Wallaker's Discovery

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: He only wanted to start life afresh, away from war. He would get his wish… but not quite in the form that he expected.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Notes: Overlaps (and extends) the events of Mad About The Boy to fill in Scott Wallaker's history. If you liked that book, you'll probably like this story.
Typos or other errors are entirely my fault. Thanks to Marcie, AS ALWAYS.

Prologue

April, 2013

He was expecting to find an obituary, perhaps a simple paragraph or two mentioning the achievements of his life and the family he'd left behind. What he found instead was page after page of hits on a web search, a variety of outpourings of testimonials and regretful condolences from a spectrum of sources… and a heart-breaking photo of a familiar woman shown sitting, shrouded in black, a babe in her arms, a small child at her side; she clung to them, and the elder child, to her.

He sat back in his chair, brought his fingers to his chin thoughtfully, looking at this photo. Nothing like what he was expecting. Not at all.

Chapter 1

October, 2012

Good to be on English ground again.

He reached down, picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, then took in a deep breath before exhaling long and slowly. Good indeed to be home. He couldn't help chuckling, though, picturing himself the very cliché of a homecoming… but it did feel good to breathe in moist air after so much aridity, to be surrounded by green instead of shades of brown.

"Best get inside," said a voice from behind him, shouting over the din of the engines. "Get you processed and home to your family, sir."

He smiled, though pinched and reluctant it was; the family to which he was returning was not precisely intact. He very much looked forward to seeing his sons, but he was not exactly enthusiastic at seeing his ex-wife again, the woman who had committed adultery, filed for divorce, tried to soak him for his money, all while he'd been abroad. But he'd promised to try to work things out for the sake of the boys. She'd sworn that she'd changed, declared she was repentant, and thought a reconciliation would be the best for all involved. He had yet to be fully convinced, but was willing to give it a shot, mostly because he thought the familiarity would help after the trauma of his tours.

He turned to face the man who'd spoken, a young serviceman not much older than twenty-five, if he had to guess. It was hard for him to not think of the soldier as a boy.

"Just over there, sir," shouted the boy, anticipating his question, pointing towards a nondescript building.

"Right. Thanks." He walked across the tarmac towards it.

…

Anticlimactic.

As he rode the stretch of road to London, he could only think that his long military career was over with more of a whimper than a bang. The requisite debriefing, the completion of paperwork, the handshake and then a clap on the shoulder with sincere gratitude for his years of service. Now he was discharged, done, free. It all seemed over so quickly once he'd landed.

On the other hand, he was not much interested in fanfare. He hoped to live in peace and quiet, and was content to have nothing much planned at all. He hadn't even rung up Sarah to tell her of the exact time of his arrival. He wanted to head directly to his new flat, spend the night in a civilian bed with the silence broken only by the sound of the occasional auto driving by, perhaps a police siren now and again. No worries that the night might be interrupted by artillery fire.

He rang up the estate agency to arrange to have someone meet him at the flat he'd chosen from afar via the miracle of the internet. The agent herself, Leigh, met him at the kerb to present the key. After brief introductions, she offered to bring him inside, show him around as a courtesy since she hadn't done so before, but he declined the kindly meant offer. He wanted to have a quiet supper all by himself. He hadn't been truly alone in some time, and he wanted to enjoy it, at least for a night or two.

The door creaked open and he stepped inside, surveying his new abode, his home until such time as he returned to living in the house they all used to share together, if the reconciliation in fact worked. They had, after all, a rough history together with much yet to work through.

Sparsely decorated, the flat was much larger than he was expecting, which ultimately was a good thing if he were to host his sons. He set down his bag, went over to the windows and pulled the curtain aside. He was met by a reassuring view of the rolling green of Hampstead Heath; he felt almost like he was in the country, which suited him just fine. He allowed himself a little smile.

Since he had no food in house, and had no desire to brave the wilds of the likes of Tesco after a long day of travel, he thought he might take a walk around his new neighbourhood, familiarise himself with what was there, what takeaway was available.

The stroll turned out to be much shorter than he intended, for within a block he encountered a scent that made him realise quite how hungry he was. Ordering a deluxe curry felt immensely luxurious. He brought it (and the beer he'd picked up while the order was put together) quickly back to his flat as if he were a thief in the night.

