Being a dad is not easy. Just the thought conjures visions of Whitman Samplers and a perfectly roasted turkey with all the festive accoutrements. Whitman Samplers are a moribund notion – pun intended and if you don't get it than you are much younger than I am – and that perfectly done turkey is Mythos Americana, a contrived notion – that word again – we use to comfort ourselves around the darkest epoch of human misery, six weeks of holiday season to end and begin each year.

I am dad. Mostly. An archaism, but my heart tells me I am a dad even if my voter ID does not. Oliver, that's my son, tells me to trust the timing. I remember the sentiment from church days long ago but still haven't decided if that is a different mythos or just more turkey. Oliver is all about trusting a divine delivery. A notion suitable for a Whitman Sampler resplendent with notions of thread, fabric and ribbon. What can I say, I love words and the nuance of notions.

Papa Joe O'Toole laughed at his own pun. The silver haired patriarch stood on the ledge at the back of his property, facing a view of snowcapped peaks gently hazed by distance. But his eyes were closed and the view he watched was a mental one of a park, a slide, and a little boy afraid to let go. The beer held gently in both hands was long since warm, neglected by reflection. Father's Day was just around the corner and the dad who claimed Oliver O'Toole as his own was hoping and longing to celebrate the day for the first time. Shrouding both sentiments was the fear that it would not happen. Again.

"The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong, Nor bread to the wise, Nor riches to men of understanding, Nor favor to men of skill; But time and chance happen to all fathers." Papa Joe paraphrased. I am not a fan of "time and chance", he thought. To me it's always seemed like putting the glove of trust on the wrong hand.

"Push me daddy," said a laughing memory on a swing. The words raked across his mind like Freddy Kruger's fingers, then the tears the old phart would never admit to wet his cheeks. Joe took a sip of the warm beer and immediately spit it out. Exhaling slowly, he pushed the reverie aside. The sound came out as a single breathy word, "Oliver".

Time and chance. Not always bad. A year ago I was alone and wondering if sanity was worth holding onto. Then I got my son back, along with the troop he seems to have collected along the way. Last night, dinner at the Grille with Oliver, Norman and Rita, Gabe and Hattie, and of course the always surprising and irrepressible Ramon. Joe laughed to himself and tipped the bottle in his hand to flush out the warm beer.

What a bunch.

Joe smiled at the faint aroma of 'Bombshell', a Victoria's Secret perfume. If anyone finds out that I even know that name this old pahrt will have to move out of the state. "Hello Shane," he called out without opening his eyes or turning around.

I heard the gasp of surprise and was delighted by it. Not many are sharp enough to get one step ahead of that blonde. Shane is the reason that I have my son back. When he resisted my return, she resisted his resistance and flat pushed him towards me. But he needed it. Shane McInerney is the living divine delivery of Oliver O'Toole and a lot of fun besides.

"Joe?"

I hesitated just a bit longer to make sure my eyes were dry, then turned and smiled. "Welcome to your first visit at the ranch. Let's go over here."

I led her to a small patio between the deck and the garden and waved to a Barco Lounger while I pulled two cold beers out the cooler. Then watched carefully for what happened next. Perfect, I thought when she twisted open the bottle and took half, then wiped her mouth.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked. "Was that a test to see if I would drink it?"

"Yes it was." When her mouth twists like that at the sides, she is gnawing at the solution to a unasked question. When her eyes brightened, I knew she had it.

"Did Oliver have a beer when he came up here first time?"

"He opened one," I laughed. When her eyes sparkle like that I know exactly why my son is crazy about her.

"Where is Kathy?" she asked, still laughing.

"She had to run to town. She'll be over later." I was watching the wheels turn behind her eyes and knew she was up to something. But as is normal with Shane, it took some urging. So I started.

"Oliver and I have spent many hours sitting in these two chairs, talking about many things. One of those subjects has been you." That surprised her and I was not sure why.

"Me?"

"Did you know that Oliver considers you to be his best friend?" She blushed, she actually blushed.

