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Section 17

Posted on Friday, 29 October 2004

Between myself, Max, and the majority of Maggie's male relatives we had everything from Maggie's apartment moved into my house within the week. Her sofa wouldn't fit up the stairs and around a corner, so it was parked in the living room. The same thing happened to her recliner.

"At this rate I won't have any furniture in the apartment!"

"All the more reason for you to stay in the house," I said, kissing her cheek. Her father, uncle, and cousin glared at me. "In the guest room," I added. They stopped glaring, if only for a moment.

It had been years since that apartment had been occupied, and I had put many, many hours into making it habitable again. Amazing what a coat of paint and new carpet could do; it wasn't incredibly nice, since I didn't want them to get very comfortable. They would be moving into the house permanently in a year.

"Why did you never rent this apartment out?" Maggie asked, looking around.

"No kitchen. Mrs. Rammelmeier cooked for me and on occasion let me use her kitchen. I don't want to cook for a thankless co-ed. I don't mind cooking for you."

"But you were a co-ed too. You would've been doing someone else a favour. And you could've screened possible tenants."

"Ah, but you see, I was all ready teaching. You're lucky I let you have the apartment."

"That's only because Daddy made you. And because you love me." She grinned, showing her dimples.

"I knew there was a good reason in there somewhere," I teased.

It took a little while for Maggie and Dylan to settle in, but that didn't stop Maggie from spending the odd night with me.

April 22nd. Thursday.

As far as Tabbi and the charges against her were concerned, she was acquitted. I don't know how and frankly I don't want to know. Jimmy was planning his appeal seconds after the judge handed down his verdict, so I was told. Richard insisted that he wouldn't get far.

Then there was Maggie's assault case, a two-pronged affair entailing when Jimmy struck Maggie and when I found him at Smokey's Bar and Grill.

I was in the courtroom more than I would have liked. I don't like lawyers and legal entanglements and I've avoided them whenever possible.

"Miss Mitchell, what was the nature of your relationship with my client?" Jimmy's lawyer asked.

"We dated through high school, and broke up when he graduated. I hadn't heard anything from him for the last seven or eight years. He appeared in my office building this past fall and wanted to resume our relationship."

"No contact for seven years? Will you please clarify for us the circumstances?"

"Jimmy didn't want anything to do with me or our son. He was away at college and law school and I was working to provide for Dylan. I wanted nothing to do with him, either."

"Ah. While you were with Mr. Walker, did he ever act in a way that made you uncomfortable?"

"No." Maggie didn't fidget or flinch while being questioned. The lawyer paced back and forth in front of the witness stand, his fingers steepled.

"Did he ever act in a controlling or perhaps abusive manner? That includes verbal, emotional, or physical abuse, Miss Mitchell."

"Thank you for the clarification." No one missed the sarcasm in her voice. I grinned. "No, he did not."

"Did he ever strike you for any reason?"

"No. With respect, sir, I thought this was about the events of December twenty ninth, not what happened nearly ten years ago. I'm aware that you're trying to establish the belief in the jury that Jimmy only acts out when provoked in the extreme, which he does, but I don't see how that's relevant in this case. Why don't you ask me why he hit me that night instead of asking me about what he was like when we dated?"

"Miss Mitchell, please refrain from such outbursts in future," the judge said mildly. Jimmy goggled at such a slight reprimand. There were perks to being the favourite daughter of a well-known criminal lawyer.

"No more questions, Your Honour," Jimmy's lawyer said, looking highly embarrassed.

"Mr. Mitchell, your witness."

Richard nodded and approached the stand.

"Miss Mitchell, why do you think Mr. Walker struck you the night of December twenty ninth?"

Maggie's smile was beatific. "I refused to sleep with him. We had met for dinner to discuss custody of Dylan, and he wanted more. I said no and thanked him for giving me Dylan and essentially leaving me alone so that I could meet the man who is now my fiancé. And because I was happy without him."

"Objection! Conjecture!"

"Overruled."

It was definitely good to have a powerful legal figure in the family, or soon to be extended family. Richard certainly had friends in high places. He dismissed Maggie, having requested and been granted permission to call her back if necessary. Jimmy took the stand in her place.

"Mr. Walker, why did you strike my client?" Richard asked. "And I would remind you that you are under oath."

Jimmy squirmed. He knew he had all ready lost the battle, but was still trying.

"On the night in question, I picked Maggie up for dinner, where we discussed custody of our son. Afterward, I began to take her home, but she started making passes at me, and I was in no state to say no. We'd both had a fair bit to drink. Once I stopped the car, though, she turned cold. I lost my temper and ... the rest is history. We were both drunk."

"That's very interesting, since both the hospital records and police report filed by Miss Mitchell show that she didn't have any alcohol in her system whatsoever. But you did hit her."

"Yes," Walker snarled.

"Were you provoked?"

"She made me mad." He was sweating. Richard had fixed him with a deadly stare and didn't blink once.

"How?"

"She didn't want me," he said. It was a plaintive whimper. A child whining about breaking a toy.

"I don't think the jury heard you."

"She didn't want me! She'd rather have that geriatric bohemian Campbell. And she had the nerve to thank me! So yeah, I hit her. I coulda killed her."

Maggie's sister Alyson pulled out a hair pin and let it fall. Everyone in the courtroom heard it.

Richard leaned in and whispered something to Jimmy. I wasn't able to hear what he said, but I imagine it was something along the lines of: "It's bad enough you knocked my little girl up and then deny the kid's yours, but then you gotta go and hit her too. You're lucky Campbell and the cops found you first, or we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'll reiterate what Campbell told you: Touch Maggie or Dylan again, and you'll regret it. Have a nice day." He stepped back.

"No more questions," Richard said. He grinned at Jimmy's lawyer and raised his eyebrows.

After that no one cared what happened to Jimmy Walker. I still testified, as did the disreputable Smokey, who said that I never laid a hand on Walker except in self-defense and that he'd never seen anyone break a pool cue with his bare hands. Jimmy was sentenced to two years at a high security prison, just like Maggie predicted.

When all that was over and the obligatory victory feast digested, Celia Mitchell broke out the brochures and began planning the wedding.

"Now, Maggie, have you given any thought at all to where you'd like your reception?"

"Not really," she said. It was Monday evening. I was helping Dylan with his homework and making dinner while Maggie entertained her mother.

"Margaret! There's a waiting list a mile long for any of the good banquet halls in the area. Unless you plan on having it ... here..." Celia looked around my living room. Our living room. "You'll want to reserve a hall now for next year."

Celia studied the house. That was the first time she had seen it, the first time she had actually been there, and I think she approved. I worked to keep my house looking good, which wasn't easy with a small, inquisitive dog. Lately his favourite chew toys were the newspaper or roll of toilet paper.

"Hey, Brian, what do you think about having the reception here?" Maggie asked.

"It's all right with me. It depends on how many people we invite if we can accommodate them all."

That sent Celia off on another track. She pulled out a list at least three pages long of people that had to be invited. Each page had two columns and very, very small type.

"Mom, I don't know half these people!"

"They're friends of your father's and will expect to be invited. Most of them won't even come, but they'll send gifts."

"There's got to be at least three hundred people on this list, Ma! Why don't you just get the Silverdome and we can project everything onto the big scoreboard?" I knew Maggie was joking. Celia didn't.

"No!" I said before Celia jumped on the idea. Maggie defused the situation quickly.

"Here, look. Brian and I made our own list."

We did?

She handed her list to her mother. I looked over Celia's shoulder to read it. Maggie had made the list up, thankfully, and had put everyone I knew on it. I raised an eyebrow; Maggie mouthed "Address book." Why wasn't I surprised?

"But darling, I don't know any of these people!"

"But they're our friends." Naturally Celia had a counter, but Maggie stopped her. "What else is on your list, Mom?"

Celia withdrew a page from her portfolio.

"This is a preliminary list?" Maggie asked.

"Well, yes."

"We're getting married next year! Some of this stuff can wait."

"No, it can't. We have to get started on this. Now. I'll go through the list and you can give me an answer. Even just a vague idea would be all right; I know you're under a lot of stress right now. Any suggestions about where you'd like to have the ceremony performed?"

A few places flashed through my mind's eye; there was a park overlooking the lake that would be nice, or one of the gardens at the conservatory. But then again there was a spectacular Gothic cathedral at the heart of the city.

"St. Michael's," Maggie and I said in unison. Celia looked back and forth, surprised.

"What about your dress, Maggie? Anything you'd thought of?"

"Black leather, strapless, with silver studs. Mid-thigh." Maggie said, a complete deadpan.

"Be serious!" Celia was incredulous. "What about Brian? Suit or tuxedo? I think a tuxedo. Very classic and stylish."

"I was thinking a kilt," I said. Celia goggled. "And I am being serious. I won't go regimental, Mrs. Mitchell. I want to wear a kilt."