He thought it might have been one of the better meals he'd had in his life.

…

"You should have called, Scott. We could have met you."

He chuckled. "I flew into a military base, Sarah. You hardly could have met me at baggage claim."

"Still. You should have called."

"The exact timing of my arrival was so uncertain, I didn't want to disrupt everyone's schedule," he said, telling a bit of a white lie. "I'm calling now though. So how are you? How are the boys?"

"I'm fine," she said coolly, "and they're at school. You should know that."

"Right, right. Keen to see them is all," he said. "Maybe they can come for the weekend."

"It's nearly the autumn break, Scott," she said. "They're up to their eyeballs in schoolwork. Surely you can wait another week and a half. They can stay with you. Can you have them over for a week? Is there enough room for them? Where is your place, anyway? Maybe I can come make you dinner."

"Yes, I've got the spare room set up for the boys," he said; another white lie, but he'd only been back two days, and would certainly have it ready by the end of the month. "Thank you for the offer, but not tonight."

The truth was, despite agreeing to try a reconciliation, he was not eager for her to know where the flat was, as she would be likely to turn up uninvited on a regular basis. Additionally, her cooking had been quite frankly abysmal and not enough time had passed for that to have improved.

"Do you have plans?" she asked.

"I'm just back from Afghanistan, Sarah. I just want some time on my own." It was the most honest he'd been with her since he'd called.

"Oh," she said, sounding stunned. "You're okay, I hope?"

"I'm fine," he said, then amended, thinking of his recurring nightmares, "I'll be fine."

"Please call if you need anything," she said. "I mean it."

He didn't doubt her sincerity, but he was unlikely to turn to her first, not before rebuilding their trust in each other. "Thank you… we'll talk soon. Bye."

"Bye," she said, then put down the phone.

He found it curious that she didn't try to keep him on the phone as was her habit, but not curious enough to analyse the possible reasons why. He'd gotten the obligatory call out of the way, and was now too eager to make the next call to his brother.

Before he knew it, three hours had gone by in conversation, and he felt immensely better for it. Speaking with his brother always made him feel like this, because Sean always knew just what to ask and just what to say; the conversation was always intelligent and engaging, and he always rang off feeling a true pleasure deep in his heart.

…

Despite his best intentions, and despite having no other obligations to occupy his day, Scott soon realised he hated housework and wasn't all that patient or experienced a cook, not to mention that he now had two boys coming to live with him in a few short days' time. He picked up the telephone and punched in Leigh's number for a starting point to ask about housekeeping services.

"Absolutely," said Leigh. "I've got a number for you, give me a moment."

After a few seconds she located it and gave it to him, which he in turn called; he spoke briefly with the manager and secured the services for housekeeping and dinner preparation by one of their most senior employees. They advised she could start as early as that same afternoon, but he deferred until the next day, as he, ironically enough, wanted a chance to tidy up the place.

The day to follow brought Ms Martha Torres to the flat: a petite but portly lady of Filipino descent, bursting with energy and wearing a broad smile on her face. "Hello, Mr Wallaker," she said, holding her tiny hand out in greeting.

"Hello," he replied, accepting the handshake. "So, this is the flat…" He gestured with one hand. "Twice a week to clean… then dinners during the week."

"Yes, is good," she said, nodding.

"It's not overkill, you don't think?"

She smiled. "You are alone here?"

"I have two sons who stay with me. Well, will be staying with me. I'm just recently back from serving abroad."

"Ahh, I see," she said.

"They're in boarding school, but will be here for autumn break and then probably pretty regularly thereafter, depending on how things work out with—" he said, then chuckled. "Sorry, I'm going on a bit, aren't I?"

"Is okay," she said. "Good to know for the future. And no, not overkill."

"Good, great," he said. "Well. I suppose I ought to let you at it. I'll, er…" He looked down to her bucket of cleaning supplies, realised it would be a good time to run some errands to prepare for the boys' stay. "…be back soon."

November, 2012

Scott didn't know what surprised him more in seeing his family again: how much Matt and Fred had grown, or how different Sarah looked—in truth, how much work she'd had, her face now as unnaturally tight as a drum—since he'd seen them all last.

