The Power of a Ghost
By S. Faith, © 2014
Words: 5,618
Rating: M / R (suggestions of intimacy)
Summary: A dead man is a hard one to compete with.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.
Notes: Mr Wallaker surely had some of his own struggles to handle, don't you think? (Post-MATB)
Since I have no other way to do so: Thank you, Blanca, for your kind comment. It touched me beyond words.
Except.
Everything in his life was about as perfect as he could have dreamt it. He had found a woman who seemed to fill the empty places in his brittle psyche; he had two sons that he looked forward to being raised in a loving environment, two stepchildren he thought of as his own, especially the little girl he never thought he'd have to spoil; he had a job he liked, a home made cosy by love. He had a happy life.
A man he'd never met and would never know, however, was in many ways more of a real presence than his own sons' mother.
Mark Darcy, the omnipresence.
Not that he begrudged Bridget the happiness she'd had, but he was all too aware that had this man's life hadn't ended unexpectedly, she would not be in his own life right now. He also never wanted her to feel guilty for holding on to her happy memories.
Usually, like this evening, it crept in subtly. By dint of the season—Christmas was upon them for the first time as a blended family—difficult memories were especially likely to churn to the surface. They had a film on the telly—one of Bridget's long-time favourites, The Sound of Music—with the children watching, lined up on pillows on the floor, and Bridget beside him on the sofa, cosily nestled against him.
Mabel, apparently inspired by song, popped up and began to march around and sing along with the Von Trapp children. "So long, farewell, a feeder shine, goodnight," she sang over and over again, butchering the German. Bridget stifled a laugh, and he and his sons were willing to humour the little princess of the house, but her brother, Billy, could hold his comment back no more:
"Mabel! Will you please settle down and take your seat, already?"
Mabel obeyed, but retorted, "You're no fun."
He didn't know precisely what it was that triggered her response—if it was what Billy said, or how he said it, or some shared memory of which she alone was aware—but he could feel Bridget stiffen against him as that unknown, invisible wave of nostalgia crashed against her. One moment, she was as close to him as could be possible, relaxed and secure; the next, tense, distant, unreachable. He never knew exactly how to respond when this occurred; he didn't want to dismiss her feelings, but did want to acknowledge that he was there for her, even as he wondered how best to bring her back to the present. So he simply brushed his hand up and down her arm, then pulled her closer. In response she leaned into him again, turning in her seat to accept a cuddle.
He kissed the top of her head, and all seemed well again. He just wished he could make it within his power to defuse all of the emotional time bombs for her, to stop all of the well-meaning comments about Mark that came up in casual conversation, comments that still stung; as if she didn't have a reminder every day how much Billy was growing up to look like his father.
It was hard to fight the power of a ghost, the strength of a memory or the love and life cut short too soon… and even harder to come to terms with feeling jealous of one. It had been much easier for him to put his own ex-wife behind him, but he supposed he never felt the sort of love and connection that Bridget had had with Mark.
…
It had been strange when they'd all first moved in together, into the house near Hampstead Hill. Almost immediately it became obvious that Billy and Mabel continuing to call him "Mr Wallaker" was a bit ridiculous; however, as much as he wanted to take on the role of a father to them, he had no desire to usurp Mark from their memory, and he knew from the way she kept him alive in their hearts, Bridget didn't want that, either.
It was Billy who came to him about two weeks after they'd gotten all settled in. He looked extremely distraught, closing the door behind himself. "Hey, Billster," he'd said, even as he wondered why he had not gone to his mother, who was home… and to whom everyone went for consolation. "What's going on?"
"It's Mabel," Billy said, looking up with sombre brown eyes.
"Mabel?" He crouched to be level with Billy's eyes. "Is she okay?"
Billy nodded. "I didn't want to tell Mummy, 'cos it might make her sad."
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I heard Mabel call you 'Daddy' to Saliva."
"Hm," he said, pleased to hear she loved and had come to accept him to think of him as such, just as Billy had in his own way, revealed in the conflict he felt bringing this information to him. "Yes, I can see why you're upset, and why your mum might be too… well. We'll just have to come up with a solution. But I think she's going to have to help."
"Mabel?" Billy asked brightly.
"Yes," he said, "but your mum, too."
"Oh."
For good measure, he had his sons join the discussion, but only after he'd briefed Bridget on the situation. "He came to me because didn't want to upset you," he said. "You're not upset, are you?"
She looked down. "I've been so grateful for the love you've shown them, the care you've given them."
"I know you have."