"What does 'regimental' mean?" Celia asked cautiously.

"It means being traditional and not wearing anything under the kilt. What Brian means is that he'll be wearing boxers."

Mrs. Mitchell was shocked. So much so that she stopped asking questions.

"I can tell you're not taking this seriously," she sniffed, packing away all the brochures and flyers that had erupted from her portfolio. "I'm just going to hire a wedding planner. Alyson didn't give me this kind of trouble, Margaret."

"I'm not Alyson, Mother. And yes, I'm very stressed right now. Hire the wedding planner. I'll show up to whatever appointments are made, but Brian and I get the final say in everything. If Brian wants to wear a kilt, he can wear a kilt. He's got great legs."

Celia Mitchell left very quickly.

May 15th. Saturday.

One of the first steps in the custody proceedings was an evaluation of Dylan's home life with each parent. I don't like strange people invading my house and judging me.

Mrs. Helen Pratt arrived at the house bright and early Saturday morning. And I mean early; I had just gotten out of the shower and she was on the doorstep.

"Can I help you?" I asked, not knowing who this lady was.

"My name is Helen Pratt, and I've been appointed to perform an evaluation. I believe I spoke with your fiancée, Dr. Campbell."

The evaluation had all ready started and I was found lacking; I was dripping on the welcome mat with only a towel between me and utter embarrassment.

"Um, yes. I believe she's up in the apartment. Uh, please come in. I'll just be a minute. I'd like to, uh, get dressed."

Brilliant. Mrs. Pratt made a note on her legal pad as I sprinted upstairs, nearly pitching head first into the banister before catching myself. I prayed that Maggie and Dylan would arrive soon and distract Mrs. Pratt, but I knew Maggie was a late riser, especially on a Saturday morning.

The unfamiliar sound of Keller growling drifted up the stairs as I started down. That could not be good. I found Mrs. Pratt backed against a wall with Keller five feet away, teeth bared and hackles raised.

"Keller, no!" The dog relaxed and trotted over to me, expecting to be rewarded. "I'm sorry, he's very protective of his family. Moreso of Maggie and Dylan than myself, but you know how it is. Once he gets to know you he'll be fine," I babbled. Now babbling! Wonderful.

"I have yet to meet Maggie and Dylan," Mrs. Pratt said, an edge to her voice. Not ten minutes in and I was all ready found wanting.

"One moment, I'll go get them."

"I was wondering, Dr. Campbell, why your fiancée and her son are living at the same address but in an apartment above the garage?"

"We're trying to ease the transition to family life, and there were safety concerns at her old apartment."

Mrs. Pratt raised an eyebrow at that response; it sounded rehearsed even to me. True, but rehearsed, and that was a bad thing.

"Safety concerns? Would you care to elaborate?"

I sighed. "I don't know how much you know about our past legal troubles, but this past December Jimmy Walker struck Maggie, and she needed stitches on her cheek and wrist. Security at her old apartment wasn't the greatest, so Maggie, her father, and myself agreed that she would move closer. They would have moved into the house, but Maggie and I wanted to make the transition as easy as possible for Dylan."

That she approved of, apparently.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go tell them you're here."

I picked Keller up and exited, taking the stairs two at a time. The dog wriggled free and shot straight for Dylan, who was pulling on his sneakers.

"Mom's still asleep," he said.

"I thought as much. Keep Keller company."

I don't remember the bedroom being that small, but then I wasn't sharing the space with a seven year old boy. Maggie was somewhere under a pile of clothes; I assumed they were dirty. Saturday was laundry day.

"Maggie, darling," I growled. I pulled back the covers and encountered ... feet. The other end, then; clothes were shoved off the bed and I found her hair. "There is a Mrs. Helen Pratt here to see you."

"Tell her to come back later! It's too early! It's Saturday!"

"She's from the courts."

Maggie swore and pulled herself out of the mess on her bed.

"Give me five minutes. Coffee?"

"Should be ready by then. I'll make breakfast."

"Thanks, sweetie! I love you!" she called. I was already halfway out of the apartment. I grumbled a reply and escorted Dylan into the house, Keller hot on our heels.

"What's for breakfast?" Dylan asked.

"Most likely my rear on a plate," I thought. I said, "Whatever you like."

"Pancakes!"

"I'm not surprised. Go get the flour."

The coffee was percolating as Maggie swam into the kitchen, looking marvellous as always. Mrs. Pratt was seated on a stool, her back straight and rigid.

"Good morning, Mrs. Pratt. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived."

"That's all right, although I seem to have taken your fiancée by surprise." Mrs. Pratt never seemed to stop taking notes.

"Well, we've been busy. It probably just slipped his mind."

"Probably. I think we'll just get started with the interviews. Now, what is your typical weekday?"

Maggie took that question while I finished the pancake batter and spooned it onto the griddle.

"Uh, well, we wake up around 6:30, Dylan and me. Brian's usually up a bit earlier and has coffee and breakfast started. We get ready for work and school, and leave the house about quarter to eight. I take Dylan to school on my way to work, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays he goes to day-care until I can pick him up."

"I teach later on those days. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I pick him up right after school and we either go back to my office or come home and start dinner," I added. "After dinner Dylan does his homework-"

"Or I can't go to football practice. I mean, soccer practice." Dylan got his comment in. Mrs. Pratt seemed pleased.

"And after that, he takes his bath 'cause he's all sweaty and nasty smelling," Maggie continued, grinning. "And then he goes to bed. We try for eight thirty, but it usually ends up being nine."

"Do they help you with your homework, Dylan?" Mrs. Pratt asked.

"Sometimes. They don't give me the answers or anything, 'cause that's cheating. But they help me understand what's going on."

More notes were made. I finished with the pancakes and set out plates and silverware. Dylan bustled into the kitchen and pulled syrup and butter from the refrigerator.

"Would you like some?" Dylan asked Mrs. Pratt. "Brian makes the best pancakes."

Mrs. Pratt looked at him like he was some sort of alien. Obviously she had never been asked that before.

"All right." A few mouthfuls in and she agreed that they were very good. "Is it Bisquick?"

"Nope! Brian's secret recipe. He's a great cook."

"What about your mother?"

Dylan and I looked at each other, then shook our heads.

"Maggie doesn't cook. Not well, anyway."

"Define cooking!" Maggie cried. "I can make a few things, and I'm excellent with mixes. Brian just makes everything from scratch."

There were at least five pages of notes all ready. I could imagine most of them: Stunning lack of communication. Rushed morning activities on routine days. Lack of maternal instinct from the mother. Fiancé a large, hairy, tattooed beast that comes to the door half naked. Making the transition from separate lives to married life gradual and easy for the child. No apparent lack of discipline.

"What about weekends?"

"Cleaning on Saturdays," I said. "Dylan and I go to the market in the morning while Maggie starts laundry. We come back and finish cleaning, then usually go out with friends in the evening. Go see a movie or something with the children."

"And Sundays we go to church, together, then have a quiet afternoon here and dinner with my folks," added Maggie.

Mrs. Pratt's pen flew across the paper. She asked more questions, mainly to Dylan, then tagged along to "observe" on our shopping expedition. She left, with one and a half legal pads full of notes, at 3:30 p.m.

"We've got a favour to ask you," Stephanie said the next evening. Max was washing the dishes and Maggie was in the bathroom. "You know Tommy's birthday's coming up."

"Next Wednesday."

"Yeah. Well, he wants a party."

"Most children do."

"At your house. A sleepover." Stephanie cringed, playfully expecting an extreme response.

"You didn't promise him that, did you?"

"Well, no, we told him we'd have to ask you first, but that we thought you wouldn't have a problem since you are his godfather and have been a little absent of late. We thought you'd like the idea." Stephanie has a great way of putting things.

"How many kids?"

"Maybe eight. Tommy, Dylan. Six others, max. And you'll have Max, too."

"What about Maggie?" I asked. Stephanie smirked and I knew the worst. "I don't get my fiancée?"

"Girls' night out," she said. "Will you? Please? You'll make one little boy very happy!"

"Yes. I will. But you owe me."

May 28th. Friday.

Seven boys of the average age of ten and a half years, the number being much higher since I added Max's age to that before figuring the average, invaded my house Friday afternoon. Maggie had left all ready and would be staying with Stephanie for the night.

We filled them with pizza, juice, cake and ice cream; played a few party games, but not before they all pulled Max and myself out to the backyard to play a small game of football. All the boys had been on the team Max and I had coached the previous season.

They settled into sleeping bags artfully arranged on the living room floor; a video was in the machine, which they weren't watching, choosing instead to tell ghost stories. I retreated to my bedroom to avoid the insanity. Yes, I wanted more children, but not half a dozen all the same age.

I didn't know what time it was when I felt a slight tug at the sheets.