They had a nice dinner together out after Sarah had picked them up from the school; she had chosen the restaurant, and in his estimation it was appropriately posh for her taste and a bit tacky for his own. The boys spent the evening acting like the slightest wrong move might result in a cattle prod to the backside. Scott assumed it was a combination of the restaurant's atmosphere and them feeling a bit odd around a father they hadn't seen in a while, and thought it likely they would relax a bit after they got reacquainted with him, in a more familiar setting.

It turned out they needed even less time than he thought. Sarah accompanied them back to the flat to have a look around, to see it for the first time. She seemed to approve of it, even privately intimated she'd like staying over on occasion once they made it back to that point; he was noncommittal, grateful he had been insistent in not telling the boys about the discussed reconciliation, so as not to unnecessarily raise their hopes in case it didn't end up working out. Given that he'd been in the flat for a fortnight and she had only just seen it, given his startled (but well-masked) reaction at seeing what she'd done to herself, he thought it might do well to have erred on the side of secrecy.

Soon enough the boys were settled into the spare bedroom, then saying goodnight and goodbye to their mother, and once she'd gone, they—he would swear—both let out long breaths as if actually deflating.

"So, Dad," said Matt, reclining on the sofa, "are you back for good now?"

"Will we get to see you a lot now?"

"I am back for good now. I'm retired from the military," said Scott, wondering exactly how much—or how little—Sarah had actually told them. "I'd hardly buy a new flat if this were just a temporary leave, would I?"

"Suppose not," said Matt. "Have you got Xbox?"

Scott drew his brows together. "Have I got what?"

"You know, Xbox. Video games."

"I most certainly do not."

"Can we go get ours?" piped up Fred.

"No," said Scott.

"Aw, but—" they began to protest.

"I am not providing room and board for a pair of video game zombies," he interrupted, then decided to soften his tone a bit. "You're here because I want to spend time with you. Plus, you've got reading and homework to do on break, and..." He trailed off, seeing the boys looking more and more like they'd just been handed down a life sentence of hard labour. "Don't worry. I don't have your days plotted out, minute by minute."

They both looked at him with evident scepticism. "Not minute by minute," said Matt. "Just morning, afternoon and night, right?"

Scott couldn't help chuckling. "Well, it so happens that I do have your days roughly outlined," he said, then added jokingly, "but I'll take your input if you must have it."

The weather forecast promised gorgeous, unseasonably warm temperatures, so Scott took out his diary and the three of them decided what they wanted to do on each weekday they were home. Plans for football in the park, museum visits and other activities in the afternoons; Cluedo, films and school-related activities in the evenings. "Maybe even a concert on the weekend, before you go back," said Scott; the boys loved music of all kinds because he'd made sure they'd been exposed to it. "A bit of classical, or jazz, if I can find one."

At this, the boys both grinned.

The week went so quickly that it surprised him. He was pleased to see that they stayed relaxed and mellow despite his firm, authoritative parenting; they commented that he was way more fun than their mother. They were curious about his time in the military, especially about Afghanistan, although he preferred not to talk about it. He particularly did not want to talk about the event that led to his leaving the military life, so when they asked why he came home, he simply told them he was tired of being abroad and away from them, and wanted to come home.

"Can we stay with you for Christmas?" wondered Matt, en route back to school on Sunday morning.

"Oh, yes, can we?" chimed in Fred.

"'May we'," said Scott, "and I'll have to discuss it with your mother."

He was happy that he'd be able to see them more now, and he definitely got the distinct impression that the feeling was mutual. He was looking forward to getting to know them better still.

…

Now what?

Once the excitement of the boys' visit was over, once he had made all of the requisite contacts to renew acquaintances, he found himself struggling to find things to do to fill his days. He'd been telling people he had been taking some time off before deciding what to do next, except that the 'time off' was starting to make him feel like the walls were closing in. Even Martha admonished him for not giving her enough to do, which, considering how much he disliked housework, was saying something.

When Sarah invited him to yet another one of her interminable charity luncheons in mid-November, he accepted readily and eagerly, which reiterated to him his utter state of boredom. Not that he disapproved of her involvement with charities if it helped them to raise money, but he had always assumed she had done it for the prestige, as the events themselves usually turned out to be full of people flush with cash but devoid of personality. Now he realised she may well have been as bored as he was.