"The reason I mention that is to ask you a question you do not have to answer."

"Go ahead," she said, sipping her beer.

"Did you really open the letter that Oliver wrote to Holly?" I nearly regretted asking when she choked on beer and rolled her lips under her teeth and clamped her mouth shut. Then she stared with wide doe eyes and I knew she was not going to answer.

"'Women seem to accept secrets as part of romance, turn love into a competitive sport. But it isn't." Again with the doe eyes. "Remember the day I first showed up, looking for Oliver and I found your card on the floor?"

She nodded.

"That day Oliver and I sat in the park talking, and what I remember clearest is watching his face when he learned the truth. It hurt him. Not the knowledge of what his mother had done so much. What pained him was the knowledge that no one loved him enough to be honest with him. Not his mother or father or even me, the dad who still loves him. He might not show it, you might not see it, but Oliver knows when he is being lied to."

The silence that followed was long, but I felt that it had to be, to let her think. Most women would have thrown the bottle at me, but Shane didn't. So we sat side by side staring at the mountains, saying nothing and saying lots at the same time. That silence was mutual respect.

"What was Oliver like as a child?" she asked suddenly.

It was my turn to choke on beer and I did a good job of it. "Oliver was shy, sort of a forced reticence. After his mother left, he shut down and has been holding love in for a lifetime. There was no first crush in high school and I think the joy of puppy love was wasted on Dale Travers. Then there was Holly and, well, she was – ."

I turned in my chair and found her watching my face, so I smiled, and pointed toward the garden. "Do you know what a Serissa Foetida is?"

"Serissa not," she laughed.

"The Serissa Foetida," I laughed with her, "is commonly called the Christmas Rose in some parts of the world. It is a very difficult flower to work with and needs constant attention to bloom."

"Did you know I met her?" Shane asked.

"Holly?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Shane grinned from ear to ear. "Beautiful but the type of woman that loves attention."

"I Serissa already knew that," we laughed together.

"Look," I said and scooped up a handful of soil from next to the patio. "You and Oliver are like four kinds of soil." Her eyes lit up and I knew she was connected to the thought train. "Do you know why you can't plant a garden on a path?"

"Soil is too hard."

I gave her a big smile for points, got to my feet, pulled her up by the hand, and led her into my garden.

"Yes, hard packed soil. Now if you plant love on that soil it won't take root so the birds come and eat it. That's where you and Oliver have been for most of your lives, standing on the path watching the flipping birds take everything away from you.

"Now, stop here," I said and reached down and picked up a stone from between the path and the garden and gave it toss over the fence. "Some soil has stones in it, so the seed might spring up quickly and looks great at first, but that person is too shallow for love, true love, to take root. So it withers and dies. That was Holly."

"Sounds like Steve," Shane mumbled.

"Maybe we should introduce them to each other."

"No," was all she said.

"Look right here," I said to the weed growing next to where the stone had been. "Weeds. Some soil might look good, but there are already seeds in there, seeds of weeds. So love gets choked out by the thorns of life and it dies. That is sort of like where you and Oliver have been for the last two years. Love is trying to grow, but stuff keeps getting in the way."

Her face was beaming now. She understood, even knew what was coming next. "Now," I said carefully, holding her gaze with my own, "take just one step, just one." Together we stepped and were in the garden. "This soil has been well cultivated and is ready to receive the seed. Do you see it?"

Shane sipped at her beer, then stepped sideways to lean against Papa Joe. "Oliver and I have both been cultivated for the months while I was gone. We are the good soil. So what is the 'one step'?"

"We'll get there in a minute." She was looking at me with amazement and I'll admit, I might have glowed.

"Where did you get all this?" she waved around us.

"The Bible, Mark chapter 4. Most of the New Testament is all about being either a soldier or a farmer. Go figure."

"Did Oliver ever tell you that you are a great father?"