"Mr. Campbell?" came the small voice of Cooper Mayers, second youngest of the lot. "Mr. Campbell?"

"What is it, Cooper?" I asked, not opening my eyes. I didn't want to know what time it was. I was comfortable.

"I had an accident."

"Like what?"

"I wet the bed."

My eyes flew open. The clock said it was nearly four.

"Did you wake Mr. Parker up?"

"I tried to, but he was snoring too loud."

I threw off the covers. Chances were that Cooper had left a trail of urine from the living room up to my bedroom. I had never had this sort of thing happen before. Tommy had never wet himself and neither had Dylan. The idea of calling Maggie was appealing, in part since I hadn't spoken to her since five o'clock and also because she had to know what to do.

But I didn't. Instead I thought of what made the most sense. Yes, I should have thought of that in the first place, but it was very late and I was very tired. I wasn't thinking clearly to begin with.

"Where's your bag, Cooper?"

"In the hall."

"All right. Go to the bathroom and take your pyjamas off. I'll get clean clothes."

Trying to discern one boy's bag from the mélange of SpongeBob and Spiderman logos was hard enough; luckily Cooper's mother had thought to emblazon her son's name on the handle. I thanked God for permanent markers. I didn't want to put Cooper in someone else's clothes and I knew he'd swim in one of my old tees.

"Here, Cooper," I said, handing his clothing to him. "Do you need help cleaning up?" Please, no!

"Yeah," he replied.

Not having diaper wipes on hand, since none of these children were as yet in diapers, I should have just wet a washcloth and soaped him up. Instead, being what time it was and my mind functioning at a much lower level, I drew a bath for him and lifted him into the tub. He splashed around a little and washed himself while I sat on the toilet. I knew his mother, Stephanie, and Maggie would never forgive me if I so much as thought about leaving a child alone in a bathtub full of water. I couldn't do it. Five minutes later I lifted the boy out and towelled him off, then handed him his clean clothes.

The rest of the boys rolled over and grumbled when I put a kitchen light on. Luckily Cooper's sleeping bag had been at the outer edge of the conglomeration of blankets and sleeping children, so accessing it wasn't too difficult. I pulled fresh sheets and a blanket from the linen closet and made a bed for him on the other end of the room, gingerly stepping over sleeping bodies in the process.

Once he was back asleep cleaning was easy, relatively speaking. I numbly soaked up the last of the mess with a dry bit of his sleeping bag and a towel before hauling everything to the basement and to the washing machine. The sleeping bag, his clothes, and the towel went in and I very, very carefully measured out the detergent. I didn't want to wake up in a sea of foam from the wash. The machine started and I went back upstairs to bed.

Cell phones are a damned bloody nuisance. Maggie called at 6:30 in the morning, an hour and a half after I had fallen back to sleep.

"Good morning, sunshine!" she chirped. Maggie is not a morning person at all, so knowing that she was in such a good mood made mine even worse. "Any tragedies I'll be seeing on the 6 o'clock news?"

"Just something about a man killing his fiancée with a cell phone for waking him up at this unholy hour," I said, eyes still closed.

"Ooh, what happened? Did they break anything?"

"No, but I have to have the carpeting cleaned in the living room. Cooper wet himself at four this morning."

"Oh, yeah, his mom said something about that. It's a phase he's going through, adjusting to a new house. They just moved too."

I put the phone down and hit the pillow with as much force as I could muster.

"And no one thought to tell me this?" I asked after picking the phone back up.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I thought she'd told you when she dropped him off."

"She might've. There were half a dozen children running around, screaming."

"And Max probably wasn't helping much."

"Max never helps much. He tries, but... well, he tries. Why else were you calling? You don't like waking up this early. Especially on Saturday."

"I missed you."

"So did I. Why did you call?"

"The Chief is dead, long live the Chief," she said dramatically.

"What?"

Maggie sighed. "Steph and I were going to meet Mom at the club for breakfast and were going to take the Chief, but he wouldn't start. The whole engine died. One of my uncles is a mechanic. He came out and pronounced him DOA. I'm cleaning him out now and then Uncle Joey's going to haul him away. I'm kinda sad right now."

"I'll bet. You've had him for what, eight years?"

"At least."

"Do you need a ride home?"

"Nah, Steph can bring me. And you don't have to worry about driving me around; one of Daddy's clients is selling his daughter's car, and he's buying it for me. Won't hear of me paying him back."

"That's good. I don't mind playing chauffeur to you, though. I'm not teaching this summer, so my schedule is completely free."

"Yeah, well. Think you can handle a few more hours with those dear, sainted children?"

"So long as you're back here before too long. Otherwise they might be martyred children. I hear signs of life. They'll want breakfast."

"All right. Bye, sweeting. We'll be there in a few hours. By eleven, hopefully." There was a pause. "Can you really manage?"

"Yes. Just get here. I'm going mad without you."

"Try to stay sane a little while longer. You'll be fine."

A round of goodbyes and I love yous followed, and I reluctantly hung up. The Chief was dead. I hoped that Maggie's new car would still have muffler issues. I liked knowing when she was on campus, since it usually meant she was coming to see me. And if that hadn't been her intention, she would at least stop by. Chances were it wouldn't, but that didn't stop me hoping.

I lay there for some moments longer, sincerely wishing that the six children and one adult downstairs would disappear, or at least go back to sleep. But that was not to happen. Instead, I heard the television turn on and Saturday morning cartoons start with headache-inducing cheeriness. Then there were two sets of small feet stomping up the stairs, followed by four small paws.

"Uncle Brian?" Tommy asked, "We're hungry."

"I'm coming."

June 11th. Friday.

Maggie and Dylan had been living with me for going on three months, comfortably housed in the apartment above the garage. More time was spent in the house, however, which suited me just fine. A rhythm had been established between work, play, meals and officious business pertaining to the custody battle. Wedding plans were being handled mostly by Celia and the wedding planner, at her insistence, but we were still given final choices.

Our alone time was precious and infrequent; late at night, after Dylan had been put to bed and Keller left to guard him, Maggie would return to the house and we would spend an hour or two in quiet company. Most nights we were too tired to engage in more lively activities. There were occasions, rare in that they happened every few weeks, that Dylan would be away sleeping at Tommy's house or at another friend's. Those stolen weekends were fully appreciated.

One night Maggie appeared in my office, which was nothing new or exceptional, save that she appeared very agitated. First she sat on one end of the leather sofa, then moved to perch on the arm of a chair; finding that uncomfortable, she stood and began to pace. She investigated a shelf of books; a few were antiques, but most were simply newer editions of classics. I was trying to balance my check book but was quickly distracted.

"Maggie, dearest, what's wrong?"

She wouldn't answer right away, choosing instead to pick at her fingernails.

"We have a small problem... Well, not small per se... more like a rather big problem... Not even a big problem as an inconvenience... In time it'll be a blessing, but at the moment it's not a good thing! It definitely throws a spanner in the works."

"Darling?"

"Well..."

"Maggie!?"

"I think I'm pregnant."

Section 18

Posted on Thursday, 18 November 2004

I didn't hear the birds or frogs or wildlife outside. I didn't hear the music or engines from the passing cars in the street. I didn't even hear the buzz of electricity in my desk lamp.

"Pregnant?" I asked, completely dazed.

"I'm two weeks late ... And I took a home pregnancy test, but I think I did something wrong ... It showed three lines, which isn't even an option ... Two lines means Bun in the Oven, so three must mean I'm having twins or something..."

"P-Pregnant?" I repeated. "I'm going to be a father?"

"Yeah. Sooner than we thought. About 7 months, give or take."

"How?"

Maggie stared, then recovered. "Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much-"

"Maggie! I meant we took, er, take precautions..."

"Yeah, well, the Pill isn't a hundred percent effective, and condoms break. Exhibit A to that is sleeping upstairs. The truth of the matter is that I'm reasonably sure that I'm going to have a baby early next February, and I want to make sure you're going to be there. I mean, this thing is fifty percent yours."

I sat back in my chair, still digesting the information. I was going to be a father. I helped create a tiny life.

Maggie, however, took my pause in a negative sense. She was still standing in the middle of the room, her hands clenched into fists, back ramrod straight. When she spoke, her voice shook only slightly.

"Brian. Do you- Are you going to stay by me, or do I go this alone? I've done it before."

I stood up and, as if walking in a dream, approached her. I touched her stomach and imagined a tiny foot kicking, or a small heartbeat, then folded her into my arms.

"Oh, my love! I'm going to be a father! Again. You've given me so much. Diamonds and gold are glass and paint in comparison. Of course I'll be here! I couldn't leave you, not even if I was threatened with my very life. I'm sorry that that filth Jimmy Walker ruined your faith in men, but I'm here to prove you wrong. This child is mine, and I'll fight for her, and her mother. His loss is my gain. I love you, and Dylan, and this new gift. You won't be alone."