His acceptance turned out to be quite serendipitous: one of his old uni mates was also in attendance at this luncheon, one whom he had not even realised was still in the area. From the expression on his face, his old friend Martin Miller seemed equally surprised to see him, too.

"Fancy seeing you here, Wallaker," said Martin. "I thought you were somewhere in the Middle East."

"Afghanistan," corrected Scott, gesturing they should continue on towards the bar. "And no, not anymore. I'm retired from service. And you, I figured you'd be some kind of diplomatic attaché or something."

"I came awfully close," he said, then ordered a gin and tonic. "Instead I took on an even bigger challenge: a school full of children."

This unexpected sentence caused Scott to abruptly chuckle. "You and children," he said, thinking of Martin's vehement statements at uni that he would never have any of his own. "That is a surprise."

"Yeah, well, I can honestly say that I'm never bored," Martin said.

"What is it that you're doing, exactly?"

"Headmaster," said Martin almost as if he were embarrassed to admit it, then named a very expensive prestigious public school, causing Scott's brows to rise. "Been a while, a decade at least. Surprisingly rewarding, despite the occasional stress."

"You enjoy it, then?" asked Scott.

"I don't always enjoy it, per se," he said with a grin, "but I can't see myself wanting to do anything else. Seeing those boys rise through the ranks… never did have any children of my own, but I haven't felt I've lost a thing."

A wave of something that felt very much like envy burbled up in Scott. To feel such absolute satisfaction with one's life work, to know of the good one was ultimately doing… it seemed to Scott an unattainable goal. "Sounds fantastic," he said. "What a great opportunity to have such a positive effect on a child."

"Ever thought of anything like that yourself?"

Scott had not, and said so. "I wouldn't necessarily rule it out," he said, "though I'm not sure what I could do at a school that doesn't involve janitorial duties." Martin chuckled. "I mean, I don't exactly have a teaching certification."

"Hmmm," said Martin thoughtfully, quiet for many moments before abruptly asking, "So, what have you been up to? Have you been back among we civilians for long?"

"Just back last month. Aside from having my boys for the autumn break week, I've not been doing a whole lot except charity luncheons." They both grinned, but then Scott exhaled roughly. "Truth be told, Miller, I'm bored senseless."

"Did you have something in mind?" Martin asked.

Actually, he realised he did not, and he thought that was part of the problem. He had been quite used to a very active life, always on alert, and now… while he was not eager to put his life on the line again, nor was he looking for the sort of action he'd seen in war zones, he was very aware of the fact that he missed that activity. Any activity.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," said Martin. "Hmmm. I may have something that would interest you. Let me make a few enquiries first."

…

Scott expected any number of responses from Sarah about the proposal offered by Martin except for the one she actually gave him: a long, breathless laugh.

"Oh, you never fail to amuse me," she said. "A job at a school as a sports teacher. I so needed the laugh today."

"It's not a joke," he said darkly.

Her brows rose in surprise as far as they could, given the tautness of her skin. "You're serious?" she asked. "Oh, Scott, why must you stoop so low? You're financially independent and don't need to take a job herding children."

Taking a job at the school, with the boys, was a chance to make a difference, to surround himself with innocence to make up for the destruction and killing, but as he had never gone into detail about his war experiences with anyone but his brother (and only the barest minimum at that), he wasn't sure he could impress upon her what this meant to him beyond filling the hours of the day. He decided to keep it simple. "I need something worthwhile to do," he said at last, "at least until I figure out what I want for the rest of my life."

She pursed her lips, almost looked disgusted, but then mustered up a smile. "Well, it's your life and your choice," she said. "And if it's what you want to do, then by all means, do it."

She was probably being facetious, and he certainly did not need her permission, but he thanked her all the same.

The start date was fairly quickly after they offered him the job—the first Monday of December—which underscored how serendipitous his availability was for them. Martin had mentioned how down to the wire they'd been getting; they didn't want the boys to be without a sports teacher, or one that couldn't stay through the rest of the academic year.

December, 2012

He felt a bit like a schoolboy on the night before the day he started; unexpected and unwanted nervous jitters plagued him. What if I can't actually do this job? What if the boys don't respect me? What if…

"Stop that," he barked aloud to no one but himself. If Martin had faith he could do it, then he needed to have faith in himself.

