Singer - Prologue. Prologue

“Alexa, play Chipper’s mix. Set volume to background.” CJ leaned the umbrella against the doorjamb and ran a hand through his damp hair. The rain associated with a late September cold front was but one more inconvenience in an already horrible day. He kicked off his shoes and padded toward the back of the house. Looking at the wall clock, he assumed Liebe was napping. The canvas shopping bag and the briefcase he tossed atop the kitchen island before quietly climbing the stairs.

The first bomb threat called into his office building led to an evacuation and a wasted morning. When the second one came in shortly after lunchtime, his supervisor dismissed everyone in the section, telling all to go home.

The changes in CJ’s life over the first half of the year had been monumental. In early April, his widowed grandmother left Miami and moved to Washington to live with him and his husband. A couple of weeks later, his daughter was born. Liebe was conceived using his sperm and a frozen egg from Owen’s deceased sister; the genetics made her the closest two men could get to biological offspring. The following month, he graduated from the Edmund A. Walsh School of Foreign Service at Georgetown University. The celebrations were epic.

With his grandmother taking care of the baby during the day, César Marcos Abelló, Jr. began work at the State Department in late summer. He was not yet accustomed to regular morning shaves or to wearing a suit every day—he suffered in the sweltering, DC, summer heat. His incipient career as a Foreign Service Officer still revolved around training. What he was learning prepared him for an initial posting overseas. He expected it sometime near the middle of next year.

“Hola, Aba.” Unable to say abuela as a toddler, he had tagged his grandmother with the nickname. Some twenty-odd years later, Olga Santos rarely heard her real name.

“Hi, CJ. You scared me when you called. Did they find any bombs?”

“Nope. False alarms. How was she today?”

“A little angel. As usual.” Aba never seemed to find fault with the girl; CJ knew better. Elizabeth Liston Abelló had a temper. She could throw tantrums with the best of them.

Once in his room, the bow tie went into the dresser’s top drawer and the suit jacket around the wardrobe valet. The phone rang while he emptied his pockets, and the smile was a reflex reaction; it was his husband. “Hey, Ozzie! Took you long enough to call me back.”

“Yeah, well, while you’re getting a bloody holiday thanks to fake bomb threats, I’ve been stuck in meetings with obstinate people. Are you home? Your text said you were gonna stop by the butcher.” Owen Zachary Liston, known to friends as Ozzie, was an attorney working for the Nature Conservancy. He sounded frustrated, something rare for the even-keeled man.

“Uh, oh, sounds like it’s been a rough one. How ’bout I open a bottle of Shiraz and allow it to breathe? It’ll be waiting when you get here. We can have mojitos first. Anyway, yeah, I picked up two big steaks. I’ll marinate them while I prep everything else. We’ll eat any time after you’re home.” CJ’s grandmother cooked for them often but seldom on Mondays. Those days, she ate with a group of older, Hispanic women she had met through the church and had become the center of her social life outside the family. Today, because CJ had extra time, a home-cooked meal would replace their usual takeout.

“How’s Liebe?” Almost six months old, their daughter was a happy baby, gurgling and swatting her arms around most of the time. Although now and then she tried CJ and Owen’s patience. Days she spent with her great-grandmother, evenings with her fathers. Wanting her to be bilingual, everyone spoke Spanish around her. English she would pick up soon enough, associating with others outside the immediate family.

“Napping. Remember it’s your turn to feed her tonight. I’ve got Chipper’s playlist going, getting in the mood.”

“Can’t wait. Hey, let me try and finish the contract changes these people asked for. I want to make sure I get out of the office on time.”

“Vamos, Liebe. Una cuchara mas and you can poop.” Owen scooped Greek yogurt and banana puree with the plastic utensil, held the spoon in front of his daughter, and found himself wearing the goop after she swatted at it and connected.

“Great!” CJ tried to disguise his amusement by sounding stern. “You’re training her to associate eating another spoonful with going potty?”

“Hey! She does it anyway. May as well help the process along. I think she’s had enough.”

“Yeah, well, she guzzled her bottle right before. If we want her to eat more solid food, we may need to feed it to her before the formula.”

“Ossa…” Liebe’s version of Ozzie was her second word. Aba came first and later it was Ceesh. That’s what she called her other father. She waved her arms until Owen lifted her out of the high chair and gave her a cuddle.

He raised the baby and smelled her diaper. “Ughhh, right on schedule. I’ll get both of us cleaned up and put her jammies on. You got this?” His eyes raked over the mess their daughter made. “Messy little bugger, isn’t she?”

“It gets better. At least that’s what I hear. Can’t wait ’til she can feed herself and is potty trained.”

“Get me a glass of wine while I deal with her. Please? Oh, is anyone coming over to watch Chipper with us?” Their long-time friend, Cristiano Humberto Israel Pereira, Jr. was making his television debut that evening. Even though they knew the outcome of the pre-recorded performance, Owen and CJ were excited.

“Nope. It’s a school night. I think everyone plans to do the same as us: Dinner in front of the TV with phones ready to tweet along. Let’s get the show started!”