The Bower Room
Monday, September 9 @ 8:00 p.m.
Chapter 3
Chuck
In the shadows between the street lamps, he watched from the side of the curb, waiting for a glimpse of his kids as they passed by the plate-glass window.
Every now and then the urge to check up on his kids overcame him. So he returned to the old neighborhood, parked five blocks away, and snuck through the night toward the house, risking his rights, his future, just for a glimpse.
He’d already spent a few nights in jail because of his ex-wife. Then, more recently, because of a loud, handsy groomsman.
Chuck winced at the memory. He’d never intended to mess up Jack and Jenn’s reception, but once the mean and lean, floppy-haired professor set up the confrontation, Chuck got caught up in the action.
Running his hand over his jaw, he still felt the power of the professor’s punch.
He’d contacted his lawyer Monday morning to let him know he’d been arrested but not charged. Not that the slick Manhattan lawyer was worth any of the thousands Chuck had already paid him.
Now, five days later, the knot in his middle was finally easing up. He didn’t flinch every time his phone rang. Sunday night had no fallout.
Yet here he was again, being stupid, creeping along the edges of his temporary restraining order, the TRO, for a glimpse of Jakey and Riley.
Trudy kept the twins on a strict routine—which her hyperorganized, control-freakish self demanded.
She had them dressed, ready for bed, and sitting on her fancy designer couch for story time every night by seven.
Crouching near the ground away from the spill of the streetlight, Chuck picked at the summer grass beneath his feet.
Last time he snuck over here, about a month ago, he caught sight of Jakey’s head. The boy was growing like a weed. Going to be tall like his old man.
Riley remained his petite princess. How he ached to swing her up in a bear hug.
He resisted the stab of tears. Getting emotional changed nothing. In fact, too much emotion was the reason for this mess. The reason he hunkered down five hundred feet—give or take—from his family.
He stretched up, shaking the kinks from his knees, and sensed the tension in his middle. Once he spied Jakey, or the Old Battle-ax, he’d sneak across the street, press against the house’s stone exterior, let his adrenaline drain, then rise up to peek inside.
Six months ago he was nearly caught when Trudy’s snot-nosed, hedge-fund boyfriend came home just as Chuck was about to tip-toe up.
What a tale his great romance had turned out to be. The beautiful rich girl who fell for the blue-collar boy turned out to be a cheater.
He blamed himself. Did he really think a smoking-hot Princeton grad with a brand new six-figure job on Wall Street would fall for a junior-college dropout who worked long days at Newark Star Steel?
But Trudy Murdock did fall for him. He’d hit the love lotto.
Twelve years ago—was it that long already?—he and his friends threw a Labor Day–weekend End-of-Summer Beach Party Blow-Out.
When Trudy walked in, she electrified the atmosphere, and Chuck was a goner. Handed over his heart without knowing her name.
Headlights flashed down the street. Chuck ducked behind the lamppost. But the car turned into a driveway a few houses down.
Then a shadow crossed the front window of the house, and Chuck arched up to see if it was one of the kids. Shoot. Nothing but the cat jumping onto the table. He smacked his hand to his chest. Dang, he even missed the cat.
Just as he crouched down again, hiding between light and shadow, Trudy walked by in a tight blouse and shorts, scooped up the cat, and waved to someone beyond the square pane.
Jakey’s blond head bobbed by. Then Riley’s.
Clenching his fists and filling his lungs, Chuck stole toward the house. Sensing the coast was clear, he looked inside before sliding down to hug the brick.
Beautiful. His children sat on either side of their mother, heads pressed against her arms as she read to them.
As much as he deplored his ex, he admired her parental devotion. She didn’t allow the twins to go stupid in front of the television at night or zone out with video games.
She surrounded them with books and puzzles, board games and music. He heard from his mom—Trudy allowed her access to the kids—that they were clever and smart, able to hold conversations with adults.
In about two months they’d turn six, and where was he? In their lives? No—ducked down behind the front hedge, risking his future with his kids because he couldn’t help himself. Man, if Trudy saw him, she’d call the police.
Running his palm over his knuckles, still a bit blue from Sunday night’s brawl, frustration rumbled through him.
She had cheated, then kicked him out. Now he violated the law to see the two people he loved most in the world.
How was that justice?
Yeah, sure, he’d overreacted. A little. Maybe a lot. But big deal. He was human after all.
Then her father, Chuck’s boss at the Murdock Family Trucking Company, laid him off. Between his fists-flying outburst, his unemployment, and the Murdock money, Chuck lost before the divorce proceedings began.
Regret was a bitter, bitter pill.
Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he stretched up again to see inside. Jakey looked through the bookshelf for another read while Trudy brushed Riley’s hair.
Dang it, tears. Brushing her hair used to be his job.
“Mommy hurts my head.”
Riley inherited his hair, thick and silky. As Chuck brushed it to a golden sheen, he told her the story of a magic book and how jumping into the pages took a girl on a fairy princess journey.
“What about me, Daddy?” Jakey said.
“The magic book turns you into a knight or a—”
“Football player.”
“Yeah, buddy, a football player.”
Sometimes he told them how he met Mommy and fell in love.
“Was she a princess?”
“The most beautiful of them all.”
Another shadow touched the glass pane and Chuck dropped to the ground, the sharp twigs of the bush scraping his cheek.
Get out of here.
Did he want to lose his kids forever? Provoke her to file for a Final Restraining Order? Go home, man.
He waited for the coast to clear. One breath, two, three, four, five. As he turned to go, planning to shoot into the side yard and roll toward the neighbors, a dark Mercedes parked along the curb. Him. The hedgie boyfriend.
He alarmed his car and moved up the walk toward the door, his Bruno Maglis scraping against the concrete.
Yes, Chuck knew about Bruno Magli shoes. Trudy wanted to buy him a pair for his birthday one year. But what was he going to do with a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes working at a trucking company? What would he tell the guys, who considered five bills a nice bonus?
Hedgie, aka Will, entered the house, Chuck’s house, to the squeals of his kids.
Chuck gripped the nearest twig and snapped it in half.
What he wouldn’t give to knock on the door, grab the slick Wall Streeter by the collar, and throw him to the street.
The exact move that got him into this mess.
The voices, muffled against the windowpane, began to fade. Figuring the living room was clear, Chuck dashed toward freedom.
At his car, he fired up the engine, set his Uber status to available, and dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, wishing for the millionth time Trudy would just talk to him.