Monday morning proved to him he'd had nothing to worry about. The boys were suitably impressed that he meant business when it came to discipline and participation. He noticed in particular one enthusiastic child who genuinely seemed to love playing football, as opposed to the boys who were aggressively competitive and just wanted to win.

His name was Billy Darcy.

Not that Scott had a long time to make a character sketch, but Billy was an intriguing boy, a study in opposites, to an extent: reserved, polite, yet full of energy when engaged in the game.

At the end of the school day, he accompanied the group of six-year-old boys to the area where the parents would come to pick them up. This task was one that the previous sports teacher had taken upon himself, according to his mentor and new friend at the school, Alan Pitlochry-Howard, since their sports class was at the end of the school day. He felt it was a good tradition to maintain, for a sense of continuity for the boys and the parents.

When said parents—mothers, if he was to be perfectly honest—started gathering to get their children, he introduced himself as the new sports teacher. Generally he seemed to be warmly received, though these mothers seemed to be of a particularly cutthroat breed of individuals; one in particular questioned his credentials. Oh, she was subtle about it—"Where have you taught before?"—but he saw through the subtlety. It didn't surprise him that she was the mother of Atticus, who was one of the more neurotic, high-strung boys, poor lad.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something that didn't quite belong at a boys' school: a small blonde child, a girl. She was skipping around, smiling, singing to herself, almost dancing; She had her hair done up in a pair of ponytails, which bounced around as she did. She was quite honestly the most adorable, prettiest little girl he had ever seen. He loved his sons, but felt a bit sorry that he'd never had a daughter.

It was then she spotted Scott, stopped her frolicking, and looked up with wide eyes, practically craning her head back to take in his height.

"Hello," he said in the kindest voice he could manage, crouching down to reduce his height, offering her a smile. "What brings you to the junior branch?"

"My brudder," she said. "He goes here." She had a slight lisp that turned her 'goes' into something closer to 'go-eth'. She brought her fine little brows close together as she scrutinised him. "I never saw you before."

"I'm Mr Wallaker," he said. "What's your brother's name?"

"Billy," she said. "Are you de sport teacher?"

He blinked in his surprise—this blonde-haired, blue eyed child was the sister of the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy?—and had opened his mouth to continue when he heard what was undoubtedly this little girl's name in a tone that conveyed concern:

"Mabel?"

Mabel looked towards the source of that beckoning, as did Scott; he brought himself to his full height. The approaching blonde was undoubtedly the girl's mother; the similarities were uncanny, down to the drawn brows. As she came closer, though, he realised that his initial impression of her being in her mid-thirties (by her dress and the way she carried herself) was wrong, that she was probably something a bit closer to his own age; on closer inspection, her blue eyes, so close a match to the child's, showed tell-tale laugh lines of the sort that thirtysomethings haven't had time to develop yet.

"What are you up to?" she asked her daughter, then said to him with a bright smile, "Oh, you must be the new sports teacher. Mr… Walker, was it?"

"Mr Wolkda," offered Mabel with a grin; dimples like her mum, too.

He couldn't help smiling, either. He held out his hand. "Mr Wallaker, actually," he said, carefully enunciating his surname.

"Oh, sorry," she said, then accepted the handshake. "I'm Billy's mum. Mrs Darcy. Pleasure to meet you."

"A pleasure to meet you, too," he said.

"And Mabel's mum, too, obviously," she added, indicating the little girl. "She attends the Phoenix School and I fetch her first. Sorry I missed introductions earlier. I was running late."

Unkindly perhaps, thinking of Sarah's usual reason for being late, he considered that she should perhaps schedule the coiffure earlier in the day, but didn't say a thing; he knew all too well that those messy up-dos were carefully constructed fabrications. "It's all right. We're introduced now."

She did not reply, only looked away, distracted, presumably looking for her son. Scott turned and called out, loudly and authoritatively, "Billy! Get your things. Your mum's here for you!"

Billy's head snapped up from his involved game of keepy-uppy, which stopped instantly and he ran for his things. Scott turned back to Mrs Darcy, thinking she would be appreciative for the help, but instead she just gave him an odd look and a stiff smile. This confused Scott greatly.

As Billy came over with his knapsack, she took his hand, and Mabel's too. "Well," said Mrs Darcy, offering a very stiff smile, "we should be off. I'm sure we'll see you 'round."