She cried. Oh, did she cry. My task was abandoned for the night and a new one took its place; Maggie was infinitely more important to me than knowing how many checks were outstanding.

Finally she cried her last for the night. She sat beside me, wiping away the last tears from red eyes and bravely sniffling. Maggie looked at me suspiciously when I handed her a tissue from the box on my desk, but she took it and blew her nose with a lady-like snort.

"You know what this means, though," she said, her voice thick. "We need to get diapers and clothes and furniture and car seats and diapers and food and clothes for me and diapers. Doctor and hospital bills. Are we ready for this?"

"You said diapers three times."

"Yeah. Babies go through a lot of diapers."

"Maybe we should get married," I suggested. Maggie stared.

"I thought we were!"

"I meant get married sooner. Move up the date. Or we could elope. Save the big wedding for your family and just get married for ourselves."

"Do you want this?" she asked quietly.

"Maggie, I've wanted to marry you almost since we met. What does it matter if we marry next week or next year? Yes, I'd like to marry you sooner. I think it would be a good idea, and terribly romantic. With your permission, of course."

My goal was attained; she laughed and fell into me.

"God, I did something right to get you."

"As I see it, that something was Dylan. Without him we probably wouldn't be together."

"But... we met before Dylan started soccer. Who's to say things wouldn't have progressed from that?"

"We'll never know, but I'm inclined to believe that, if anything, it would have gone much more slowly." I laughed. "I just realised something. My mother always said that football would be good for me. And it's because of football we started dating. Dylan was on that team, so I saw you every day, and things went from there."

"You can pull everything back to soccer, can't you?" Maggie asked, not amused in the slightest.

"Yes. Up until you and Dylan it was one of the most important things in my life. And now our baby. Football just keeps getting pushed back."

"Don't worry, I won't make you give it up."

"Oh, thank you. Now, have you been to a doctor for an official test?"

"Not yet."

"You need to do that. Go tomorrow."

"I can't. I'm busy all this week and next week. The final decision is next Thursday. After that, things should calm down."

"So we're going to wait for a week and a half before we know for sure?"

"Yes."

That was said in a tone that forbade further conversation on that topic.

"All right then. In the meantime, we can make plans for a summer wedding, late July, I think, would be good; I can start painting the upstairs guest room, the one across from the master bedroom, and getting that ready for a nursery; and we can start stockpiling clothes and diapers and those things."

"You have this all planned out, don't you?" she asked, giving me a strange look.

"I'm very efficient."

"You're scary."

"Maggie, I've wanted children all my life, and while I love Dylan dearly, this is my first opportunity to raise a child from birth. And I'm ecstatic that I've had a hand in creating this new life."

"You're going to be a great dad. You are a great dad. I'm the one that's crap."

"No, you're not. You're perfect. You want what's best for Dylan, and you've done everything in your power to give him that. Thankfully I'm part of that deal."

"Yeah, well. I'm thankful for that too, but- You're going to think I'm a horrible person. I don't want to have this baby." She looked down at her stomach and said "Don't hold this against me. I didn't want Dylan, either, but now I wouldn't give him up for the world. But, Brian," she said, turning back to face me, "This means I don't get time to enjoy just being your wife and everything that goes along with it. It sounds horrible, really, but Dylan's relatively easy to ship off to Mom's or Max and Stephanie's. A baby isn't. In a few months I'm going to be a fat cow and I'm not going to want you to touch me. Like I said, I've done this before, and that was rough. I mean, I had Mom and Dad then and now I've got you, but I don't expect this to be any different than when I had Dylan."

"All right. But that's still months away, and until you put a moratorium on physical contact I'm going to make the most of every moment I have. That starts by me taking you upstairs to bed. Tomorrow we'll move all your things into my room and Dylan into the tower room. As of tomorrow we are a family."

I lost my mind the next morning. Maggie was still sleeping and I didn't dare wake her. So much to do! Dylan was awake, I made him breakfast and told him we were moving him into his room; he was delighted. Wrote out a note for Maggie and we went to the home improvement store. There was paint to buy.

Dylan wanted green, which was no surprise, green with red trim. I didn't want to make any decisions about the nursery, but I still picked out a handful of paint chips; pastels, bold, neutral. Primary. My pockets were stuffed full of them. Dylan and I left the store with two gallons and a quart of paint, brushes, rollers, cleaners, tape and tarps.

We had the floors covered and edges taped off before Maggie rolled out of bed. Literally. There was a thump.

"What's going on?" she asked a few moments later, after shuffling past the doorway on her path downstairs. She had returned and was leaning in the doorway with a cup of coffee.

"Hi Mum!" Dylan said. "We're painting my room!"

"I can see that. It's very ... green."

"Yup! Just what I wanted. Looks like grass, doesn't it?"

I laughed and began to roll the paint onto the wall. It was a lot of green, and I made notes to find posters and other things to cover most of it. Just in case.

"Sure does." Then, to me: "Was this your idea?"

"It's his room now, he can decorate how he likes."

"And you just had this paint lying around?"

"We went out while you were sleeping. I brought back paint chips," I said.

"Okay." She tugged at my ponytail and walked out of the room. "Is there food?"

"Always."

Monday morning I looked at myself in the mirror as usual. The beard seemed a little more grey. I remembered Maggie's crack about whisker burn and decided it was time for a change. It would be very bad form for her to arrive at work with a mark on her neck. And we were in for a big change, what with a baby on the way, and I didn't want to scare the wee one right away.

Once on campus I called my barber and tried to schedule an appointment for that afternoon but was ultimately disappointed. He was booked solid. Max gave me the name of a stylist at the salon he and Stephanie frequented; there I was given a slot at four. Then I called Maggie.

"Maggie, darling, I've got an appointment this afternoon, so I won't be home until after practice. I'll pick up something to eat."

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Routine thing."

"Okay. I'll see you later then, sweetie. Take care. Love you."

"I love you too."

"So, what can I do for you?" a slim, flamboyant man named Marco asked as I sat down in the chair. He whipped a shroud around my neck. "I can guess, but I'd prefer you to tell me in person."

"I want it all to go," I said. "Beard, hair. I look like a bloody barbarian."

"No, you don't. You're not blond and you're not singing opera. But you want it all to go. Can I assume that you don't want me to shave your head?"

"Yes. My fiancée would kill me."

"Oh, congratulations! Did you have a style in mind? How short would you like it to go?"

"I have no idea."

"Okay ... how much time do you spend styling?"

I stared at him.

"None, right. How much time would you like to spend styling?" he asked.

"None."

"All right! I've got a plan. I'll bring the length up to here," he said, pointing to a spot around my eyes. "It'll be a bit shaggy, but it'll look good without styling. And it'll look phenomenal when you do style it. I can hook you up with some fabulous products. Sound good to you?"

"Yes, well, go ahead. Before I lose my nerve."

It took an hour and a half. The first to go was my beard, clipped close with an electric trimmer then shaved with a straight razor, leaving nothing but smooth bluish skin. That was the problem with dark hair.

Then my hair. Marco pulled it back in a ponytail and chopped it off. There was only about three inches to pull back, but still the effect was immediate. I didn't watch as he cut and styled it, not being able to bear it. My hair had been growing out for eight years and had been various lengths all my life; at the time I couldn't remember not having long hair. But, in the end I was content with it. I had short hair that was easily styled and I looked ten years younger.

"You look fabulous!" Marco said, clasping his hands together with delight. A Polaroid was taken and tacked onto his wall of successes.

It was very late when I got home; the house was dark save for the kitchen light. Maggie was asleep in a chair, curled up under a blanket.

I nuzzled her neck and her eyes flew open.

"Who's there?" she asked, not seeing or apparently recognising me in the half-light.

"Maggie, it's me," I answered. I turned the switch on a table lamp.

Her eyes were huge, her hands covered her mouth.

"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "What did you do?"

"I shaved and got a haircut ... obviously."

"But why?!"

"I needed a change, Maggie. I'd had that beard since well before I earned my doctorate, and the long hair- that was just a lack of interest that I became attached to. You don't like it? It's just hair, it'll grow back. I think I look rather good."

"Brian, you've always looked good! This'll just take some getting used to. I liked the long hair, and I liked the beard. You could have told me."

"I wanted it to be a surprise," I said, stepping close and slipping my arms around her waist.

She touched my face and played a little with my hair; Marco had put styling wax in it and she was spiking my hair out in all directions.

"I could like this," she grinned. "You should go to school with it like this."

"Not bloody likely," I muttered. She kissed me.

"You look good, sweetheart. I'm proud of you."

We decided not to mention anything about the pregnancy until we knew for certain. There was no sense in building up excitement. For other people, anyway. It was very difficult, if not impossible, to contain my delight.

