Cherish & Blessed (15 page)

And now their father, their beloved and adored Richard, was suddenly lying in St. Peter’s cardiac unit.

Griffin felt entirely justified in his panic.

“I should call Daisy,” Griffin mused, just for the sake of having something to say.

Jim made a soothing sound.

“But I don’t want to worry her with her due date being so close….”

“I texted Matt. He said he’d take care of it.”

Griffin just barely reined in the urge to burst into tears. “What would I do without you?” he whispered as Jim slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

“Fortunately you never have to find out.”

S
EATTLE
TO
Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Albany. That was the plan. Their layover was delayed due to ice on the plane’s wings, which meant Jim had no one to shout at besides Mother Nature or God, if you were so inclined to believe in either one of them.

Crazy-making.

Jim was a man of action, not reaction. Years in the military and on the police force and a natural personality oriented toward order and logic meant he wasn’t actually suited for situations in which he couldn’t figure out the best solution.

Griffin, white-faced and shaking since the announcement of the delay, looked like a stiff wind would blow him away, and the lady at the counter for US Airways kept avoiding eye contact with the milling passengers, which was never a good sign.

They could rent a car and drive to Albany, but that was at least five or six hours in good weather, and if the plane wouldn’t chance it, how safe would they be on the road?

Goddammit.

Jim stalked back to where Griffin was sitting, and threw himself into the molded plastic seat. “You hungry?”

“No.” Griffin’s voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

“Which sister should I call for an update?”

“Um.” Griffin rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Cecilly.”

All the Drake sisters were under “sisters” with birth order number (and A/B suffix for the two sets of twins) and their name, neatly listed on Jim’s phone.

Cecilly, sister number 3B.

He pressed her name on the screen and waited for her to pick up. With the other hand, Jim linked fingers with Griffin, squeezing as the irritated passengers paced and grumbled around them.

“Hi, Jim,” Cecilly said when the line picked up. “Everything’s the same, and that’s a good sign.” Clearly she’d been doing this repeatedly for the past few hours.

“Okay, good to hear. The ice has us stuck in Philly—”

Griffin made a frustrated sound.

“—and your brother is about to start walking.”

“Put him on.”

Griffin rolled his eyes as Jim handed him the phone.

C
ECILLY
HAD
this motherly tone that Griffin both resented and found soothing. Of his siblings, Amara and Bethany were disciplinarians. Cecilly was the nurturer. Carla was handy, Dina could manage any household or big event like a drill sergeant, and Eloise kept everyone’s books. Farrah and Fiona ran their own yoga studio, and their peaceful outlook was helpful in times of crisis.

Though Griffin had no desire to do a downward dog in the waiting area at the crowded Philadelphia airport.

“Daddy’s holding his own, Griff. He’s sleeping, so by the time you get here, he’ll be awake and ready to tell you to go home,” she said gently.

Griffin sniffled loudly, feeling like a little kid in need of reassurance. He could do that, because Jim was being übertolerant and Cecilly—well, secretly he thought she enjoyed playing mom to him more than any of the others. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“You didn’t know. We didn’t know. And Bethany goes to his doctor appointments with him! It probably surprised him too.”

“Maybe he should move….”

“Okay, let me stop you there. I realize this is panic talking, but if you want to take it upon yourself to tell Richard Edward Drake he should sell his house and his business and move in with one of his children, go right ahead. I’ll be hiding in the root cellar.”

A tiny smile played around his lips. “He’ll get mad, won’t he?”

“He’ll curse you out, Griff. Curse. You. Out. Then you’ll get grounded and Jim will have to come stay with us.”

Griffin looked over at Jim, who was reading someone’s abandoned
Glamour
magazine. “Dirty pool.”

Cecilly and her husband, Tony, were attempting to break the nine Drake kids record with their own reproductive hijinks. Baby number eight was about to start kindergarten. The thought of Jim in the midst of the calamitous and messy household gave him a small moment of enjoyment.

