Page 69 of Playing With Fire

His mother patted his hand, and he glanced at her pale, set face.

“So what did Christine’s parents have to say?” Some of its former steel had returned to his father’s voice. “Did they know about the baby?”

Ricky closed his eyes briefly. “No,” he said flatly, briefly reliving the experience of watching the bereaved parents hear that their daughter had had a child, and that she had never told them. And that Ricky had been so estranged from their daughter that he hadn’t even known that he was a father.

It had not been a comfortable conversation.

Ricky swallowed.

“In the end, I think that the news was a...comfort to them. When I told them that I was trying to find the baby, they shook their heads and told me not to bother. No point, they said. The child will be settled in a good home, and it would be cruel to take her away from her parents and maybe brothers and sisters—even if the county would consider doing such a thing, which they won’t.”

Lottie squeezed his arm. Her eyes were full of tears.

“You know they’re right, honey.”

Ricky clenched his fist. “But I don’t know that.” He stared at his parents. “I was never given a choice. And surely...surely, a father has the right to know his child and to care for her? I’ve got to try. You do see that?”

Herbie leaned back and coughed. It took him a few seconds to catch his breath.

“So, what will you do next son?”

His father’s mild words landed in Ricky’s ears with a thump. A thump of understanding that Ricky was not only an adult but a parent, and that his own parents were not going to shower him with advice and exhortations.

Ricky forced a smile. “I convinced the Caitens to go through Chrissie’s stuff, whatever survived the smoke and got packed up by social services and sent to them, all still in a box in their storage. See if there’s anything there that mentions a baby, and that identifies me as the father. It’s a long shot, I know.”

His phone buzzed, and he glanced down. A calendar reminder. And he was already behind time.

“Sh—, sorry...I got to get this food down to the church hall.”

He stood up, feeling awkward. “Mom, Dad...”

Before he could finish, both parents rose to their feet and embraced him. The warmth and strength of their arms around him, the familiar scent and shape of them, their unquestioning acceptance, was so sweet that Ricky almost lost his fragile control.

“Thanks,” he muttered thickly. He stepped back, smiled. Drew in a deep breath, felt himself settle.

And in that same moment, he understood a bittersweet truth. That sometimes, most times really, parenthood was about letting go.

***

“You simply don’t have the evidence.”

Jodi was trying hard to sound like a detached professional rather than a woman whose dreams of romance have withered on the vine. Her first, half-humorous (okay, desperate) text to Ricky had been met with silence. She hadn’t sent a second.

A girl had her pride.

She’d been surprised when Ricky turned up (late) to the community meal with a homemade cottage pie the size of one of her grandfather’s old encyclopedias. Watched as he proceeded to schmooze every other volunteer with his willingness to dive right into the serving and then the cleaning up and had even greeted a couple of regular clients by their names.

Now Jodi was elbow to elbow with him in Silas’ study, and she was not happy at all.

She renewed her attack. “You’ve got circumstantial evidence, sure. People saw the boys hanging around, they clearly sneak the odd cigarette, and they stick out like sore thumbs in town because they are foster kids. Not good enough Ricky.”

Silas glanced at Ricky’s set expression.

“I wish that was all, Jodi,” said Silas gravely. “But it’s not. In the interests of full transparency, Hattie found these in the boys’ room.” He pushed two packets of old-fashioned matches across the table.

Jodi’s eyes widened. “What? Matchbooks? Where did they get those, from an antique store?”

She peered over and read the black printing on the sky-blue cover. “Cosimo’s pizza store, Seneca Falls.”

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