10 years later
I still look forward to Saturdays. Particularly on drizzly winter late afternoon weekdays like this one, that has been a long sequence of minor mafia fracas to manage, followed by a report that I need to make a decision on. Westminster is more wealthy and powerful than ever, but there are always reasons for me to be wary, and keep looking out. Thankfully disputes with the Bratva are years in the past. But there’s still a chunk of most of my days that requires me to work. Saturdays are a treat to look forward to because the Crosse family spends the whole day together.
Henry, our eldest son, is nine now. Serious and hardworking, Wyn says he’s just like me. But his smile is identical to hers. Then there’s Molly, seven, our tearaway. How Wyn and I produced a girl who loves to be naughty as much as she does, I don’t know. Two years ago I found her sitting on the roof of Wyn’s country house, calm as you like. I nearly had a heart attack. Elizabeth is four, and as sweet and funny as her mother.
Even Tom and his husband Sergey usually manage to come for lunch on Saturdays. Tom was a little freaked out when Wyn was pregnant, but Sergey—the sensible one of the two—took to the babies immediately and has become a sort of surrogate brother. I think his enthusiasm dragged Tom along, and I heard him broach the idea of starting their own family when Sergey was playing trains on the floor with Henry last month.
It’s almost laughable how much work was my whole life, not so long ago. And there’s still plenty to do. I tell myself it’s a good thing, as Anwyn’s job as a University professor is demanding, and the kids have to go to school. Even if I could pass off all responsibilities for Westminster, to spend all my time with my wife and kids I’d have to home educate our kids, and figure out ways to keep Anwyn entertained…
That doesn’t sound terrible, actually.
Not yet. I love my kids and they deserve a better education than I’d provide. I turn my attention back to the report, my eye catching on a plant in my office that I’m sure wasn’t there yesterday? I have so many now, and Wyn cares for them all, sneakily adding more, or swapping out ones that have finished flowering.
There’s a tap on the door before it slowly opens and Henry peeks around the corner. “Dad?”
“Come in,” I reassure him, turning off the screen to my computer. He might be born into the mafia, but that doesn’t mean he’ll see too much too young. I protect my family from the grittier aspects of my job. “Bring a chair.”
He smiles and his bright blue eyes light up just as his mother’s do. My heart melts a bit. Damn but I’m a fool for my kids.
“What is it?” I ask as he flops into the chair, having put it next to mine at the desk. I notice that he has an exercise book clutched in his hand.
“Science homework.” I don’t even have space to raise an eyebrow in surprise before he adds, “I know Mum is the one to ask about that, but she seemed really tired when she picked us up from school. I don’t want to bother her.”
I hide my smile. Tired, huh? I’d noticed the same and put it down to that time of the month, but if Henry has noted it too… Perhaps I should ask my wife a question this evening. There might be a moment for one of my favourite opportunities to look after her.
“Proud of you for being so considerate, Henry. You did the right thing.” My boy can shoot five bullseyes in a row, but it’s his emotional smarts that will get him to the top of whichever profession he chooses. I suspect it won’t be the mafia. I have a fiver on Molly being more bloodthirsty and risk taking than I am, and that she’ll be my second in command by the time she’s sixteen and running Westminster when I retire, though Wyn is convinced our middle child will end up in the circus.
“You’re not as good at science as Mum, I know, but I thought maybe you could help me figure it out?” He holds out the exercise book, which has a sheet of paper of the printed homework slipped in.
I snort as I take it. Kids. Never going to hold back to save your pride, are they? I restrain myself on pointing out that I’m no slouch at chemistry (the bomb making part of it, anyway), and physics (bullet trajectory is a specialist subject) and that his Mum is primarily good at biology (trees, and yes, she’s an expert on making babies). Instead I say, “Sure, show me.”
We work together for over an hour. After I’ve read the assignment and explained it to him in a way he understands, he does the questions on his own, sitting at my desk beside me while I read the report on a tablet. Angled away from his curious eyes.
The scent of onions and garlic fried in oil wafting into the room makes us look at each other. Thank god for Janet, our housekeeper, who ensures everyone eats when Wyn and I are distracted by work. Or each other—that’s a thing that happens too, just as often now as ten years ago when Henry was conceived.
“Dinner,” I tell Henry. “Go and set the table please, and see if Janet needs any help with serving up please, and let her know I’ll be there in a minute with the girls.”
Henry nods eagerly, always happy with a task and responsibility and bounds away. I go to find Molly first. She’s playing a computer game that Wyn sometimes plays with her. Zelda something, I think.
“Hey Dad.” She doesn’t look up from where she’s focussed on the blond boy–elf?—on screen. I wait a minute while she tries to solve a puzzle, leaning over the back of her sofa to watch my daughter. A sofa in her room? I shake my head internally. We really are indulgent parents.
She growls with frustration as she fails again.
I muss her hair as she pouts and tosses the controller onto the cushion.
“Save it, and come and have dinner.”
“Dad!” she whines.
“Molly!” I mimic back at her. “You’ll figure it out better with some brain food.”
She huffs and follows me out. With her on her way to the dining room, I head to the lounge where I suspect I’ll find my wife and youngest.
I do. In our jungle-like lounge, Elizabeth is watching a cartoon, curled against Wyn who is leaned into the squashy sofa, asleep. There are work papers in her lap, and her blonde hair is spilled over her shoulders. She’s wearing a cute knitted jumper and a pair of jeans and looks so adorable and good I want to hold her, unpeel her, and gobble her up like sweet apple pie.
Elizabeth’s eyes light as I approach, reaching out her arms with a big smile, anticipating being picked up.
I nod. “Mummy first.”
“Ben?” Wyn stirs as I kiss her forehead, but struggles to open her eyes.
“I think there’s something you’ll want to tell me, right?” I tease as I stroke her cheek. “It’s okay. Stay here. I’ll bring you some food in a bit.”
“Mmm, ‘anks,” she slurs and flops deeper into the cushions. The first part of her pregnancy is always tiring. She needs her rest, and she knows I’ll take care of everything. No need for her to get up if she needs to sleep.
I scoop Elizabeth into my arms. I’ll have dinner with the kids and come and wake up my wife to eat later. And if she is pregnant again, as I suspect, I have the ideal way to make her comfortable.
I have just the idea to keep her warm and happy.