"So I don't want to seem I'm not, but… for so long I've wanted Mabel to have a…" She stopped before she said it, but he knew she meant 'father', one that was of this earth; clearly she was a bit upset. "But I don't ever want them to forget Mark."
He took her in his arms. "I doubt that will ever happen."
Afterwards, with the children all collected together, he decided to take the reins and speak to them, though he tried to do so in a less-than-serious manner.
"So, here's the thing," he said, looking at each of them one at a time, before engaging Billy's gaze, then Mabel's. "I only expect children who do not live with me to call me Mr Wallaker," he began. "And you two already have a daddy, even if he's…" He paused.
Mabel supplied, "In heaven."
He nodded. "Right. So I don't expect you to call me that, either. So, I want to know—we both do—what your ideas are about what we should do."
Billy stole a surreptitious glance to his mother, and when he saw she was not in floods of tears, looked back to him. "I dunno," Billy said.
To his surprise, and to Bridget's, too, it was Matt who spoke up. "Well, why not call you 'Papa' like we do?"
He looked to Bridget, she to him, feeling foolish; leave it to the adults to overthink the situation and the kids to cut to the heart of the matter. "Yeah," piped up Fred. "A baby brother or sister would have done, anyway."
"I suppose he has a point," said Bridget with a teary-eyed smile.
"What about you, Mummy?" asked Mabel. He thought she might have referring to what his boys would be calling Bridget, but he would be proven wrong: "You don't have to keep saying 'Mr Woldka'."
…
So Papa he was, and Papa he became to Billy and Mabel as of that day; he smiled to think of it now, to remember Matt and Fred wanting to call her Mama B, then slowly progressing until they, too, simply called her Mummy (which would probably have rankled their own mother had she not insisted since they were very small that they call her by her first name, Sarah).
He loved every moment of it. Except he didn't love so much those moments when she was seized by grief. Those moments made him feel as if she were slipping from him and he could do nothing about it.
…
It came as something of a surprise (and a source of unending amusement) to him to have only really fallen in love for the first time after he had been married and had fathered two children, with a stint in the military in there for good measure. If he had only thought himself in love with her when they'd gotten together, the subsequent months proved it to be an unassailable truth. As they settled into life together, as she became more and more assured that she was not alone in the world, that she had support and love, she blossomed into what he could only surmise was the woman she'd been before the loss she'd suffered.
The more he realised the depth of his love for her, however, the more he realised he was bothered to an extent by the love that she would always feel for Mark. This in turn made him feel guilty, like a petty schoolboy trying to vie for the attention of the most popular girl in class. He felt guiltier still when he reminded himself that he had no reason to complain; after all, it wasn't as if he were neglected in any way. And it felt in a way unfair that he should feel jealous of a man to whom he could never lose Bridget, when Bridget not only was not jealous of Sarah, but seemed to like her and get along with her better than he did.
The contrast was never so stark as when Sarah visited after bringing her sons home following a day out. The boys had obviously had their fill of their mother for one day, and he certainly had no desire to spend more time than needed with his ex-wife, but Bridget made it a point to invite her to dinner. Sarah would always accept out of obligation. The whole night was an awkward one for everyone but Bridget.
He loved Bridget more for the effort made, though.
…
Mark Darcy's parents were making the trip to London for Christmas and staying with them for the holiday, which triggered a memory of when he'd met them for the first time over the summer. While he'd had the occasional phone chat with them—nothing really more than small talk—when they'd rung up to talk to Bridget about the kids, he'd not had an opportunity to meet the Darcys, and he'd been more than a little nervous about standing up to their scrutiny, in raising the children of their dead son.
"Come now. There's nothing to worry about," Bridget had assured.
"I'm not worried," he'd lied, knowing full well she knew he was lying, even as she'd offered a hug and he'd accepted it. It was easy for her to make such a proclamation after his own brother had welcomed her with open arms and had declared that their parents would have loved her. Of course they would have, he'd thought, after the nightmare of Sarah.
Mark Darcy, on the other hand, had practically been a saint. Filling his shoes was a much more difficult prospect.
Bridget had been right, though; Malcolm and Elaine Darcy had greeted him warmly, even if Mark's mother's well-meaning words had only served to remind him how much Mark's death had nearly annihilated Bridget:
"So nice to see Bridget smiling again after… well, after so long. She deserves happiness."
He had liked them well enough, and Matt and Fred seemed to take to them as surrogate grandparents… but while an afternoon in the summer was one thing, spending a few days in the same house in the dead of winter was something else altogether.