I was secretly buying things; diapers, formula, bottles, clothes. Anything that was on sale. All of it ended up in the garage apartment, secreted into closets and cupboards. I spent nearly five hundred dollars before Maggie stopped me.

June 24th. Thursday.

That Thursday I appeared in court with Maggie. Jimmy Walker was there, waiting, with his superior smirk. A third party, a court-appointed guardian, brought Dylan in. For the last two weeks Dylan had been in foster care to stave off potential coaching on either side.

The judge took his time reviewing paperwork but finally looked at both parties in turn.

"I've reviewed both arguments, all the evidence gathered by the evaluators, and all the testimony given by your character witnesses. And I'm throwing it all out."

None of us knew how to deal with that statement.

"Sir?" Jimmy asked, visibly paler and less confident than he had been not fifteen seconds before.

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. I am going to give each parent two minutes to tell me why they should have custody. Dr. Campbell will be included in this, as he has been be active in Dylan's life and will be in Miss Mitchell's life after this. I want no slander or libel, just facts about yourself and why you are the better parent. Mr. Walker, you may have the first opportunity."

"All right then. I am Dylan's father. My income is such that I can give him the education that will best prepare him for adulthood. My connections will give him opportunities he might not otherwise have. I want the opportunity to raise my son, since I am not able to have any other children."

"Are you finished?" the judge asked. Jimmy nodded. "Miss Mitchell."

Maggie stood, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. She couldn't look at the judge at first.

"Your Honour, I'm Dylan's mother. I've been raising him on my own for the last seven years, and I think I've been doing a pretty good job. I love him, your Honour. He's my life. For the last seven years I've been able to provide for him and I've given him every opportunity that's come by. I don't know what the future holds, but I want to give him the best future I can."

There was a pause; the judge made a note, then looked at me.

"Dr. Campbell, you may speak."

"Thank you. Your Honour, I've known Dylan Mitchell since September of last year. I coached his football, er, soccer team. Since then, and since I started dating his mother I have come to love him as my own son. As Maggie said, I want to give him the best future I can. I love him, Your Honour."

Another pause. The judge looked to Dylan, seated away from all of us, looking very small and scared behind the desk.

"Dylan, what do you have to say about all this?"

"Mr. Honour, sir, I want to go home."

"Where is home?"

"With Mum and Brian and Keller, on Delaford Court."

"Who's Keller?"

"He's Brian's dog. My dog. He's a little dog, and his name means Little Companion, sir."

"That's good to know."

"Brian got him because Mum and I said we wanted one. I really like him."

"I'm glad. I've got one more question for you, Dylan, and I want you to answer it honestly. Forget that your mother, father, and Dr. Campbell are in the room. How would you like to solve this problem?"

"I want to go home," Dylan said. "With Mum and Brian. I don't know Mr. Walker. Mum says he's my father, and I know I look like him, so it must be true. I'm sorry he can't have any more kids. I want to know why he wants to be in my life now when he didn't before, and now that Mum and Brian got engaged. He might be my father, but Mr. Walker isn't my Dad. Brian's my Dad."

"Your Honour, he's obviously been coached!" Jimmy choked out.

"No! Mum and Brian have been real careful not to say anything bad about Mr. Walker. At least when I'm around."

He was going to cry. Jimmy Walker was making him cry. It was all I could do to stay quiet and seated.

"I would like some time to consider this."

The judge withdrew, followed by the bailiff. Dylan and his guardian went into a separate room, while Maggie and I went into the hall.

"Oh, God, Brian! I can't lose him!" She collapsed onto a bench, all ready brushing tears away. I stood, helpless.

"Shh, I know."

The sound of expensive wing-tips alerted me to the presence of Jimmy Walker; I didn't have time to react when he shoved me out of the way and roughly took Maggie's shoulders.

"I don't know what you did or how you did it, but you turned my boy against me!"

"Hands off her!" I said.

"Back off!" he snarled. "Your dad may have bought the last two judges, but this one's mine! He's going to hand me full custody and you'll never see that brat again. Get used to it!"

I should not have punched him, but I did. Right in the face. His nose bled all over his designer suit. He flew at me, one fist landing in my stomach. I barely buckled, recovered quickly and laid him flat with another blow to the face. He scrambled to his feet and came at me again, but the guards intervened and were the ones holding me back. The bailiff called Jimmy and Maggie back into the courtroom; I was effectively barred from it.

Minutes were hours, there was no denying that. I was at the security desk, under supervision, waiting for the final verdict. The guard on duty had been called in to account for what happened in the hallway.

Finally, fifteen minutes after Maggie and Jimmy had returned to the courtroom, Maggie appeared at the security desk to claim me. I couldn't read anything from her expression. She put her arms around me and sobbed.

"Maggie-"

"We got him!" she said, her voice muffled against my shirt. "We got him! Full custody, and the judge made Jimmy sign over his parental rights! He's ours, one hundred percent!"

I released her as we heard Dylan running down the hall. I swung him up into my arms and held him there.

"My son," I said, trying it out loud for the first time. "My son."

Richard and Celia threw the largest party I had ever witnessed. It seemed that everyone who had ever known Maggie and Dylan were there; even Julia and Ben Wallace called from Florida. Obviously the Rennie network was working and spreading news at lightning speed.

Maggie still hadn't said anything to her family about her possible pregnancy. I went with her to the doctor the next day and spent an hour in the waiting room. Finally the nurse emerged.

"Dr. Campbell, you can come back now."

I followed the nurse back to the examination room where Maggie was sitting, wrapped in a flimsy dressing gown.

"Dr. Tsiobik will be back with your test results in a moment." And the door closed behind her.

"How long is a moment, you think?" I asked.

"At least ten minutes."

It was much shorter than that and the doctor re-entered.

"Well?" Maggie said, her hand squeezing mine.

"I'm sorry. You're not pregnant."

"What?"

"It's natural to skip a period or two when you're under a lot of stress like you've been recently, and your body chemistry changes and that would affect a home pregnancy test."

I stared at the doctor, a prim woman in a coat that was almost too big on her. Not pregnant. Maggie wasn't pregnant. I wasn't going to be a father.

"But you are both healthy individuals, and I'm sure that once you decide to have a child there will be no stopping you," Dr. Tsiobik said. "Until then, use protection and take care of this lady."

"I will," I said.

We were in the car before Maggie spoke to me.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." No.

"Brian, I know you wanted a baby. I was starting to look forward to it too, but we're not ready for it yet. I mean, we just got Dylan permanently, and Mom's going crazy planning the wedding. We'll be going to Ireland in a month and a half. And Festival! I wouldn't be able to fit into a dress."

"That's hardly important!" I snapped. Maggie sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry. I just- I want children, Maggie, and I'm not a young man any more. I don't know how long I'll be able to-"

"I know. But think about it this way; you are a young, healthy man. You stay active, you work out, and you eat well. When I met you I thought you were at most thirty. So what if we have children later than you wanted? You're still going to be around to watch them grow up. You're going to be a great father."

I didn't answer her, choosing to focus on driving instead. The sky had been a dull grey all afternoon and it was starting to rain. It was a long few minutes.

"Brian, you're scaring me!" Maggie said. "If I had known you'd get so worked up about this, I wouldn't have told you until I'd seen a doctor."

"And then what would you have said? 'I'm sorry, babe, but I thought I was pregnant and the doctor said I'm not'? Or would you have just kept it from me altogether?"

"You're just being stupid!" she cried. "I don't believe this. Do you want me to say I'm sorry? That I'm sorry I'm not pregnant? We weren't planning on having children right away anyway, and now you're angry that I'm not pregnant? I don't understand you."

She looked out the window, her face reflected in the wet glass. I was still angry, but not sure at whom. Myself, for getting my hopes up and buying five hundred dollars worth of baby things? Maggie, for telling me in the first place that she might be pregnant? The doctor, for telling us that Maggie had simply skipped her cycle because of stress? Jimmy Walker, for causing that stress? Who could I justify being mad at?

I was still angry. I had reasoned that it wasn't Maggie's fault at all; the doctor was doing her job; and Jimmy wasn't worth my time. If anyone was to blame, it would be me. Naturally I would get excited at the prospect of a baby, but even placing blame didn't expel the anger I felt.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, pulling into the driveway next to her new purple PT Cruiser, her little mob car. I wasn't supposed to know the history of it. "I need to work this out for myself."

"Where are you going?"

"To the gym. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Be careful," she said, kissing my cheek. "Don't work yourself too hard."

It was nearly three hours later when I got back. I was completely exhausted and ready to drop, but thankfully no longer angry.

There was a shoe on the doormat. It was Maggie's. Odd, I thought. I picked it up and opened the door; there was its match just inside. Very odd, I thought. I kicked it to the side and dropped the first, and noticed a sock on the banister.

Another one was halfway up the stairs. It had been a cool day; her jacket was at the top. I felt a smile start at the corners of my mouth as I climbed the stairway. My suspicions were correct. I followed a trail of clothing up to the master bedroom.

