Muriel Jensen - Four Reasons For Fatherhood

“Can you take your hair down?” Aaron asked, turning to the medicine cabinet. “Your hair’s pulled tight and covering part of the cut.”

Susan removed the pins that held her hair up and handed them to Paul, who put them on the counter.

Then Aaron was hovering over her again. He reapplied the washcloth, then put it aside and ran his fingers through the back of her hair, probably to move the strands that covered the cut.

But it had the most surprising effect on her.

It felt wonderful. As though it were happening in an elongated moment, she felt the palm of his hand brush the nape of her neck and the back of her scalp, then his finger burrowing into her hair and threading through it to the ends.

She felt the contact in every root. Sensation rippled over her scalp.

“Does that hurt?” Aaron asked.

“Just…a little,” she said breathlessly.

“Sorry. Here comes the antiseptic. Guys, turn around so you don’t inhale the spray.”

The boys dutifully turned around and Susan covered Ringo’s face with her hand.

“Hold your breath,” Aaron directed, shielding her eyes with his free hand.

He sprayed, the spot stung for moment, and then it was over.

But she retained the memory of his hand in her hair.

Aaron helped John and Paul pack their clothes and toys, while Susan worked in the younger boys’ room. George was helping Susan, and Ringo was down for a nap.

Though Aaron handled denim and fleece, chambray, woolens, cotton and corduroy, he could still feel the silk of Susan’s hair on the back of his hand.

This is not good, he told himself.

He didn’t know why he’d done it, except that he’d wanted to touch her hair since the first moment he’d seen her in front of the church. The bump to the head had provided him with a good excuse.

He usually allowed himself to have what he wanted because, generally, he didn’t want much. He worked hard, gave himself wholeheartedly to his projects and had discovered early on that giving his employees whatever it took to make them comfortable and happy in their work was ultimately best for all of them.

He’d been terrified all the way over here that he’d hate Becky’s cousin and wouldn’t be willing to leave the boys in her care, despite the will.

But the situation was perfect for him. She was everything the mother of four boys should be. And he thought the fact that she could admit she was a little bit afraid of the future made her seem that much more sane and capable.

All he had to do was see to it that she had everything she and the boys needed materially, and she would do the rest.

This…tug toward her, this fascination with the children he was experiencing were just complex manifestations of grief and guilt.

They didn’t really need him, and he had a new product line coming out in four months. He had a lot of sleepless nights and working weekends ahead of him.

He reasoned with himself all afternoon and had himself convinced by dinnertime.

When he went downstairs with the just-awakened Ringo, he was surprised to find Susan in the kitchen making mashed potatoes. The boys watched television in the living room. Crumbled hamburger meat fried in a pan and smelled wonderful. A can of corn waited on the counter.

“You cook, too?” he asked in surprise.

“Nothing gourmet,” she replied “but yes, a little. Though seldom for myself. Why?”

“I thought maybe a woman who was into power tools wasn’t interested in cooking.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Cooking is just construction with food.” She dipped a spoon into the mashed potatoes and offered it to him. “Enough salt?”

He tasted. “Perfect.”

“It’s just shepherd’s pie, but the boys like it. I made it the night I got here.”

“I opened an account for you at a Princeton bank,” he said abruptly, stepping out of the way as she took an oblong pan from a bottom cabinet.

She put the pan on the counter and turned off the heat under the burners. “What? Why?”

He’d suspected he’d be in for objections. “It gave me something to do in San Francisco while I was waiting for the fog to lift. I took care of it on-line.”

She began layering corn, hamburger and mashed potatoes into the pan. She paused in her work to look up at him as though wondering what had brought this on. Her brown eyes scanned his face.

“I’m able to support the children,” she said calmly. “There’s no reason for you to feel obli—”

“Of course there is,” he interrupted a little more loudly than he’d intended. “They’re my nephews. I want to know that you can keep them in new shoes while they’re growing, that there’ll be enough money for sport or music lessons or whatever they might want to pursue.” He sighed and lowered his voice. “I want to know that you won’t be worn to a nub trying to keep it all together.”

She laughed lightly as she opened the oven door. “I don’t think money can guarantee that, Aaron. But thank you.” She put the casserole in the oven and closed the door.

“Susan,” he said firmly, “I’m doing it.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“It is to me.”

She set the temperature and the timer, then turned to smile at him. “All right. You do what you have to do.” Then she moved past him to pull place mats out of a drawer.

Frustrated, Aaron abandoned the argument and asked her when she intended to go home.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “At least, I hope so, I’m having a little trouble lining up a truck. But I have a show to film from a room I’m working on at home. You’re welcome to come along if you want to spend a few more days with the boys.”

He nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I can get a hotel. What time is dinner?”

“Half an hour,” she said.

“All right. If you’ll excuse me I have a little business to take care of.”

“Of course.”

He went to his suitcase for his laptop, found a quiet spot and e-mailed the office.

SUSAN SAW INSTANTLY the advantage of having a man at the dinner table. The usual harassment the boys engaged in despite her efforts to guide a civil conversation was quickly squashed by Aaron’s frown of disapproval.

“You always hog the butter!” Paul shouted across the table at John.

“Well you eat like a hog!” John countered, oinking loudly for full effect as he shoved the butter tub at his brother.

Inspired by the oinking, George contributed excitedly, “I can talk like a donkey!” and proudly brayed at high volume.

“Guys,” Susan said quietly, “let’s not do that tonight, all right? Your uncle’s here and I’d like to think that when he goes home, he’ll remember you as having good manners.”

Silence fell at the table. John put down his fork.

“You’re going home?” he asked grimly.

Aaron nodded. “I have to go back to Seattle.”

“Why?” Paul wanted to know.

“Because that’s where my business is,” he replied, looking a little shaken by their obvious distress. “And my home. And my dog.”

George, seated at his right hand, said earnestly, “Susan would let you come live with her. She’s taking all of us to live with her. I bet you could even bring the dog.” He turned to Susan. “Couldn’t he?”

“He can’t bring his business,” Susan explained, “which is why he has to go home. He has a lot of people who work for him and a lot of people who buy things from his company. They need him there to do his work.”

“He could call and tell them where he is,” Paul suggested. “If you can’t go home, you should always call.”

“Right. But this isn’t like just being late for dinner. Thank you, Paul.” Aaron accepted the butter from him. “This is important work. A lot of people depend on me being there to do my job.”