"Goodbye," he said.

As they walked away, Mabel looked behind herself, smiled, and waved to him with her free hand, proving that the war in Afghanistan had not, in fact, destroyed his heart's ability to be utterly melted.

"Ah, I see you've met the Darcys."

He looked to his right to find Alan offering a slight smile. "Yes."

Alan nodded. "He's a good kid, Billy Darcy," he said. "We tend to watch out for him because of his father."

"Ah," said Scott, considering that his father was probably some high-stakes financier, politician, or otherwise wealthy man responsible for large charitable donations to the school in addition to paying tuition. Fighting his growing annoyance, he said, "Duly noted."

…

If Scott thought that Mrs Darcy's lateness that first day was an aberration, he was soon cured of the misapprehension. As the days passed, he noticed that Billy was never ready for his pickup on time. When he asked why, Billy could only say with rather pragmatic perspective, "It's okay. She's always late."

In its own way, it was refreshing that she was late when compared to the brigade of mothers, who by and large seemed as competitive as their offspring, too overly focused on being utterly perfect. It didn't take long for these mothers to start barraging him with requests and offering opinions on his teaching style, as well as offering unwanted assessments of their sons' athletic ability when they didn't agree with his own. Even the mum who had questioned his abilities was now trying to curry favour and simultaneously influence him.

He was not deaf to their conversations in the schoolyard; petty and unimportant concerns that paled in comparison to all that was wrong in the world. He hated overhearing them, because there was no recourse he could take to address how ridiculous and trivial they were without risking being fired as a result. Despite their mothers, he had come to care about the boys already. He decided to focus as much as possible on the boys and their education, and in doing what was right for them.

In a continued effort to rekindle the relationship—an effort that had not, to date, been very concerted on his part—he and Sarah had gone out together a few times for dinner. His heart wasn't really much in it, even still, because she tended to remind him a little too much now of the odious mums at school that he tried to avoid. But for the sake of his sons, he still gave it a try.

He saw Mrs Darcy on a daily basis, too, when she came with little Mabel to pick up Billy. Despite how different Billy was from the other boys, he could not help thinking of her any differently than the thought of the rest of the spoiled, rich mums. Probably has never worked a day in her life, he thought, spends her days in the salon, doing nothing meaningful… and still can't even be bothered to pick up her kids on time.

And yet… he realised that there was something about her that attracted his attention, something beside her prettiness, something that singled her out in his mind compared to the other mothers. Maybe it was the sweet and earnest Mabel, the serious and kind Billy, that tempered his opinion of a woman that ordinarily would be among a group of women least likely to grab his attention. He resented this attraction, though, as it was most unwilling on his part.

It didn't keep him from idly wondering, though, what her husband was like. Or whether she was divorced. He wondered more than he probably should have; he heard the other boys speak frequently about things they did on the weekend with their fathers, but he had never once heard Billy mention anything similar. Was the man just not around for his son?

As the winter holiday approached, he had the opportunity to ask Billy what his family planned for the holidays. Billy just shrugged a little. "I don't think my mum knows yet. She keeps talking about maybe taking us to Berlin, or Nottingham, or Grafton Underwood, or maybe on a cruise with my granny, or on a vodka boat."

It was quite a wide variety of possibilities, but the last item really got his attention. "A vodka boat?" he asked.

"I heard my mum call it that. But she told Aunt Talitha probably not because of the Russian money-launderers."

Scott's brows rose in astonishment; this conversation did not leave the most charitable of impressions. However, he was still curious, and asked, "Who's in Berlin? Nottingham?"

Shrugs to both of those from Billy. "I don't know. Friends of Mum's, I think. Maybe with Uncle Daniel or Uncle Tom or Aunt Jude."

He as starting to think that this passel of aunts and uncles were not actually blood relatives. "And Grafton Underwood?"

Billy offered a smile. "Grandpa and Granny Darcy. But it's really hard to get internet there."

Aha, thought Scott. His father's family. "What about your dad?"

"He used to be Santa," was all he said. He looked a little sad, so Scott didn't press for more information.

Late December, 2012

The boys did in fact stay at his flat over the holiday break, and for Christmas Day and Christmas dinner, Sarah came to visit. They had a relatively nice time of it. The only dark cloud was her gifts for the boys; expensive first editions of Beatrix Potter books, which as stories, the boys were too old to read, and as collectible objects, they were too young to appreciate.

