Creed
Page 100
To which Creed immediately replied, “When we get home, I’ll get you one.”
She grinned.
Creed bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips tasted partly of Snickers but mostly of sun…
And Sylvie.
* * * * *
Thirteen hours later…
Creed stood beside the bed in the dark.
Sylvie was in it, on her side, her legs curled up.
Jesse was in his Diamondback pajamas on his back, tucked to her front with her arm around him. He had his arms over his head, his legs splayed out, his little fist tucked against Sylvie’s lips.
Carefully, Creed pulled the sheet up to his wife’s waist before he turned to his bag, dug into the bottom and pulled out the envelope and the flashlight.
Silently, he left the room, the hotel and got in their rental.
Then he drove.
He entered from the south side and parked where his research told him it would be.
He shut down the ignition and sat in the car.
“Understand why I gotta do this,” he said into the car.
As ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, Brand Creed didn’t reply. And as ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, he hoped like Christ his father heard.
And this time understood.
Creed got out, turned on the flashlight and illuminated the headstones as he walked until he found it.
Bissenette.
He turned off the light, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, ripped open the envelope and sprinkled the grass with its contents.
Jesse’s hair. Not the first that had been clipped, that was pressed in a frame that sat on Sylvie’s nightstand.
But it was his.
Jesse’s.
A Jesse made by Sylvie and Creed.
Once the hair was out, Creed rumpled the envelope and, for the first time in his life, he littered by throwing it at the base of the headstone.
He stared at the grave.
Sylvie’s father had died of a heart attack at an age too young for a good man to leave this world but way too late for the man he was.
“I win, ass**le,” Creed whispered.
Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
Creed didn’t need one nor did he wait for one.
He turned on his boot and went back to his family.
* * * * *
Two years and four months later…
“It’s good you have a big table,” Knight muttered and Creed looked from the stove to the man standing, h*ps to the counter, bottle of beer in hand, surveying the scene.
He looked over his shoulder.
Outside he could see Brand and Adam with Charlene’s new man. God only knew what they were doing but, not surprisingly, whatever it was, Adam was smiling and Brand’s mouth was moving.
Inside, Anya was chasing after Theo, Leslie, Kat, Jesse and Rayleigh, Creed and Sylvie’s petite, wild, curly blonde-haired daughter and Kasha, Knight and Anya’s second girl.
Anya had company. Sylvie’s white, west highland terrier was jumping around, panting and barking at Anya and the kids.
Kara was sitting in an armchair, phone glued to her ear, talking either to a girlfriend or one of her, God help him, boyfriends.
Yes, he said one of.
Jesus.
Charlene and Sylvie were on the couch, gabbing.
He looked at Knight who was still looking through the full house, his expression not giving anything away.
“Sylvie says you’re not big on holidays,” Creed muttered as his eyes went back to the stove.
“Wasn’t.”
Creed looked back to Knight at his answer.
“Wasn’t?” he prompted.
“Got three women in my house who go wild for every holiday. Swear to Christ, Creed, even when the red, white and blue M&Ms make their appearance for the Fourth of July, they act like Uncle Sam swooped in and personally asked them to watch the fireworks at the White House with the President. It’s impossible not to be big on holidays with those three dragging me in their wake.”
Creed grinned back down at the stove.
Knight was totally f**king full of shit.
Not about the part where he didn’t give a shit about holidays. He probably didn’t.
He gave a shit about his girls and he’d do anything that would make them happy. Even eat red, white and blue M&Ms and take them to see fireworks.
“Kara!” he called. “You wanna give your Dad a hand?”
“Be right there, Dad!” she called back.
Translation: She’d get off the phone when the turkey was on the table.
He turned his head and pinned his eyes on Sylvie.
“Baby? Preparations are coming to a head. You gonna help out?”
She had her hand on her enormous, again pregnant belly and her eyes on him.
When he stopped speaking, her mouth moved to say, “Who did you marry?”
No help there.
“I’ll help, Tucker,” Anya offered.
“Me too,” Charlene pushed up from the couch.
Creed looked back at Sylvie and lifted his brows.
She grinned and leaned down to snatch Kasha up in her arms and give her a snuggle.
Right.
Again.
No help there.
Knight moved out of the room and as he did, he tagged Rayleigh, swung her up in the air and made her laugh.
No help there either.
A miracle occurred when, fifteen minutes before the food would be set on the table, Kara got off the phone and joined them in the kitchen.
Seventeen minutes after that, the table was covered in food and surrounded by people, some of the kids were sitting on stools at the bar, others were in highchairs.
It was not surprising when Brand piped up and asked for a chance to run his mouth.
“Dad, can I say the blessing?”
Creed jerked up his chin. “Have at it, son.”
Brand, Anya and Charlene all looked to their laps.
Sylvie’s eyes went to Creed.
“Dear God,” Brand started. “Thanks for health and food and family and friends. Oh, and love, I guess. Amen.”
Creed’s firstborn son lifted his head and reached immediately for the potatoes.
Creed watched Sylvie’s shoulders start shaking.
He grinned at his wife.
“Mommy! I wanna sit by Adam!” Jesse shrieked.
Sylvie shot out of her seat.
His wife spoiled the dog and her son.
Creed spoiled the cat and his sweet little Ray.
Both of them, in different ways, spoiled Kara and Brand.
Kara and Brand spoiled all of them.
The perfect family.
Finally.
Creed drew in a breath and grabbed the platter of meat.
* * * * *
One year and nine months later…
Creed sat at the end of their pier, jeans rolled up, feet in the water and he stared at the moonlight glinting on the lake as Sylvie burrowed her shoulder into his side.
