It was at about this time that the neighbors began to whisper in earnest. Although Anthony had not so much as left Dylan's house for over two weeks, they were bound to notice the tall, dark figure gliding from room to room behind the curtains. Nor had it escaped their attention that Dylan and Brandy's usual routines had been severely altered. It was time for Anthony to make his presence known. He began to accompany Dylan on a few errands, running to the store for groceries, making deposits at the bank. He stood a little behind her at all times, trying to dodge the curious glances. He didn't like so many people staring at him. But Dylan did her best to shield him from scrutiny, dodging nosy inquiries with polite evasions. His sudden appearance, his resemblance to Brandy, were simply explained - yes, he was Brandy's father. Yes, he had left them. But he'd never forgotten, and after years of soul-searching, had put fear aside and returned to his family.
He knew, of course, that many of the neighbors would not believe this story, although it was the truth. He knew that there would be rumors, could even guess what some of them might be. But none of the rumors ever reached his sharp ears. The neighbors viewed him with suspicion, even dislike, but he did his best to be polite. He could never manage to talk to them, but after time, he learned to meet their eyes, to nod and to smile. After a while, he began to feel that they were growing accustomed to him. A few of the neighbors, primarily elderly ladies, even began to act as though they were rather fond of him. They admired his shyness, his willingness to help, his quiet manners. More than one teased Dylan about "the strong, silent type." She laughed fondly at the phrase, and squeezed his hand. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and summoned up a bashful smile. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning.
Everyone called him "Anthony" now, except for Brandy, who sweetly called him "Dad." It made him uncomfortable at first, but he grew to like it. He was, after all, a different person, and deserved a different name. And this life, his Anthony-life, was better than anything he'd ever known. He loved to sit in the kitchen with them bustling around him, laughing and joking, making dinner. He loved to wash the dishes, knowing that he was doing his share, being useful. And he loved the evenings, playing Scrabble with Dylan while their daughter did her homework. He had never done such things before, and so he had never realized just how much he was missing.
Then there were the nights, laying in Dylan's bed, her body warm and tender in his arms. Sometimes they would talk, or rather, she would talk. He would answer her in whatever way felt best to him, occasionally speaking, usually letting his gestures speak for themselves. Other nights, she would be as silent as he was, and they spoke only with their bodies. He loved her regardless. She knew him so well.
But, happy as he was, he couldn't quite sleep. The slightest sound would send him hurtling out of dreams and into full consciousness, staring into the darkness, trying to piece things together. He was at home with Brandy and Dylan. He had heard something. Was there danger? Should he go find out what it was? Nor was he the only one awake. Dylan would lie, quiet but tense in his arms, until she had sorted out the source of the noise. "Raccoons in the garbage," she might say, or "Wind in the trees." If it took her too long, he would slip out of bed, pulling a robe on, and she would follow him, tugging an oversized t-shirt down over her head.
So far, the worst they'd come across was Brandy herself, having woken needing to use the bathroom or get a glass of water. She'd squint sleepily at them, shaking her head. "You guys," she would mutter, stalking back to her room. Dylan would turn to him, shrugging, and lead him back to bed.
"I still can't get used to it," she confessed sometimes, when they were once more safe under the covers, and she was in his arms. "It's stupid; I mean, I've been retired for years, and nothing's happened. But I just… I don't know. I can't get used to it."
He would kiss her hair and smile in the darkness. It was good to know that he wasn't the only overprotective one in the family. It made him feel more like he belonged.
It was some time before Brandy felt quite comfortable bringing her friends home again. Her first visitor was Charlotte, Natalie and Pete's daughter. She looked like her mother, particularly around the eyes, but her hair was darker, like her father's. And, of course, all three smiled so easily, laughed so easily. Anthony was still nervous when he saw Brandy and her friend coming up the walk, but not desperately so. It was easier to resist the urge to flee. Dylan was sprawled on the sofa across the room, flipping through the latest Scientific American. She pretended that she wasn't watching him, but he knew better.
He tensed a little when the girls came bouncing through the door, laughing and giggling, but maintained his composure with an effort. The house seemed so much louder now; their noise was deafening. Charlotte didn't hesitate, but skipped straight towards him, holding out her hand. "You must be Brandy's dad," she said, flashing that easy smile. "I'm so glad to finally meet you!"
Heart pounding and tongue tied, he managed to shake hands, but couldn't speak. Charlotte spoke for him. "I've heard so much about you - Brandy talks about you all the time, and I asked my mom, and she didn't tell me much, because she doesn't like to talk about the old days much, but I managed to put a few things together. You know, the detective thing, it's like, practically genetic. Speaking of genetics, we were studying alleles today in class, and it was absolutely fascinating. Did you know that -"
Brandy cut her off with an elbow to the ribs. "Speaking of alleles, Charlotte, I thought you were going to help me with the..."