For a second, I was back there at the ledge where she had found me and had to struggle to stop the tears. I did not answer her question. "As it turns out, there was another man named Joseph that was destined to love and raise a son not his own. As I recall, that Son turned out ok too."

Way too sharp that one, she was dissecting me with her eyes and I knew she was reading me like an open book.

"So how is it going with Kathy?" she asked.

"Trust the timing. That is why I was standing out there," I waved toward the ledge.

Shane moved to stand directly in front of me. I had allowed myself to be trapped and knew it.

"Sup' Joe?" was all she said.

I couldn't help it, I laughed. "Mostly good."

"Mostly?"

"Well, I like Blues and guitar and she likes Bolero and Scheherazade."

She reached out and gently punched my shoulder. "That's good though. Bolero is very passionate music."

"So is House of the Rising Sun."

"Papa Joe, you need to ask the right question."

"What's the question?" The grin she gave me was pure mischief.

"Does she feel like a voyeur when she listens to Bolero?"

I will not kid you, that thought had never entered my mind but once Shane had said it, well – it was stuck there. Just like that, a completely new side of Kathy was revealed to me. Like I said, way too smart that one.

"Wait there, I have a treat for you." I went inside and got the treat I had been saving for the day she came to the ranch.

"Oh Joe," she gasped as I handed her an iced cappuccino in a bottle and a spoon and pulled the lid off a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Cherry Fudge. Then like to fencers, we touched spoons as if they were rapiers and attacked the ice cream.

"Joe," she asked suddenly around a spoon filled with deliciousness. "Will you adopt me?"

"I don't think that will be possible."

"Why?" she blinked.

"I would rather have you as a daughter in law."

That's when I knew the truth of Shane McInerney. She did not freak out, did not fidget or even flinch. She smiled and I knew that the subject was already in that blonde head. "I suspect that you are here today under false pretenses," I said, returning her smile.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you just told me a great deal without saying a word."

She nodded. "Why did you ask me about the letter to Holly?"

Touché. "Because," I said, staring her in the eye. "I wanted to know if you were as brazen as Oliver thinks you are." I could see the shock in her eyes, and then the fear as if I thought badly of her. "Shane, that wasn't a judgment. I only ask because of Mad Dog O'Toole."

"Joseph Lindley's father? The Pony Express rider?"

"Exactly. Ever hear of St. Brigid of Kildare? Or Queen Margaret of Scotland?"

Shane gasped loudly, obviously stunned. "You are not suggesting that!"

It wasn't a question but the passion of her response encouraged me. "Look, you can do a lobotomy on Oliver and that likely to be the only piece of his mind that you ever get, and still not discover his plans for you. So here is some fatherly advice, if you are going to love Oliver, take the step, stop wasting time and love him with your whole heart."

When I held out the little box she knew what was in it but not where it had come from. "That is the ring that Mad Dog gave to the love of his life. The story no one knows is that she proposed to him on Leap Year."

Shane stared at the box so intently I thought it might catch fire. It didn't, but she seemed to. Slowly at first, as if it might bite, she reached, then confidence took over and she took the box and slipped it into her pocket. "You knew I was going to be here today? How?"

"I didn't know. I hoped."

"I love you Mr. O'Toole," she said, giving me the brightest smile I had ever seen.

"And I love you Ms McInerney." It had to end with a hug. It had to. We were talking like father and daughter and had no apprehensions with each other about declaring that familial love. So the hug had to follow.

"Oh sure," a woman's voice called out. "I leave for a few hours and you take up with another woman. Hello Shane," Kathy said.

"Hi Kathy. Your timing is perfect."

"Hi dad," Oliver called out from the corner of the house where he stood with a very large cardboard box resting on one end.

"What's this?" I asked.

"This," Shane said, slipping her arm around me, "is a new O'Toole tradition. If you want to mark a special day or express love, you build a porch swing. Yours is in that box. Happy Father's Day."

"This was a set up?"

"Yes," she grinned. "It was."

I will never forget the wink she gave me and the way she patted the lump in her pocket.