She grinned.
Creed bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips tasted partly of Snickers but mostly of sun…
And Sylvie.
* * * * *
Thirteen hours later…
Creed stood beside the bed in the dark.
Sylvie was in it, on her side, her legs curled up.
Jesse was in his Diamondback pajamas on his back, tucked to her front with her arm around him. He had his arms over his head, his legs splayed out, his little fist tucked against Sylvie’s lips.
Carefully, Creed pulled the sheet up to his wife’s waist before he turned to his bag, dug into the bottom and pulled out the envelope and the flashlight.
Silently, he left the room, the hotel and got in their rental.
Then he drove.
He entered from the south side and parked where his research told him it would be.
He shut down the ignition and sat in the car.
“Understand why I gotta do this,” he said into the car.
As ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, Brand Creed didn’t reply. And as ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, he hoped like Christ his father heard.
And this time understood.
Creed got out, turned on the flashlight and illuminated the headstones as he walked until he found it.
Bissenette.
He turned off the light, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, ripped open the envelope and sprinkled the grass with its contents.
Jesse’s hair. Not the first that had been clipped, that was pressed in a frame that sat on Sylvie’s nightstand.
But it was his.
Jesse’s.
A Jesse made by Sylvie and Creed.
Once the hair was out, Creed rumpled the envelope and, for the first time in his life, he littered by throwing it at the base of the headstone.
He stared at the grave.
Sylvie’s father had died of a heart attack at an age too young for a good man to leave this world but way too late for the man he was.
“I win, ass**le,” Creed whispered.
Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
Creed didn’t need one nor did he wait for one.
He turned on his boot and went back to his family.
* * * * *
Two years and four months later…
“It’s good you have a big table,” Knight muttered and Creed looked from the stove to the man standing, h*ps to the counter, bottle of beer in hand, surveying the scene.
He looked over his shoulder.
Outside he could see Brand and Adam with Charlene’s new man. God only knew what they were doing but, not surprisingly, whatever it was, Adam was smiling and Brand’s mouth was moving.
Inside, Anya was chasing after Theo, Leslie, Kat, Jesse and Rayleigh, Creed and Sylvie’s petite, wild, curly blonde-haired daughter and Kasha, Knight and Anya’s second girl.
Anya had company. Sylvie’s white, west highland terrier was jumping around, panting and barking at Anya and the kids.
Kara was sitting in an armchair, phone glued to her ear, talking either to a girlfriend or one of her, God help him, boyfriends.
Yes, he said one of.
Jesus.
Charlene and Sylvie were on the couch, gabbing.
He looked at Knight who was still looking through the full house, his expression not giving anything away.
“Sylvie says you’re not big on holidays,” Creed muttered as his eyes went back to the stove.
“Wasn’t.”
Creed looked back to Knight at his answer.
“Wasn’t?” he prompted.
“Got three women in my house who go wild for every holiday. Swear to Christ, Creed, even when the red, white and blue M&Ms make their appearance for the Fourth of July, they act like Uncle Sam swooped in and personally asked them to watch the fireworks at the White House with the President. It’s impossible not to be big on holidays with those three dragging me in their wake.”
Creed grinned back down at the stove.
Knight was totally f**king full of shit.
Not about the part where he didn’t give a shit about holidays. He probably didn’t.
He gave a shit about his girls and he’d do anything that would make them happy. Even eat red, white and blue M&Ms and take them to see fireworks.
“Kara!” he called. “You wanna give your Dad a hand?”
“Be right there, Dad!” she called back.
Translation: She’d get off the phone when the turkey was on the table.
He turned his head and pinned his eyes on Sylvie.
“Baby? Preparations are coming to a head. You gonna help out?”
She had her hand on her enormous, again pregnant belly and her eyes on him.
When he stopped speaking, her mouth moved to say, “Who did you marry?”
No help there.
“I’ll help, Tucker,” Anya offered.
“Me too,” Charlene pushed up from the couch.
Creed looked back at Sylvie and lifted his brows.
She grinned and leaned down to snatch Kasha up in her arms and give her a snuggle.
Right.
Again.
No help there.
Knight moved out of the room and as he did, he tagged Rayleigh, swung her up in the air and made her laugh.
No help there either.
A miracle occurred when, fifteen minutes before the food would be set on the table, Kara got off the phone and joined them in the kitchen.
Seventeen minutes after that, the table was covered in food and surrounded by people, some of the kids were sitting on stools at the bar, others were in highchairs.
It was not surprising when Brand piped up and asked for a chance to run his mouth.
“Dad, can I say the blessing?”
Creed jerked up his chin. “Have at it, son.”
Brand, Anya and Charlene all looked to their laps.
Sylvie’s eyes went to Creed.
“Dear God,” Brand started. “Thanks for health and food and family and friends. Oh, and love, I guess. Amen.”
Creed’s firstborn son lifted his head and reached immediately for the potatoes.
Creed watched Sylvie’s shoulders start shaking.
He grinned at his wife.
“Mommy! I wanna sit by Adam!” Jesse shrieked.
Sylvie shot out of her seat.
His wife spoiled the dog and her son.
Creed spoiled the cat and his sweet little Ray.
Both of them, in different ways, spoiled Kara and Brand.
Kara and Brand spoiled all of them.
The perfect family.
Finally.
Creed drew in a breath and grabbed the platter of meat.
* * * * *
One year and nine months later…
Creed sat at the end of their pier, jeans rolled up, feet in the water and he stared at the moonlight glinting on the lake as Sylvie burrowed her shoulder into his side.