"Oh, right! Yeah, of course!" Charlotte giggled, still smiling. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Sanders!" Then the girls were pounding down the hallway to Brandy's room. The door slammed, and a hush fell over the living room.
He collapsed back into his chair, limp with relief. "Well," Dylan said, glancing up from her magazine. "That's Charlotte. Kind of scary, isn't it?"
Anthony broke into a wide smile. His shoulders shook , and he almost laughed, though he made no sound.
Exhausting as Charlotte could be, she was probably the best way for him to get used to teenagers. She never seemed to notice that he didn't seem to speak, perhaps because of the constant stream of words coming from her own mouth much of the time. Nor did she seem at all inclined to judge him. He rather doubted that Charlotte had ever judged anyone in her life. There was no need for explanation - she knew the truth about everything. She understood, in the way that Brandy's other school friends could not.
Weeks passed. The neighbors still watched him, but they no longer stared. He took over much of the driving chores, as Dylan was apparently on the verge of having her license suspended for speeding tickets. Sometimes, he even drove Brandy to school, and she was not too ashamed to kiss him on the cheek before sliding out of the car. He still had yet to go out to a movie, or eat at a restaurant, or even to walk more than a few blocks with his girls, but he was making progress. He was beginning to feel safe. He was even beginning to almost feel as though he belonged.
One afternoon, Dylan came in from the garden, a battered hat shoved low over her face, a smudge of dirt on her knee. "Shouldn't you be cleaning your sword?" she asked. He laid his copy of Crime and Punishment aside and gave her a quizzical look. "Toby's coming over this afternoon to work on a history project with Brandy."
He smiled, seeing her meaning, but shook his head. It would be unfair of him to frighten the boy like that. He was frightening enough without the blade. "If you're sure," Dylan said, and shrugging, walked away. He felt a pleasant kind of ache every time she left the room. He didn't like having her out of his sight, but he was glad to know that she'd been with him, even for only a little while. At least he could have her some of the time. It wasn't always, but it was enough. Still smiling, he returned his eyes to his book, although his thoughts were of Dylan, and Brandy of course, and this mysterious Toby.
As their first meeting approached, he began to feel a little anxious. But he stilled his features and stared resolutely at his book. He should not assume things about this Toby. He was probably just an ordinary teenage boy, nothing to fear, nothing to worry about... No wonder Dylan had recommended the sword. Still, it was better for him to be without it right now. The more he waited and thought, the more his thoughts began to oppress him. He'd learned long ago that it was not wise to be both nervous and armed.
"Hi, Dad!" Brandy chirped, opening the door. Toby followed her, and Anthony relaxed at once. The boy was plainly terrified. In fact, it looked almost as though he was attempting to hide behind Brandy's small, slim frame. Anthony stood up and held out his hand, and after a long, fidgety silence, Toby finally stepped forward. His skin was clammy, palms sweaty.
"Hi," Toby croaked, his voice cracking. He was, after all, only a boy, not far from childhood. "I mean... it's... uh... it's nice to meet you, Mr. Sanders."
Anthony nodded gravely, releasing the boy's hand. He was aware of his daughter watching him, blue eyes sharp, aware that she was waiting for him to say something. Unfortunately, he found himself not at all in the mood to speak. Finally, Brandy rescued her would-be suitor. "Come on," she said, raising an eyebrow at her father. "We need to figure out what we're going to do for the visual presentation." Toby followed her down the hallway, though he kept glancing back at Anthony. To be honest, the boy had gone a bit gray.
"He doesn't like me," the boy muttered, believing himself out of earshot. "He didn't even say anything."
Anthony found himself having to bite down hard on his lip to keep from laughing out loud. When he'd finally regained his self-control, he drifted out into the garden to look for Dylan, closing the door noiselessly behind him. As long as the children thought he was inside, they wouldn't get into much mischief.
He slipped up behind Dylan, who was busily weeding amongst the sunflowers, and stood watching her, silent, until she realized he was behind her and whirled, face grim. He couldn't help but smile at her surprise, and after a few seconds, she smiled back. "I still think you should have brought out the sword," she said. His only reply was to bend down and kiss her. He was happy, knowing that he would help her with the garden, and that Toby would leave, and the girls would cook dinner, and afterwards, he would do the dishes. Simple things. Quiet things. He no longer regretted his decision.