There was music, Schubert, coming from inside our bathroom. I opened the door and found Maggie lounging in the tub, the mirror covered in steam.

"Feeling better?" she asked. I nodded. "Good. Dylan and Keller are with Mom and Dad for the night. Tomorrow night is family night, we'll watch a movie or something. Get a pizza."

"All right. What's all this for?"

There were candles lit and scented oil in the bath, lavender, I think. That and the music, and the trail of clothing. Something was up.

"I figured you'd be tired and sore when you got back and would like to relax. Then I thought, 'Well, hell, I'd like to relax too.' So I lit the candles and popped a bath fizzie in the water and climbed in. You know what I like about this tub?"

"What?"

"It's big enough for two."

The bath was a help. And Maggie... I still wonder what I've done to deserve her.

"So," she started later, "What next, O Master Planner?"

We were in bed, ready for sleep. Maggie's head was on my shoulder, it's usual place, and one arm was around my middle. I sighed.

"I don't know. I suppose we could give all that stuff in the apartment to Max and Stephanie. Of course, we'd have to explain why we have five hundred dollars worth of baby things."

Stephanie was due in July, a boy to be named Christopher Brian, after Max's brother and myself. Max was about to have kittens he was so anxious. It was almost funny. He was taking care of her as if she were made of glass, the proper thing to do, I thought.

"We'll tell the truth," Maggie said. "Max will tease, Stephanie will be sad, and they'll use the stuff. I told Mom. I had to. She was less than thrilled, as you could guess, at the thought of having another baby out of wedlock, but she was genuinely sympathetic when I said it was a false alarm. She really is warming up to you, sweetie. It's just taking time."

"Mm. I think she likes my new haircut."

Maggie laughed. "She does. She said 'I'm glad you talked him into getting a haircut, Maggie. He doesn't look so much like a barbarian anymore. He's actually starting to look handsome.'"

"She did, did she?" I chuckled. "And she's not completely repulsed by the idea of me fathering a child?"

"No," Maggie said, quite seriously. That didn't last long, and she was teasing with "So long as it looks like me. I told her that if it was a girl that she might look like your sister Regan, which she liked."

"That's good. Regan always was the cute one."

"Speaking of sisters, though. Mom wants to know if your family is coming in for the wedding."

"Good Lord, I hadn't thought about that. Dammit."

"Hey, calm down."

"My parents hate flying with a passion. And I know Mum's going to want to see me get married, since she didn't see me marry Emily. No one did."

"Well, I've got an idea," she said, tastefully ignoring what I said about Emily. "And it's very simple. We'll just have two ceremonies. One here with my family and one in Ireland. We can run the idea past your mother and go from there. Things'll work out. You'll see."

I turned off the bedside lamp and Maggie snuggled closer to me.

"Have I told you lately how much I love you?" I asked.

"Mm. No, but I can imagine. It's about as much as I love you."

"Just about," I said.

Maggie sighed, her eyes closed. I watched her fall asleep before letting my own eyes close for the night.

Section 19

Posted on Saturday, 27 November 2004

July passed in a blur. Dylan and I had football practice for our respective teams, so we kept Maggie running back and forth between home, practices, and work. Together we had rehearsals for the Renaissance Festival on Saturdays; Maggie had auditioned unbeknownst to me and as a great joke they cast her as my betrothed and/or wife. Desmond Kildare was an incorrigible bachelor, and now he had a wife who was a mixture of Katherina, Bianca, Beatrice, and Hero; part nag, part bimbo, complete hindrance. Dylan had been cast as a page, with the understanding that he would stay with court or a court member at all times.

Of course, with Maggie as a lady in waiting, she needed a court dress. And at the time she could not sew to save her life; neither could I, but I had an accomplished seamstress to help me, and she was helping Maggie in turn. That meant long nights... for me.

"Will I be getting my fiancée back any time soon?" I asked, stepping through the door into Diane's sewing room.

The four other women in the room squealed, buried under pounds and yards of fabric, sewing new pieces and touching up old ones with beads and embroidery.

"Not for a while, Hot Legs," Maggie said, not turning from the sewing machine and its' hypnotic thrumming. "I'm not half done yet, and Fest starts in three weeks. Plus we go to Ireland in two, and I sure as hell ain't taking this stuff with me."

"Am not," Diane corrected. She looked at me, smirking. "Hot Legs?"

"None of your business, young lady," I said. Diane was the same age as Regan. She'd been a Rennie since she was ten.

"Aww, come on! We've all seen you in a kilt. Your legs aren't that great. There's gotta be more to a name like 'Hot Legs.'"

"It's none of your business," Maggie said. Still didn't work.

"Don't bring up something like that if you don't want to talk about it!" Diane said. "It's like putting a steak in front of a starving dog. You just don't do it!"

"Fine. Correction: You've only seen his legs from the knees down. I get the privilege of seeing him naked. I'll leave the rest up to your filthy imagination, gutter rat."

Diane's eyes were wide and I could almost see her mind working.

"So, aside from asking a very silly question, what brings you here, Hot Legs?" she asked once she recovered. "I mean, you could have just called instead of driving all the way out here."

"My doublet's gone a bit tight in the shoulders. I was hoping you could let a seam out or something."

"You were supposed to be trying everything on before now, my Lord Kildare!" Stella Rourke said, rolling her eyes and slipping into her character as easily as second nature. "Give it here, I'll do it. Honestly! My Lady, you will have to keep him in better state than he is able to keep himself. I should hate to report to our Queen that you have been remiss in your duties."

I handed over the doublet after pulling it on to show where it was tight. Maggie was still finishing her bodice.

"Ah, but you must remember, my dear," Maggie said, working out her new persona a bit and concentrating on her sewing, "That Lord Kildare and I are not yet married, as our most glorious Queen is waiting to attend the ceremony later this summer. Until that time I may claim no responsibility for my betrothed's appearance."

"Excellent answer," Stella replied. "I'll have it for you by the time you get back, Brian. Give Regan our love."

"I will. Can I please have my fiancée back? Just for tonight? I promise, I won't ask for her again until we leave for Ireland." I gave the ladies my most pathetic face, made so much more effective minus beard and moustache.

Maggie looked around, her eyebrows raised and pleading.

"All right," Stella said. "But Maggie has to take her sleeves with you to finish them there." She produced two sleeves from her bag, a match for Maggie's blue and tan gown. "I was going to finish beading them for her, but because you are stealing her away for the night she must do them herself."

"Ooh, thank you!" Maggie squealed, hugging the older woman. "This saves me a week's worth of work!"

"I know. Now, get out of here before I take them back and make you stay. Brian'll hate me for days if that happens."

"Yes, I will. I haven't seen her for more than five minutes together in the past five weeks."

"You work her too hard!" Gena Parris said, having just finished an intricate design on her forepart.

"In his defense, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this. He did too, so he shouldn't be complaining."

Maggie was picking up her assorted garments and paraphernalia, stuffing them into a huge canvas bag. I saw Stella, Diane, and Gena exchange looks; the two other ladies were oblivious. They pulled the bag from Maggie's hands as she passed on her way to the door.

"Go home," Diane said. "This'll wait."

"Thank you," I said, nearly pulling Maggie out with me. "I owe you."

"Oh, we know, Hot Legs," she said. "We know."

That was a dangerous thing to hear from Diane.

"What do I pack?" Maggie asked, staring at the contents of her closet, which seemed to have vomited onto our bed. Her suitcase was on the floor. "What's the weather like in Ireland?"

"Well, it's an island in the northern Atlantic ocean. Summer clothing as you know it isn't the best idea."

I watched as she deliberated, completely fascinated by how much thought went into this project. She placed a handful of shirts into the suitcase, only to take half of them out a moment later. This continued for half an hour, and by then she was no farther ahead than when she started.

"Maggie, what's wrong?"

"What if your mother doesn't like me?" she asked, sitting down on the bed.

"Mum adores you."

"She hasn't met me yet."

"But you've talked, frequently. Ran my long-distance bill into the ceiling with it."

Maggie laughed. "Well, she wants to be kept up on what's going on here, and she is planning a wedding all by herself. Two weddings. You don't exactly call every week yourself."

"Leave it to a woman to engineer such an excuse," I teased. "My mother will love you. My whole family will love you. Relax. Please. You have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, nothing. I'm just flying halfway around the world to meet my future in-laws and the only people I know are you and Regan. Yes, I'm worried. I need people to like me."

"I like you."

"You have to say that, you're marrying me," she grumbled.

"I don't have to say anything," I said before I kissed her. I don't always understand her, but that doesn't change the fact that I love her.

She continued flitting around the room, tossing things into the bag as she went. A pair of lacy panties landed at my feet.

"Maggie, we're staying with my parents," I groaned.

