Tamed(56)

I guess Drew’s not the only one who’s hell-bent on keeping radio silence.

“Okay.” I squeeze her shoulder. “Have a good day.”

She smiles tightly and I head to my office.



Later that evening I swing by Steven and Alexandra’s to keep an eye on Mackenzie while they go out to the movies. Lexi opens the door for me, looks at my expression for longer than necessary, then glances behind me. Seeing only the empty space there, her face softens with pity.

She pulls me into a tight hug and says, “You know, Matthew, there is such a thing as too different.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, I know, Lex.”

There’s no time for a pity party because a blond blur comes tearing down the hall, wearing a blue princess nightgown, with a floppy teddy bear grasped in one hand. She crashes into my legs and wraps her arms around my knees. “You’re here!”

I reach under her arms and pick Mackenzie up. “Hey, princess.”

“You wanna play tea party, Uncle Matthew? You can be Buzz Lightyear and I’ll be Miz Nezbit.”

“Sounds like the most fun I’ll have all week.”

I’m rewarded with a gorgeous baby-teethed smile. And for the first time in days, the weight sitting on my heart feels a little lighter.

Steven helps Alexandra into her coat, and they each kiss Mackenzie good-bye.

“Bedtime at eight,” Alexandra informs me. “Don’t let her try and negotiate more time.”

“I’m not sure if I can hold up against the big, blue, puppy-dog eyes.”

She grins. “Be strong.”

They leave and I lock the door behind them. For the next hour and a half, I play tea party with Mackenzie. And Barbie dolls. Then we build a block wall and take it out with her remote-control Humvee. Just before bed, we shoot some hoops with the Fisher-Price adjustable basketball net I bought her for her birthday.

Once she’s all tucked in, she asks me to read her a story and pulls a thin Disney book out from under her pillow.

Cinderella.

Mackenzie hugs her bear and regards me with long-blinking, sleepy eyes. When we get to the part about Prince Charming’s proclamation, she asks, “Uncle Matthew?”

“Mmm?”

“Why didn’t Cinderella go to the prince with her glass slipper? Why didn’t she say ‘It’s me’? How come she waited for him?”

I think about her question and can’t help but make the comparisons to Delores and me.

“Maybe . . . maybe Cinderella wasn’t sure how the prince felt about her. Maybe she needed him to be the one to come to her—so she would know he loved her.”

This is just f*cking sad. Talking about my love life with a four-year-old?

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Mackenzie nods her understanding and I read on. Until . . .

“Uncle Matthew?”

“Yes?”

“How come da prince didn’t know it was Cinderella? If he loved her, he woulda bemembered what she looked like, right?”

I think of Dee’s teasing smile, her perfect lips, the warm tenderness in her eyes when she wakes up beside me, how it feels to caress her cheek with my fingertips—like touching a rose petal.

My voice is thick when I answer. “Yes, Mackenzie. If he loved her, he wouldn’t have forgotten what she looked like. Not ever.”

She yawns, long and wide. Then she turns on her side and nestles into the down pillow.

With a drowsy sigh in her voice, Mackenzie says, “I think Uncle Drew is right. Prince Charming really is a douche bag.”

And those are the last words she says before sailing off into dreamland.



Thursday at work, my father stops by my office and informs me my mother is expecting me for dinner that evening. Disappointing my mother is a capital offense, and the last thing I need at the moment is to have my name at the top of the old man’s shit list.

I arrive at five thirty on the button. My parents’ place is a four-bedroom multi-floor brownstone, originally built in the 1920s, with original molding, three ornate fireplaces, a sitting room, den, a music room, a butler’s pantry, and a spacious formal dining room.

Do they really need this much space? No. But they wouldn’t dream of moving. Especially once I was out of the house and, as my mother used to say, they could finally have “nice things” again.

I figure it’ll only be a few more years before we’ll need to install one of those cool automatic chairs to get them up the staircase.

After the housekeeper, Sarah, who’s worked for my parents for years, answers the door, I find my mom in the sitting room, enjoying a glass of sherry by the lit fireplace.

When she sees me, she smiles, stands up, and hugs me close. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you could come tonight.” She peers up at my face. “You look tired. You must be working too hard.”

I give her a smile. “No, Mom, I’m really not.”

We sit and she tells me about the mums she’s growing and the latest goings-on at the country club. When my father exits his study, that’s the cue that dinner is served.

The dining room table’s not overly large—six chairs—but my father eats at one end, looking over the newspaper that he’s just getting around to reading, my mother dines at the other end, and I’m in between.