The Darcys arrived whilst he was out picking up some last minute grocery items, and when he returned Malcolm was already installed before the fireplace in the sitting room where Billy and Fred were playing Xbox together. He found Bridget and Elaine in the kitchen baking Christmas biscuits with Matt and Mabel as helper fairies.
"Sorry I wasn't here to greet you, Elaine," he said deferentially, pecking a kiss on Bridget's cheek as he set down the carrier bag, "but apparently we cannot get through the holidays without chocolate croissant and more shredded cheese."
"Lovely to see you again, Scott," Elaine said.
He was grateful she had insisted that he call her 'Elaine', because it was discombobulating to think of any other woman but Bridget as 'Mrs Darcy', even if Elaine had been a Mrs Darcy first. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Papa!" interrupted Mabel. "Look at my iced biscuits!"
They were painting icing onto the thin sugar biscuits, and her Santa was a bit odd with a green outfit, but he praised it all the same. "Very nice, Mabel," he said, patting her head, "and so is yours, Matt." Matt's Santa was a bit more conventional.
"Thanks, Papa," Matt said with a smile.
"Why don't you help Malcolm keep an eye on the boys?" suggested Bridget. "Have a beer, take a load off after your long trek."
He grinned and did just that, but knew the real reason was more like keeping Malcolm company. "Oh, hello," Malcolm said with an amiable smile as he took the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. Malcolm too had a beer. The boys were so enthralled in their game that they hardly needed looking after, but he was just as happy to be sitting and relaxing, and Malcolm seemed a nice enough fellow, if a bit scatter-brained at times.
"Have a nice journey into town?" he asked.
"Quite fine, quite fine," he said. "Not driving these days, so we took the train down. Smooth ride. Taxi to the house, not a problem at all. And you?"
He chuckled. "I was just to the shops for some things," he said. "I live here."
"Oh, yes, too right, too right." Malcolm paused to sip his beer, when Mabel came running in. "Well, hello, m'dear. What have you got there?"
"I painted this for you, Granddad!" She handed him a freshly iced biscuit.
"Why, thank you," he said, taking it.
She then licked the icing from her fingers. "None for Billy," she said impishly, "'cause 'tis the season'—"
"Mabel, Mummy told you not to sing that," Billy warned, not looking away from the screen.
"'—to hate Billy,'" she trilled quickly, then laughed as she ran back into the kitchen before Billy could retaliate. Billy, however, was too lost in the game to do so.
Malcolm chuckled, looking a bit pensive. "I remember when Bridget used to do that sort of thing to Mark," he said wistfully. "A bit more of an age difference, mind, but… he was always so patient with her. Always."
He didn't quite know what to say to that, so he only sipped at his beer.
"It's difficult when you lose a—well, no use in bringing that up," Malcolm said, brightening a bit. "Elaine tells me you have some military service behind you? I was in the Royal Navy, m'self…"
He was not inclined to discuss his experience in SAS, but on this occasion, he was more than happy to find a common bonding point. It would, after all, bring the focus of the conversation off of the man who was clearly never far from any of their thoughts. He would not get a chance to get into much detail, because Mabel returned bearing a painted iced biscuit for him. In truth, he was a bit grateful for it.
"It's beautiful," he said, taking it from her messy little hand, and it was beautiful, as if Jackson Pollock had designed the wrapping paper on the gift-shaped biscuit. "You made this for me all on your own?"
She nodded.
"Wow, it's almost too pretty to eat."
Mabel giggled. "You have to eat it."
"Right now, then, shall I?" He mimed stuffing it into his face like the Cookie Monster, which set her into another fit of giggles. "Will you do me another? And one for Granddad?" He glanced over towards Malcolm to see a wistful smile playing on his face.
"Okay," she said, then went on in a perfect parroting of her mother, "but you can't have it 'til after dinner or you'll thpoil your appetite."
Not that you ever listen when your mother says that, and not that your mother herself abides, he thought with amusement, but said only, "Fair enough, Princess."
With that, Mabel bounced up and ran back towards the kitchen. Only after she left did Malcolm allow himself a little chuckle. "It's like seeing her mother all over again," he commented as he watched her go before he turned his gaze towards him. "She's going to be in good hands with you, m'boy."
He was inordinately pleased to have such outside validation; it brought to mind when he'd had similar thoughts about his own sons being in good hands with Bridget: late in the summer, before school had started up again, an old mate from his SAS days had been in town for the day, so he'd gone off for a couple of pints at the pub after supper. "Don't worry," she'd said. "Just go have a nice time."