"Suffer," she said, taking them from my hands and dropping them into the suitcase.

The flight was uneventful. Dylan had his GameBoy and when he wasn't solving puzzles and fighting monsters he was watching the in-flight movie. Maggie slept, her head on my shoulder. It had been a long day for her and it wasn't over yet. I had my notebook and was trying to compose ... something. Poetry had been last on my mind lately. I had other things to think about, namely the woman sitting on my left and the boy on my right. It was as if I could only write when I had nothing better to do and now I was preparing for two weddings, my sister's and my own. But then...

For Maggie

Who would have thought
The simple act
Of walking through a door
Could change a life?

Who would have thought
A simple game
Would have lead the way
To something more complex?

I didn't.
And I don't think
You did either.
What a wonderful surprise.

"Brian, look!" Dylan said, opening the shade to the window. The sun was setting. "We're over the ocean!"

"Yes, about halfway," I replied. I looked at the projected flight path on a monitor. Halfway. "Enjoy it while it lasts. It'll be dark when we land. Maybe you'll want to get some sleep."

Dylan nodded and returned to his game. This was new for him, his first flight. I could understand why he would want to be awake for it. And to meet new grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. He was terribly excited about the whole thing, as anyone would be.

Liam picked us at the airport, my roly-poly little brother, sleep tousled as usual and smiling.

"Regan wants my head because she couldn't make it," he said. "And Mum wanted to make sure there was something for you to eat when we get there. She's so worried about 'that darling boy,' which this time doesn't mean you. Hello," he paused in his stream of consciousness babbling to extend a hand. "I'm the brother, Liam. You must be Maggie and that one is Dylan."

"Hello," Maggie said, grinning. "It's good to meet you."

Dylan was hiding behind my legs, tired and shy. Liam crouched to look him in the eye.

"My son's about your age, give or take a year. You'll meet him later. You like football, then?"

Dylan nodded.

"Good. You'll get on well here. My kids and your Auntie Moira's all play."

"You're scaring him, Liam. The boy's just flown six hours to get here and was up half the night with nerves."

"Ah, yes. Right. And Maggie looks like she just woke up," he said, noticing that Maggie was wobbling. "Let's go get your things and we'll be off. I've got this one."

Without further ado he hoisted Dylan and threw him over his shoulder. Dylan shrieked with laughter as Liam carried him away. I put an arm around Maggie's waist and lead her along.

"Are you awake yet?" I asked. Maggie blinked.

"He didn't say three words to me," she said.

"No, he said," I counted out on my free hand, "Nine words to you. He's much better with children, really. Has half a dozen of his own, and teaches too. Does a bit of everything. Give him a little time to warm up to you."

She wasn't completely convinced, but between meeting him and the drive out to our family's farm she was won over. The Campbell Charm never fails, especially when it's turned on. Liam did not stop talking the entire time, telling stories and cracking jokes, and that helped Maggie relax.

The house exploded when Liam's truck pulled into the drive. My mother and half a dozen dogs came running out to greet us, followed by a small army of children and their parents. Dylan bolted for the crowd of little ones, intent on making friends with his cousins while the novelty was still there.

Maggie was hanging back, biting her lip and back to being nervous. I started to return to her, but Mum beat me to it.

"And you're Maggie!" she said, flinging her arms around her. "Prettier than I ever thought. Welcome home!"

It was my mother's typical warm welcome, and it was the last thing Maggie was expecting. She started crying, and Mum was there to comfort her.

"Oh, now, don't be crying. We're glad you're here. Come along inside and we'll get some food in you. You must be half starved!"

Leave it to my Mum to shepherd everyone inside. I was near the end of the line and walked past my elder sister Moira.

"Well?" I asked, pausing. "What do you think?"

"I don't know yet," she said. "She seems a bit... emotional."

"She's tired and very nervous about meeting everyone. Be nice."

She didn't answer.

"Please," I said. "This is important to me, Moira. She's very important to me. Try to like her."

Moira went inside, still without speaking. She was very protective of all of us. I was amazed that Liam's wife survived the inquisition Moira gave her; looking back I realise that she is a lot like Celia Mitchell, but it didn't take as long to win Moira over. Maggie was in for one hell of a ride, but I knew she would come out all right.

"That went well," I said later, after dinner and dessert were eaten and the laughing, shouting, and storytelling was through. My parents were asleep and Dylan had crashed on the living room floor. He was safe under the careful protection of Mum's pack of animals.

"Your sister doesn't like me."

"My sister doesn't like anyone we date," I replied. "It's the Irish Inquisition. No one expects it, but it happens. I forgot and I'm sorry I didn't warn you."

"Yeah, well. You were right. And don't say 'I told you so.' I'll have to kill you if you do."

"I won't."

It was later, just before we fell asleep, that I whispered "I told you so."

She elbowed me in the stomach.

The Campbell family farm is situated on a hill. I don't recall how many acres it covers, but it is fairly large. It's been in the family for generations and my father was still running it even then. We raised sheep.

My mother was a domestic goddess, and she had Maggie cooking not two days into our stay.

"How is this possible?" I asked. "I've been trying to get you in the kitchen for more than coffee since December."

"I don't know. Fresh air and sunshine?"

"It's been overcast."

"Stop pestering her, Brian!" Mum said, placing a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. "You're on vacation. Now that you're not running all over God's creation she's got time to learn to cook. Maggie, don't let this boy run you ragged."

"Don't worry, Mum," Maggie said. "I'm okay. Brian doesn't get away with much."

"See that he doesn't."

"What are you making?" I asked. "And where's Dylan?"

"Pie for tonight," Maggie said.

"Dylan's out with Papa. He's showing the boy the sheep."

"I'm sure he loves that," Maggie said, rolling her eyes. "And will come back smelling like sheep poo."

"Only if he steps in it," I said.

"Regan will be coming in two days," Mum said. "And the wedding's in a week. What will you two be doing in the meantime?"

"We hadn't discussed that," I said, looking at Maggie. "I'll probably take Maggie and Dylan on a tour, show them the sights. Go back to Trinity and poke around a bit. You're welcome to come along, Maggie, if you like."

"We'll see. It'll depend on what's going on. I'm not worried about seeing everything right now. Maybe I'll just want to stay here and bond with Mum."

Both women looked at me and I knew the answer.

"All right, all right. I'm going to go find Dylan and Dad. Dylan will at least want to see where I earned my degree."

"Oh, cry me a river!" Maggie said, kissing my cheek. "It's not like we'll never be coming back here. And like you'll really only visit once."

I pouted, which made Maggie toss a chunk of pie crust at me.

"Now, children," Mum reprimanded, trying unsuccessfully to hide a satisfied smile.

"I think it's very dangerous that you two get on so well," I said as I was walking out the door. They threw things at me.

I went to Trinity and found one of my friends was teaching there, but was unfortunately not in his office when I stopped by. I left a message for him to contact me and went walking around the campus.

There were a handful of people around, which surprised me as it was early August. Two were young men, each with a guitar, and the rest were ladies. I was intrigued; they were playing classic rock, songs I had grown up listening to and that were older than the boys playing them. More people gathered, including myself.

I couldn't believe it that when the song ended, I said "Mind if I play?"

There was a moment of deliberation between the two men and one handed me a guitar. It had been a while since I had last played but it came back quickly. We started with the old standby, "Classical Gas," then moved into The Rolling Stones' "Honky Tonk Woman." Halfway through that there was a jostling in the crowd and Maggie pushed her way through.

I turned to the boy beside me and mouthed "Maggie May," to which he nodded. We played and Maggie stood, fists on shapely hips, while I sang. I smirked while she glared at us and the girls in the crowd, the other ladies were sending coquettish looks my way. She elbowed the closest to her if they tried to move closer.

"I can't leave him alone for a minute!" she said when we finished.

"Thanks," I said, handing the guitar back to its owner. "That was fun."

"You play pretty well," the one said. "Are you a prof here?"

"No. I graduated from here, though. A long time ago."

"Couldn't have been that long," a girl said, batting her eyelashes. Maggie glowered and pulled me away. Not before pulling me down for a searing kiss that firmly established the fact that I was taken.

"Are you jealous?" I asked once we were a safe distance down the road.

"A little. You never told me you played guitar. Then you went and sang that song that I don't like. And after I came all the way out here to find you. That wasn't nice."

"I'm sorry. I thought that I could get away with it if I sang it in a crowd."

"Yeah, well. There were all those girls there and that bugged me more. You're taken. You're not supposed to be flirting with other girls. I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick."

She was teasing. I put an arm around her waist and grinned.

"And I'm sure you'll do wonderfully. I'll even get you a stick if you like. There's a nice one over there."

I stepped off the road and pulled a three-foot branch from a dead tree. Maggie shook her head and accepted it.

"Did you walk to school every day?" she asked.

