A Father's Name(34)

He watched, as she got out a paint set and a small brush and drew in two more people on the deck with sure and easy strokes. Minutes later, there was a miniature Angelina and Bart next to him and Jace.

“Thanks,” he said.

Underplaying her gift, she said, “It was nothing. It only took a moment.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” he assured her. “And I’m not thanking you for only this, I’m thanking you for everything.”

“You’re fam—”



He cut her off. “You’ve made me feel a part of something I haven’t felt in a very long time. I worked at the investment firm for years, and I wasn’t ever anything more than employee. If I’d worked there another three decades, I’d still have never been more than a body to them. I walked into Tucker’s Garage, and you all took me in when you had every reason to hold me at arm’s length. I don’t know how to tell you what that means.”

Tucker looked uncomfortable. “You really want to thank me?” she finally said.

“Yes.”

“Great. I accept your thanks, so stop thanking me.”

“I don’t think I can say it enough.”

“If you want to thank me, then stop thanking me. You could, however, order a pizza. I’m starving and I’m officially inviting myself to dinner.”

Before he could think of anything more to say, Jace squawked and Tucker hurried from the room, no doubt to check on the baby.

He stopped in the middle of the room and studied the sailboat. Jace, Tucker, Bart and him.

Almost as if they were a family.

Almost.

Perhaps once he could have had that dream, but now? He felt horrible that Jace would be raised by a man with a record, although it meant his father’s name was unblemished, at least. Tyler could take comfort in that. But he wouldn’t let anyone else share the burden of his name and conviction. He knew what it was like to be tied to a man whose name was tarnished.

Almost would have to do.



ON MONDAY AND TUESDAY, the whole shop took their turn with Jace. Angelina had the morning shift, then each of the guys sat with him while they rotated their lunch breaks. Watching North trying to teach Jace to do a Vulcan sign was about the funniest thing Tyler had ever seen.

Mr. Tucker went to sit at Angelina’s house while Jace took a long afternoon nap. Angelina confided he had a soap opera he enjoyed.

Bart helped out after Jace woke up.

It was a hodge-podge way of caring for a kid, but Tyler loved knowing that Jace was close at hand and surrounded by people who loved him.

He didn’t doubt that part.

If Tucker’s garage had been quick to absorb him into their arms, they’d moved even faster with Jace.

On Wednesday, when he’d finished the BMW he’d been working on, Tyler headed over to Angelina’s to collect Jace.

Tyler heard raised voices before he’d even reached the porch and his stomach roiled. He hesitated before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Angelina called. “Have a seat and give me a sec. Jace is sleeping.”



She turned back to her son. Bart towered over her, and was obviously as upset as she was.

Tyler took a seat, but sat on the edge, poised to make a fast getaway with the baby if need be.

“You know you’re supposed to call.” Angelina’s voice was filled with anger. He’d never heard her like that. She practically radiated with it.

Bart threw up his hands. “I forgot, so sue me.”

“I don’t need to sue you.” Angelina took a step toward him and waggled her finger up at his face. “I have so many other options. I can ground you—you might be eighteen and all that, but you still live here, in my house. I can take away your car privileges. Or how about I take your phone? How will you communicate with your girlfriend without a cellphone? You’d have to—” gasping, she held a hand to her mouth for dramatic effect “—use the landline.”

“Mom, I said I was sorry. I mean, what do you want from me? I can write it in blood if you think that would help.”

“You did say you were sorry, but you said it as if I were the worst mother in the world to insist you tell me where you are and what you’re doing. How hard is it to call and say you’ll be late?”

“I’m eighteen.”

Tyler remembered his last fight with his father had been on the day he’d turned eighteen. He’d stayed at the Matthews’ house most of his senior year of high school. He hadn’t seen his father in months. His stomach churned harder at the memory. His father had hit him, and for the first, and only time, he’d hit him back before his father could continue the beating. He’d left then and had never looked back.