"You're sure?" he'd asked.
"Of course," she'd said. "I've got it well in hand."
He then walked down and around the corner to the pub for that pint or two; before long he was eyeball deep in surprisingly cathartic reminisces before parting ways with promises to do it again sometime… and knowing full well it was unlikely.
It was not too late when he got back—barely twenty-two hundred hours—feeling pleasantly buzzed and nostalgic. He made his way through the curiously quiet house until he got to the sitting room, and what he found there brought tears of joy to his already emotional eyes:
There on the floor, sitting around the coffee table on cushions, were Bridget, Matt and Fred—it was well past bedtime for the younger Billy and Mabel—each with a hand full of cards that raptly held their respective attention, and a stack of chocolate coins next to each them. They had not noticed his arrival, and he intended to observe without their notice for as long as he could.
He was not familiar with the Go Fish/poker hybrid they seemed to be playing, but it was plain to him that Bridget really enjoyed their company, really liked his sons, and that they were having a lot of fun. It was just as plain to see that Matt and Fred genuinely enjoyed her company too.
"All right," said Bridget, with one card left in hand. "Have you got an… eight?"
Matt deflated, and handed one from his copious stack to her. Her face lit up as she took it, threw down her last pair (one of many) and hooted with joy.
"Hand over the chocolate, boys!" she said with a grin, removing her reading glasses and hooking them over the collar of her shirt. "But feel free keep a few for yourselves. I'm not greedy."
They pushed their chocolate coins to her in a manner reminiscent to dealer at a casino.
She peeled the foil off of one and as she popped it into her mouth, she noticed he was there and smiled. She had managed to already get a chocolate smudge on her mouth.
"You're ruthless," he said; the boys turned.
"Hey Papa," said Fred with a grin. "That was a fun game."
"I'm not," she replied with a pout.
"She's not," verified Matt. "She gets the chocolate, fair and square."
"If you say so."
"If you apologise nicely," she said, "maybe I'll share my booty with you."
He ignored the double entendre. "I am, without reservation, completely and utterly sorry."
"Accepted." She grinned lopsidedly, picked up a handful, and brought them over to him. "There's more where that came from," she said, then winked.
Still beaming smugly, she collected the rest of her coins and left the room.
After a couple of beats, he turned to the boys. "All right, confession time. Did you let her win?"
The boys exchanged a look, then turned back and nodded with a grin. "She loves those chocolate coins," offered Matt.
"How? How do you let someone win at that game?"
"Papa," said Fred, "we could see the cards reflected in her reading specs."
"Don't ever tell," said Matt.
At this, he threw back his head and laughed out loud. He loved his sons. And he loved her.
…
One cannot be responsible—not really—for what one's mind does whilst asleep.
He'd had his share of nightmares, post-service in particular, ones that persisted into his relationship with Bridget, though the relationship (and her presence during the night) alleviated the frequency, magnitude and duration of said nightmares.
She'd had her own share, too. Some were about the children, and those were easy to coax from her, but for the worst of them, she never really outright said of what it was she'd dreamt. She hadn't needed to. The trembling and the tears told him it had to do with Mark's traumatic demise.
Over time, her bad dreams had abated, just as his own had, and for that he was grateful. He was not nearly as prepared, however, for the unexpected tender nocturnal murmur, soft as a sigh: "Oh, Mark."
A nightmare was something he knew how to handle. A happy dream… he did not want to intrude on that, but he also did not want her to languish in the past, wanted instead to assert reality. He supposed he was pleased that it wasn't traumatising her. At least he would have to hope it wouldn't be traumatic to find himself instead of Mark beside her come the morning.
He would just have to wait for a cue for her mood; he was fairly confident in very short order that he would know what to do, and then he could spring into action.
Upon opening his eyes again he found that she was gazing upon him from her pillow, a half-smile playing on her lips that spoke of amusement as well as wistfulness. "Good morning," he said, his voice a bit scratchy.
"Morning," she said.
"Sleep all right?" he asked, turning to fully face her in order to gauge her reaction.
"Mm-hmm," she said quietly. "Just wondering if I still had it."
She certainly didn't seem traumatised; however, he was perplexed. "Had what?"
"The uncanny ability to wake with thought vibes," she said.
Ah, he thought; not in pain, but maybe a little melancholy. He knew exactly what such a state called for. "Oh, you still have it, all right," he said in a low tone; before she could get another word out, he pounced forward to kiss her, then to show her precisely what she had awakened, avidly, ardently, heatedly, until his goal was reached.
