“Perfect.” He kisses me softly with a heart that is true.
Epilogue
TUCK
Several years later
It’s the tickling on my face that wakes me up. I glance over at Francesca’s form as she sleeps splayed out on her side of the bed, hogging the covers. She snores loudly. I turn back and see my son standing next to the bed. Cherry sits at his feet, wagging her tail.
I check the clock. Four in the morning. Jesus.
Franco peers at me, his four-year-old face scrunched in concentration. It’s the same look he gets when he plays checkers with Darden. He inherited Francesca’s widow’s peak and artistic intelligence. From me, he got his tall frame and kind nature—or that’s what Francesca says. I never would have described myself as kind, but she believes in me. I’m definitely mellow, living my best life at forty. Funny how I always worried about what came after football, and you know what? Happiness came. Oh, it’s not always perfect. There’s always a dab of chaos here and there, but it’s the way you handle it that makes life beautiful.
Franco’s tawny hair is mussed, his football pajamas wrinkled from sleep.
“Hey, little dude. Did you wake up too early? Wanna crawl in with me?” My voice is groggy with sleep as I tug the duvet down for him to get in the bed. He sleeps with us sometimes. After a bad dream or during a storm. Cherry too.
He shakes his head.
“Okay, did something happen? You all right?” I scrub my jawline as I sit up. He had a stomach bug last month. Vomit. Diarrhea. Crying. Record-breaking awful. Francesca and I got it next. That whole week feels like a blur. See, chaos.
He smirks, an expression straight from Francesca.
I glance at his hand—the one he just put behind his back. “Is that a Sharpie?” I grunt. “Ah, so that was the tickling. What did you draw on me?”
“A smiley face. A race car.”
He doodles on everything. His body, his toys, his closet wall.
Getting out of the bed, I grab my plaid pajama bottoms and slide them on. I take his hand, and we tiptoe out of the bedroom so we don’t wake Francesca. His feet pad softly against the marble as I stop in front of the mirror in the master bath.
I sigh. I can’t even be mad about it. I mean, yeah, it’s in permanent marker and will be a bitch to get off, but the detail and clean lines are damn good. The car is on my forehead, complete with him inside of it, his hands on the wheel. Like me, he loves fast cars. There’s a tiny smiley face on my nose.
I ruffle his hair. “You’re gonna help me get this off later when I’m awake. You ready to go back to sleep?”
He pauses, his lips quivering. “I got up to pee, then heard something in the house. So I made art.”
I ease down and rub his back. “Hey. I’m here. It’s okay. I like your art, just not on my skin.”
“Can I draw on Mama’s?”
A conspiratorial laugh comes from me. “I’d love to see it, but best to ask first. Go ahead and pee.”
He slips onto my toilet, does his business, and then comes back out and gazes up at me with adoration in his aquamarine eyes. “Will you check the house, Daddy?”
Daddy. I take a deep breath. That word never gets old and still gets to me emotionally, especially in his sweet voice.
“Sure thing. Let’s walk it together, yeah? We can figure out what woke you up. Big-boy stuff.”
Holding his small hand in mine, I walk through the modern-style two-story house, our beach home in the Hamptons. With most of the walls made of heavy glass and concrete, the space is about three thousand square feet, with a small cottage and a heated pool. I bought it for Francesca’s birthday four years ago, right after we got married. It came with ten acres of land and 250 feet of private beachfront. It’s an oasis. Manhattan is her true love, but this is our escape from me running the nonprofit and her gallery. Plus, it’s bigger than the yacht. It’s become the hub for our get-togethers with the family. We throw a Christmas party, celebrate our birthdays, and have a huge spring event, complete with an egg hunt and me as the Easter Bunny. Cece and Lewis come in from California, Darden sits in a chair and points his cane at us—well, except for the kids who attend. He adores those. Brogan and his current love interest attend, and Ronan and Nova and their brood come.
With Cherry on our heels, we stroll the state-of-the-art kitchen. I check each pantry and closet, then turn on ambient lights as we walk into the den. Everything is quiet—just the lulling sound of the ocean in the distance. Invariably, my gaze goes to Francesca’s painting of our family over the fireplace. My heart swells. I married her a few months after Franco was born in a small ceremony in Central Park. We stood in front of each other on Bow Bridge and made vows. Mine was to always love her and put her first, to support and lift her up, to be the shouldershe needs if she cries. I promised to be her family, to take her people into mine and build something beautiful.
After checking the entire first floor, we head upstairs and walk the hall. We stop outside one of the bedrooms. I hear a soft clicking sound.
“Maybe it was that?” I ask. “The room is right next to yours.”
He looks up at me. “Should we check?”