Play It Safe(125)

I couldn’t wait.

For any of it.

More than six months of peace from the machinations of Buddy Sharp and more than six months of going to bed and waking up with Grayson Cody, the last two and half with the Cody family heirloom ring on my finger.

Life was good and with Gran there, Norrie, who Gray was getting to know slowly and cautiously but he was doing it, then his uncles, aunts and cousin, I’d have a real family Christmas.

The first one ever.

Ever.

Thirty years and there it was.

Yeah, Gray was close to besting his birthday present.

Nothing would be better than the symbol that stated plainly I was soon going to take the name Cody.

But a family Christmas wasn’t far off.

* * * * *

Nine thirty-eight in the morning, Christmas Eve…

I had Christmas music playing, a bay and rosemary candle burning and I was making Christmas cookies. It was my fifth batch of the season. This was because, with Christmas cookies in the house, Gray had foregone his candy bars and nabbed a cookie (or four) whenever he had the munchies. This was also because, now that there was peace amongst the Cody men, anytime his uncles were fighting with their wives, they were over at our house.

Which meant they were over a lot.

And they grew up in that house so they had no problem helping themselves.

I didn’t mind.

Not at all.

I was standing at the kitchen counter, kneading the dough, Christmas all around but my mind was on flowers.

Not flowers for my wedding, planting them around the house.

During a visit with Grandma Miriam she told me, before she lost her legs, every year she planted a thick border of impatiens around the front and side of the house.

“Perfect for them, child, with the trees that shade the house, they get their bit of sun but they like their shade,” she’d told me.

I had the ring she wore on my finger. I was making Christmas dinner in the kitchen where she’d prepared it for five decades.

So, come spring, the house would have Grandma Miriam’s flowers.

I heard the approach of a car and my head turned to the window, surprised because I figured it was Gray. I had no idea what he had to do in town but going to get Grandma Miriam and dealing with packing her up and checking her out alone would take an hour and he’d been gone just over that.

But it wasn’t Gray’s pickup bumping down the lane. It was a silver car, an Audi, new and clean like it had a garage for its home.

I found this interesting. Audis weren’t popular cars in Mustang.

I took my hands out of the dough rubbing off the lumps. I rinsed them quickly, dried them, headed out of the kitchen, down the hall and out the front door.

Then I stopped dead on the porch as I watched Bud Sharp get out of his Audi and out the passenger side was a man who Buddy would definitely not hang with. Not ever.

He was older, tall, beefy, with long-ish, wild hair that held its blonde but had more silver and to say he was rough around the edges was an understatement.

I didn’t hesitate to call to them, “Best get in your car, Buddy. I’ll be saying these words to you then calling nine-one-one then calling Gray. If it was me, I wouldn’t be here when Gray gets back.”

Then I turned to the front door, walked three steps and stopped dead with my hand on the doorknob after Buddy called back, “Now, Ivey, is that any way to act the very first time you lay eyes on your Daddy?”

It was stupid, I knew it. I should go in, call nine-one-one, call Gray but instead my head turned and my eyes went to the man walking toward the porch with Buddy.

That hair was my hair.

That hair was my hair.

I stared.

They got close to the side of the porch and stopped.

Buddy, I noticed when I flicked my eyes to him, was grinning. Pleased with himself.

The man had his eyes glued to me. He looked curious. He also looked hesitant. And, even though he was tall, sturdy, weathered, worn and rough around the edges, I sensed a hint of fear.

“Hoot Booker, I’d like you to meet your daughter, the ex-pool hustling, ex-Vegas stripper, current cowboy piece, Ivey Larue,” Buddy introduced, loving every minute of this but my eyes were on Hoot Booker…

Hoot Booker…

My father.

And at Buddy’s words, Hoot Booker’s eyes narrowed scarily and sliced to Buddy.

“Merry Christmas.” Buddy smiled happily then leaned forward. “Oh, and, just so you know, Hoot here, coupla years ago, got outta prison. Murder one. Now, I don’t know much about these things but I think that’s the bad kind.”

“Think you’re done, chief,” Hoot Booker’s deep, rumbling, pissed off voice stated and he looked from Buddy to me. “Don’t know this guy, he found me, said he knew you, paid for me to get here. Swear, girl, until this very second where he turned dick, the man’s been nothin’ but cool with me. I see now you two got history but I do not have a place in that. I just wanted to meet my daughter.”

His daughter.

Me.

I stared at him, immobile, hand still on the doorknob.

Buddy was glaring at Hoot Booker.

Hoot Booker was staring at me.

Then he shook his head, closed his eyes and looked away for a second, taking a moment for what I wouldn’t know before he opened his eyes.

They came back to me and I saw his face was pained before he whispered, “Jesus, f**k, I look at you, can’t believe my eyes, can’t f**kin’ take it in. I created somethin’ as beautiful as you?”