"Ohh," she sighed between great heaves of breath, lips curled in a satiated smile, "Mr Wallaker." After a few more moments, she opened her eyes, turned her gaze to him, the smile not fading one bit. "Come here." She then leaned to pull him towards her. "I know you hate it," she teased, "but it's time for cuddling."
He chuckled throatily, accepting the embrace, delighting on the feel of her warm breath on his neck. "If I must." He stroked her hair with his fingers, kissed the top of her head. "You know," he said, "I think after a year you might feel free to use my given name in the afterglow."
She laughed. "'Scott' doesn't quite seem right. Too… I don't know. Formal."
His brows rose in astonishment. "More formal than 'Mr Wallaker'?"
She giggled.
"People would think something was wildly wrong if they ever heard you call me that in public."
"Then I'll be sure to call you 'Scott' in public," she said, rearing back with a smirk, then, as she lowered herself to touch her nose to his, she added in a near-growl, "and 'Mr Wallaker' whilst you're making me c—"
"Mummeeeeeee!"
Bridget froze at the shriek from the hallway, then practically bounced away from him just as the bedroom door burst open and Mabel came in like a cyclone. "Mummeeee!" Bridget pulled the duvet to her chin as Mabel began tugging down on it and chanting, "Get up, get up, get up, get up!"
"Mabel, darling, can I have just two minutes?" she asked desperately.
"No, you may not, Mother!" Mabel said in an all-too-adult voice. "Dis is important!"
As amusing at this was, he knew he would have to intercede. "Mabel," he said authoritatively. Mabel calmed at once, turning her bright blue eyes towards him. "Whatever is going on, it can wait for two minutes, surely."
"No, it can't!" she said with a pout. "De fuckoon could freethe to death!"
He knew what was going on: Billy had taken to hiding her Sylvanian family dolls in the freezer. "Two minutes," he said, "and I'll rescue the… fuckoon myself."
"Okay!" she said brightly, then ran out as quickly as she'd come in.
He slipped from the bed, closed the door, and flipped the lock. "You—"
"—forgot to lock the door last night, yes, I know." She threw back the duvet, looking perturbed. "Why is it they always listen to you instantly, like little automatons, and to me, almost never? Why? Why?"
He sat again. "Simple, my dear," he said. He pursed his lips to hide his smile. "They view me as an adult."
She narrowed her eyes, reached back, and then grabbed the corner of a pillow to wallop him on the head with it. Playfully of course, but retaliation was of vital importance. If not for the two minute directive, he might have gotten quite carried away, but he resisted, pushed himself away, then looked for his trackie bottoms to dress.
"Best rescue the raccoon before she comes back," he said, pointing to the door.
"We'll continue this later," she said impishly.
…
Should auld acquaintance be forgot…
He sipped at his wine and glanced around the room; he thought back to the previous new year's eve, when Sarah had their sons, Bridget's mum had Billy and Mabel, and he was able to welcome the first of what he hoped to be many new years with Bridget.
This year, though… this year seemed to call for something a bit more festive, a bit more communal, with Capthorpe House all decked out in holiday finery, friends and family from near and far, catering done in, matching suits bought for the boys and himself, and matching party dresses for Bridget and Mabel.
"She looks a bit like a deranged Shirley Temple," he'd said into Bridget's ear as she'd plucked the last of the Kirby grips from Mabel's hair to unwind the final pin-curl.
"This is what she wanted," Bridget had quietly said in a dire sing-song, before brightening, "She looks fantastic, doesn't she?"
The curls went every which way, shiny and gravity-defying, but in truth, she did look adorable. "She looks even more like the princess she is."
Mabel's smile hadn't left her face all evening, even if the curls had gone a bit wilder in the interim as she bounced around, the belle of the ball, in her patent leather shoes and (as she called it) her "sticky-outy dress."
They'd been joined by Nicolette, Farzia, Farzia's husband (whose name he could never remember) and George, the school's headmaster; by Rebecca and Jake; by Magda and Jeremy (and their children, who helped them keep an eye on all the children); by his own brother and sister-in-law; by Tom, Jude, and Talitha. He had even gotten to meet Sharon, better known as Shazzer, who had travelled to London for the holidays with her husband. He had found Shazzer a bit brash but had liked very much indeed.
Which made him feel especially bad about the accidental eavesdrop of a portion of a conversation she was having with Bridget, in private in the kitchen; he heard the murmur of voices but didn't think too much of it with the door standing ajar, at least until he got closer. Shazzer's voice certainly could carry.
