amid the heated memories of that stunning kiss he had shared with Andrea, he hadn’t forgotten her insistence that he needed to step up and tell the boy’s grandparents and Christopher himself that Marshall believed he was his father.
He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Better to carefully insert himself in his son’s life a tiny step at a time, give them a chance to get to know each other.
His cell phone rang just as he settled back into the recliner with a beer and the remote.
He thought about ignoring it, since he really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but when he saw the caller ID, he sighed and knew he had to answer. He had already ignored three calls from his mother that day, responding instead with a brief text that he was okay but couldn’t talk. One more and she would probably be banging on his door to find out for herself why not.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Marshall. There you are. How are you, my dear?”
He vowed he would never ask that question again to someone suffering an injury. He had a broken leg. How did she think he was?
“Fine,” he lied. “I was just out shoveling snow.”
“Oh, stop teasing me. You were not.”
He most certainly was, but he decided she would never believe him anyway, so there was little point in arguing.
“Who is clearing away your snow? I didn’t even think of that! Do you need Mike to come over when it snows? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
His uncle, who had no children of his own with his first wife, was probably doomed to spend the rest of his married life checking on Charlene’s various children.
“I’m good. Thanks. I’ve actually hired a boy in the neighborhood.”
“What boy?”
Your grandson.
The word hovered on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t tell her—not yet and maybe not ever.
Though he knew how desperately Charlene longed for grandchildren, if Louise and Herm didn’t want him to intrude into the boy’s life, he would have to respect their wishes.