“Try to relax, baby brother. We’re holding down the fort till you get here.”

They exchanged “love yous.” Griffin hung up and then handed the phone to Jim.

P
HILADELPHIA
TO
Albany, to the rental car counter, to St. Peter’s. Griffin white-knuckling through turbulence and ice and barely passable roads, Jim doing the Zen thing as he kept the Camry on the road.

“I hate snow,” Jim muttered. “And ice.” He missed Hawaii deeply. He basically longed for every place tropical they’d been in the past two years, particularly as they skidded and wobbled up the driveway to the hospital. Jim wasn’t even that much of a beach person, he just resented every sliver of ice stopping him from getting Griffin to his father’s bedside.

By the time they made it through the sprawl of St. Peter’s to the cardiac care unit, Cecilly, Carla, and Dina were waiting for them outside the monitored doors, with large cups of coffee and welcoming smiles. Three female versions of Griffin, all sharing identical coloring and noses, all with the same charming smiles. If it wasn’t so sweet, it might have been creepy.

As the women bustled Griffin into their arms, Jim leaned against the wall and took a sip of coffee. Griffin needed some mothering right now. Later on, Jim would provide some boyfriending, which was an entirely different form of comfort.

Richard was indeed awake when they entered his room. The sisters stayed outside, as visitors were limited and they had been rotating in and out since Richard was admitted. Griffin flew to his father’s bedside, leaving Jim to drop their coats on the chair in the corner.

The man in the bed gave Jim a good idea of Griffin’s future looks—and not that he was being a perv or anything, but it was a pretty nice vision. Like his girls and only son, Richard favored a fair complexion, with light brown eyes and thick chestnut hair. Years of hard work, the stress and joy of single-handedly raising nine children, and time spent with a fishing pole in the sun weathered his fine features into something rugged and masculine.

Basically, Jim was looking forward to seeing what forty-five and beyond looked like on his boyfriend.

“Jim, tell him I’m gonna be fine,” Richard croaked, weakly petting his only son’s face. Everywhere Jim looked sat machines and wires and readouts, all of which looked vaguely terrifying. After watching Ed Kelly lose his battle with cancer a few years ago, Jim had maintained a distance from hospitals and visits to them in general, though the maternity ward wasn’t the worst place in the world.

“I told him you were too stubborn to die, but he didn’t believe me,” Jim said smoothly, coming around to stand next to Richard’s bed. “He’s a worrywart.”

“Shut up,” Griffin muttered, leaning down to rest his forehead on his father’s shoulder.

Jim shared a fond look with Richard. Some men might be awkward with their only son’s boyfriend, but from what Jim could see, Richard adored his son, even if he didn’t always understand his life. And yeah, maybe that was something Jim envied, given the distance between himself and his elderly remaining parent. And maybe it was nice to be welcomed into a family that occasionally reminded him of a carnival mated with a reality show.

“Don’t tell Jim to shut up.”

“Oh fine, take his side.” Griffin sat up and fixed his askew glasses. At least he looked a little less hysterical. Jim had no doubt that was due to being able to see and talk to his father, see that he was alive and coherent.

“You gonna go back and stay at the house?” Richard asked, already looking like he was ready to fall back asleep.

“That okay?” Jim asked.

Richard gave him a pointed “seriously?” look—which looked so much like Griffin’s that Jim laughed.

“No. Sleep in your rental car.”

“I’m making Griffin sleep in the trunk in that case,” said Jim, arms crossed over his chest. “He kicks in his sleep and I’m trying to break him of that habit.”

“Well, that’ll learn ’im. Have you tried a spray bottle? One squirt every time he kicks. That’s how we stopped him from biting.”

Jim snickered. “Good to know,” he said, nodding sagely in Griffin’s direction.

“I swear to God, the two of you,” Griffin huffed. He kissed his father on the forehead, patted his hand. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

“Make sure Cecilly gets you some breakfast.”