"No. We're miles from home. There's a bus that runs out to our area. How did you get down here?"

"Liam dropped me off. How long will it take to get home?"

"An hour or two. Maybe three, if we walk very slowly."

"Let's walk slowly. Maybe stop every once in a while to admire the scenery." Maggie's hand found mine, the other still holding the stick.

"I like your thinking."

We walked on for a little while, a bit of pleasant conversation, very relaxed. It was the kind of afternoon that could only be called perfect.

There was a signpost by the side of the road. I looked up and stopped dead in my tracks, Maggie jerking to a stop a step ahead.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Miss A. Raspberry," I said, pointing to the sign. "I had a Miss Albertine Raspberry for a teacher in primary school. I wonder."

"Let's find out."

Maggie pulled me towards the drive but I resisted.

"Let's not. It can't be her. She was ancient when she taught me thirty-five years ago. She's most likely passed on by now."

"You were five. Everyone's 'ancient' when you're five."

"No, honestly, she was older than my grandmother, and my grandmother's passed on. This can't be her."

"Then maybe it's a relative. Trust me on this. Let's go see who this is. If it's your Miss Raspberry, she'll be pleased as punch to see you, since you're a former student. My Aunt Sofie loves hearing from students. And if it is a relative, you can share nice memories. They are nice memories, right?"

"Nothing but."

"Good. Come on, let's go!"

The house was small, set back in a stand of trees. There were a dozen cats lounging in the sunlight, and another half dozen were stalking butterflies and sparrows. The windows were open and a breeze stirred the gingham curtains. Classic Dean Martin was pouring out from a record player inside, but other than the cats there was no sign of life.

I looked at Maggie and shrugged; she rolled her eyes, then lightly stepped up the porch steps and knocked three times.

"Just a moment."

The door opened and there she was, Miss Albertine Raspberry, not a day older than she was when I left her class thirty-five years ago. I don't know how that was possible and I don't want to know. But there she was.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

"Hi, um, are you Miss Albertine Raspberry?"

"Yes," she said.

"And you taught primary school?"

"Yes. I still do, in fact."

I swallowed a choke. Impossible!

"All right. Um, well, see that gentleman behind me?"

Miss Albertine Raspberry looked and smiled.

"Why, if that isn't Brian Campbell! I wasn't aware you were back in the area! Little Regan's getting married, isn't she?"

"Yes," I said, stepping forward and trying to keep my face from going red.

"Well, come in then," Miss Raspberry said. "We've got a lot to talk about. I'm sorry, dear, but I didn't get your name."

"Oh, I'm Maggie, Maggie Mitchell. I'm Brian's-"

"My fiancée," I said, interrupting. After all, Miss Raspberry was my primary school teacher. "We're getting married in May."

"Congratulations!" Miss Raspberry said. "Come along. I've just put some water on for tea."

We stepped inside and into a strange sort of time warp. Yes, there were more cats inside, ruled by one supremely leonine male, long-haired and regal. He surveyed the room with one eye, the other obscured by a worn leather eye patch. He was sitting on the back of a plump floral armchair, covered by an enormous crocheted doily. He watched us as we in turn surveyed the room.

The walls were covered in what could only be the original paper, and even over that were dozens of sepia toned photographs in ornate antique frames. The record player was a Victrola, perfectly preserved and still functional. Everything was out of place, it seemed, or it was that Miss Raspberry's house was a time capsule that was lived in.

"Make yourselves at home, tea will be ready in a moment," Miss Raspberry said.

"Thank you," Maggie said, sitting down on the afghan shrouded sofa.

I gingerly settled on the chair ruled by the long-haired, one-eyed cat. It creaked under my weight, which made Maggie smirk. The cat sniffed my hair and decided he didn't like me. With one movement, clichéd and fluid, he went down to the arm of the chair and off, a soft swish of fur and lifted tail. He slipped across the room and leapt up onto Maggie's lap, and he gave me such a look. I know it sounds strange and rather too human, but I felt that cat was gloating.

"Ah, you've met Jack," Miss Raspberry said, re-entering the sitting room with a tea tray. "He's such a sweetheart."

"Yes, he is!" Maggie said. I swear that cat was grinning while Maggie stroked his back.

"Now, I'm sure you find this hard to believe," Miss Raspberry said, looking more to Maggie than myself; I had a bad feeling about what was going on. "But I remember Brian very well, even though it's been over thirty years since I've seen him."

"I think it would be hard for anyone to forget Brian."

"That's very true. He was an exceptional student, very thoughtful and charming. I remember his very first day of school. He was very excited to be there, I know, but he was also very apprehensive. His mother walked him into my classroom and introduced us. He shook my hand and said hello very nicely, and then wet himself."

"Oh, no!" Maggie said. I knew she was trying not to laugh, and I would rather she would have; I also knew I would catch hell from her later.

"Yes. His mother was embarrassed, as you could well imagine, but not as much as he was. He cried so pitifully and had to be taken home to change and came back the next day."

"Thank you, Miss Raspberry," I said, none too pleased.

"Now don't be embarrassed by that now, Brian," Miss Raspberry said. "What's a poor old woman to do but share her memories with those who come to visit? Are you afraid of being teased by this darling woman?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Aww, sweetie," Maggie said, laughter in her voice. "I promise, I won't say anything... in public about that. If it makes you feel any better, I threw up on my first day of school, and my mother told that story to anyone who'd listen."

"You see, you have nothing to worry about. And I must say, Maggie, that I'm glad Brian's found a woman like you. I don't even know you that well and I know you'll be a wonderful couple. My instinct is never wrong on these things."

The visit ended when Miss Albertine Raspberry announced that she had to go into the city to go shopping, and that she was glad to see us and hoped we would stop by again, perhaps the next time with Dylan.

"Oh, this kitty is just so sweet!" Maggie said. She was actively debating how best to remove the cat from her lap, where he seemed perfectly content to stay.

"And he does seem to like you," Miss Raspberry replied. "Maybe he'll follow you home."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Miss Raspberry said. "He comes and goes as he pleases. Just appeared one day and has been visiting every since. He's not mine, but no one's claimed him. There's something special about that cat."

"There's something special about you, Miss Raspberry," Maggie said, Jack in her arms. She reluctantly put him down and he wound himself around her ankles. He gave a rich purr, pearls on velvet, looked up at me and winked.

"Oh, now, stop," she said, blushing a little. "Now get going. You've got things to do, and so do I. It was a pleasure seeing the both of you."

"And it was good seeing you again, Miss Raspberry," I said, gently kissing her cheek. "Even being embarrassed in the process."

We said our goodbyes and left. Maggie did tease me a little about my first day of school, but it was in fun. She discarded the stick, which one of the cats outside had been guarding.

When we got back to the farm there was a message waiting for me. Tony O'Leary had called and wanted to meet me for lunch. The time and place was set, and all I had to do was wait.

I stepped into the Crossed Arms pub and saw him immediately. Tony O'Leary hadn't changed one iota in the twenty years since I had seen him. He was still ruddy faced and wearing clothes twenty years out of date.

"Campbell, old boy! It's so good to see you!" he said, standing up and swaying more than he should. "Glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't miss this for the world. Nothing could keep me away, not even that hideous suit."

The barmaid brought by a pitcher and an empty glass for me.

"Thanks."

"So, your little sister's getting married. And you are to. Your mum told me. Big changes," Tony said, pouring out two glasses of the best beer I've had in ages.

"Yeah."

"I've heard she's a real beauty." There was a note of wistfulness in his voice. Tony was twice-divorced and working on his third. I wished him luck.

"She is," I said. "And sweeter than she is beautiful. I'm a lucky man."

"Yes, well. We'll stop singing your praises. You're making me sick."

"Could be the four or five beers you've had all ready this afternoon, mate. How many have you had?"

"Not enough. Things are going absolutely bonkers at school. They made me department chair. Can you believe it? Me! A load of bollocks, believe you me."

"Can't be that bad," I said, moving the pitcher out of Tony's reach. He downed the last of his drink and wanted more.

"Horrible. Henry Bernhard's retiring in a few years and aside from being department chair, they want me to head up the team to find a replacement."

"Battleaxe Bernhard is retiring? Now?" I asked. "I thought he would have left years ago!"

"He's holding on for dear life. I almost wish he'd give up and enjoy the rest of his life; he made ours hell, didn't he?"

"He was difficult," I admitted. "How's the search going?"

"How do you think? I've looked through a hundred resumes if I've looked through one. Each one is fantastic and would be a million times better than Bernhard, but the team, which consists of me and the secretary, can't narrow down the list. Actually, we did. We separated the people we liked from the people we didn't. And that wasn't much."

"I don't remember you being so damn pessimistic, Tony," I said. "There has to be something good in this."

"There is," Tony said, contemplating the foam leftovers in his glass. "I want you to take the job."

Continued In Next Section