"Bridget, be honest with me," Shazzer said, concern evident even in her non-nonsense voice. "How are things, really? I know this is such a charged time of year for you since Mark's been gone…"
He stopped in his tracks and, before he could be seen by either of them, turned to retreat before he overheard the answer. In doing so, he walked squarely into Daniel Cleaver, whose brows rose to his hairline.
Quietly, he said, gesturing with a thumb towards the door, "I didn't want to interrupt."
"Right," Daniel replied. "Care to join me outside for a smoke?"
"I don't smoke," he said.
"I do," Daniel said, and left it at that.
He had a feeling it was to do with what they had surely both overheard, so he didn't further protest, only followed Daniel out the French windows and onto the back patio. The night was cool but not frigid, rather unseasonable for the last day of the year. Daniel closed the French windows, dampening the last of the party sounds and leaving them in an unsettling silence.
Daniel took out a cigarette and lit it; after drawing a deep breath, then letting out an extended exhale, he said, meeting his gaze, "I overheard that too."
"I figured you might have done," he said.
"Got a sense it made you distinctly uneasy."
He chuckled. "I didn't want to listen."
"You didn't want to hear how she'd respond, more like," said Daniel. He took another draw. "You don't have anything to worry about."
"Pardon?"
Daniel grinned. "She's always going to love him, you know," he said. "But she's got a bloody big heart, and she's more than capable of loving you just as much." He brought the cigarette up as if to take another puff, but paused. "I mean, after all the bullshit I put her through, she still finds a way to care about me." After inhaling another lungful, he said, "Don't spend your time second-guessing whether you're measuring up, is all I'm saying, because it's clear to me that she does. Love you, I mean."
He did not quite know what to say to this. He thrust his hands into his pockets, looked up to the sky. "I appreciate the candour."
"Well—was pretty obvious you needed to hear it."
"Not that I doubt she—" he said quickly.
"I know," Daniel interrupted. "But I'm sure it's hell, the constant comparison, the wondering if you're up to scratch. I'm telling you, it's unnecessary."
He allowed himself a little grin. "Thanks."
"Well." Daniel threw the butt end of the cigarette down, stepped on it, then picked it up before having the decency to look chagrined. "Sorry," he said.
"Eh, no worries. At least you picked it up."
At this, Daniel laughed. "Fair enough. Come on, we're probably close to midnight. Pretty sure Bridget would bollock me if I kept you out here for the clock countdown."
Considering how much she'd insisted on a kiss at midnight last year, he thought Daniel was probably right.
Upon their re-entry, he immediately found Bridget, who had taken up residence on a sofa where Billy and Mabel had sacked out to sleep, despite (or perhaps because of) record energy levels earlier. He sat beside her.
"Want me to bring them—" he began, but stopped when she shook her head.
"We can wake them just after midnight, if the cheers don't do it first," she said. "They'd be gutted to miss it."
Distantly he heard someone begin the countdown from twenty. He thought he might have toasted in the new year with champagne, but he was loath to move; he felt strangely at peace, his gaze locked onto Bridget's. Much like how Admiral Darcy's kind words about his parenting skills had helped him feel more at ease with Billy and Mabel… perhaps Daniel's words were the outside validation he'd needed all along in shedding the ghost of Mark Darcy, once and for all.
As the old grandfather clock began to chime out for midnight, as the excitement levels began to rise in the room and cheers of "Happy New Year" began to sound out, he placed his hand on Bridget's cheek, leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips; beside them, he heard Mabel's voice join in the cheers as she surged back to life from sleep, as she tackled her mummy and Papa with a big hug that broke their kiss apart with giggles. Another pair of arms signalled Billy had joined in, and then they all started to laugh when Matt and Fred piled on top, too.
After the laughter subsided, he sat with Billy on his lap and Matt beside him. Bridget leaned back with Mabel curled into one arm, as perfect a miniature of her mother as any little girl could be, and curled in the other, a very pleased-looking Fred. Bridget sighed, then smiled.
"You know, Scott?" Bridget said. "This is me, so very happy."
He smiled, reached and lightly touched her knee. "So am I," he said; he was about to expand on his thoughts, tell her if anyone deserved happiness, she did, but they were then joined by one guest after another to share their best wishes for the new year.
Ah well, he thought amusedly. He would just tell her later, once the guests had gone, the children put to bed, and they were alone. Tell her, and then show her.
The end.