“Dad, we can handle it.”

“Jim, make sure he eats something more than sprouts and goat milk like those people in Hollywood do,” Richard deadpanned.

Griffin sighed as he got off the bed. “I need a drink.”

“Right after he finishes his yoga and chanting, I’ll make him eat some meat,” Jim teased, only to get punched when Griffin walked by.

“Jim!” Griffin hissed.

They followed Cecilly’s SUV to the two-story colonial the Drake family called home. The walkways were cleared and salted thanks to the efforts of Cecilly’s oldest two boys and Amara’s triplets.

“Seriously, what is up with your family tree and multiples?” Jim had wondered after his first visit to Albany a few years earlier. “Is it the water up here or something?”

“Did you know there’s a place in Brazil called Cândido Godói, where people think Joseph Mengele tampered with the locals’ DNA so they’d have multiples, because he was obsessed with twins. And even now it’s at 10 percent, which is like double the highest rate elsewhere, and they’re not sure why” was Griffin’s answer.

“So your answer is Nazis?”

“No. But how great of a movie would that be!”

T
HEY
SLEPT
in the guest room, formerly the domain of the youngest three Drake girls, though the three single beds had been replaced with a king-size monstrosity. The wallpaper had clocks on it, and the dressers weighed about seven hundred pounds each, which explained why Richard had never switched them out.

The dressers could probably sleep seven all on their own.

Griffin showered while Jim nosed around the kitchen for food. He put together roast beef sandwiches and slices of pound cake with whipped cream, plus a pot of tea, and then brought it all upstairs.

When his boyfriend emerged, the lightheartedness and relief after seeing his dad and then spending a little time with his sisters had disappeared. Griffin just look… beat.

“Come on, have a sandwich. Tell me I have a serious problem with the application of mayo and my lettuce-to-tomato ratio is skewed,” Jim cajoled, setting the tray down on one of the dressers.

Griffin dropped his towel and then crawled under the heavy covers of the king-size bed. No clothes, no glasses. “Tired. No, thank you,” he muttered, pulling the blankets over his head.

The dark brown lump in the center of the bed radiated sadness, even in the dim light of two bedside lamps.

“You haven’t eaten anything but Skittles in almost twelve hours. Don’t make me force-feed you,” Jim said sternly.

“Not in the mood for food or a round of role play between the warden and his stubborn prisoner on a hunger strike” came the muffled reply.

Jim sighed as he stripped down to his birthday suit. He moved the tray to the end of the bed, then pulled the covers back just enough to find his boyfriend, who blinked back owlishly at him.

“I love you, but I don’t want a sandwich,” Griffin sighed, mashing his face against one of the thirty pillows littering the space in front of the massive headboard.

“Fine. Just this once I’ll let you have dessert first.”

Griffin’s entire face wrinkled. “Oh God, stop that.”

“Should I threaten you with a spanking? Does your dad have wooden spoons downstairs?” Jim asked as he slid into bed, careful not to knock over the tray of food.

“Jim, my dad stirs sauce with those spoons! To feed his children and grandchildren!” Griffin sat up, then crawled to the foot of the bed. “Why are you torturing me?”

Jim leaned back against the headboard. “You’re about to shove a sandwich in your mouth, aren’t you?”

“You irritated me into eating,” Griffin said, cross-legged and adorably naked at the other end of the bed. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Actually I am.”

“There isn’t enough mayo on here,” he muttered after taking a bite.

O
F
ALL
the things Matt Haight imagined himself doing on Valentine’s Day, sitting in the waiting area of the maternity ward at three in the morning was not on the list.

Sure, one day the kids would get old enough to marry and they’d have kids of their own. And he would be Grandpa’s boyfriend (they’d never gotten around to deciding on a term for exactly what he was, so boyfriend it was) or Uncle Matt or something like that. Maybe Katie would honor him with a nickname like Gramps. Or Pop. He kind of liked Pop.