They were gracious and smiled as they accepted them, but he could tell they were disappointed. He hoped his own gift would mollify that disappointment: the latest Xbox model for them for when they stayed with him, plus a handful of games that the shop owner advised were most popular for boys their age. He'd changed his mind since they'd first asked in November about having one there. They had been so well-behaved, so good about doing what they had to do, that he thought it only fair he give them something that they wanted to do as a reward.

At the sight of the setup in their shared room, he thought he had never seen the boys look more shocked or surprised, nor had Sarah ever looked quite so quietly seething.

"But you don't get to sit and play all the time," Scott said. "You still have chores, homework, and obligations to your father and mother. Do I make myself clear?"

Their wide grins and enthusiastic nods were enough of an affirmative. "Thanks, Dad!"

He left them to play a few games after dinner, returning to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. "Oh," she said, perking up after the post-gift sulk, "I'll have a little more."

He noticed that she drank far more of the bottle than he did, insisted he open another bottle, which he did because he wanted a second glass. The more wine she had, the more she began grimacing (or tried to, anyway) in a petulant manner. "You know," she said, slurring her words, "my present for them was still better than a bloody exes box."

"Better in what way?" he asked carefully; the misspeak was a bit telling to him.

She pointed at him. "It cost more," she said, as if that were the only explanation necessary.

He grabbed the wine bottle, pushing the cork back in.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking as if he were about toss a puppy into the Thames.

"You've had quite enough," he said firmly, keeping his voice low so the boys didn't hear.

"I'm fine."

"You're plastered, Sarah."

She pursed her lips. "I think I should go."

"You are in no condition to drive."

"Call me a taxi then."

He sighed. "It's Christmas night," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "Please stay a little longer for the sake of the boys. I don't want to send you home in a taxi on Christmas night."

She looked down. "Fine," she said. "Just fine."

Within a few moments it became clear to him that she was having trouble standing, so he led her to his bed, pulled back the sheets, and laid her down to sleep it off.

Shortly after switching the light off in his room, he diverted to the boys' room to tell them it was time to end the game and get ready for bed.

"Where'd Sarah go?" asked Matt as he put away the controllers; every time they called her that instead of 'Mum', Scott cringed a little inside.

"She's… having a little lie down before she heads out," said Scott.

"Oh, you mean…" began Fred with a grin, and then to Scott's horror, he mimed glugging from a bottle. For his part, Matt looked a little more concerned.

"She's done it before," said Matt darkly.

It was the first hint Scott had that she might have had a drink problem. He carefully asked the boys if she had ever done anything so foolish as drive them when she'd been drinking, and they shook their heads solemnly, but he thought he would have to have a talk with her all the same.

He ended up pulling a blanket out of the linen closet and sleeping on the sofa, which, as it turned out, was exceptionally comfortable. He did not awaken until he felt a hand on his arm, followed by a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Thanks to so many years in the military, he was awake instantly to come face to face with Sarah, who looked a bit bleary with imperfect makeup from a rough night's sleep on it. "It's all right," he said automatically; she looked contrite, and he was inclined to forgive her. "How are you feeling?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's not all right," she said. "Drinking on Christmas night like that. I'll get a handle on it. I promise."

"The boys mentioned this isn't the first time you had a bit too much wine."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She stood again. "I should go."

"Stay for breakfast. I'll make pancakes."

"No, I shouldn't."

"You should," he said, feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu; last night was playing out again. "I insist."

She seemed to feel the same: "I'll stay for the boys."

He started breakfast—pancakes and sausage links, with fresh-brewed coffee for the adults—while she went into the loo to tidy herself up. The scent of breakfast cooking lured the boys up and out of bed, still fuzzy-eyed and mussed hair, but excited for pancake breakfast.

To an outside observer it might have looked like an idyllic family moment, and it was a genuinely lovely morning. Sarah's contrition for the night before made her softer and gentler than usual, and it was a side of her he liked seeing; it reminded him of what drew him to her in the first place, all those years ago. Then she had to go; with a kiss to each of their sons she gathered up her things, bade Scott goodbye too, then left the flat for her car.

Maybe, just maybe, they could make things work after all.