Читать книгу The Rebel's Return - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 11

For just a split second Dylan felt as if he’d stepped back in time. Seventeen years. The old home looked the same, there on the big, level lot in the middle of town, only a few blocks from the courthouse. Did his father still walk to work every morning and then home again in the evenings? Probably. Carl Bridges was a creature of habit. If other things had changed about him, that probably hadn’t.

His father had inherited this 1920s Craftsman style house from his uncle, who’d died a bachelor. Like many of the homes of its day, the Bridges house possessed two stories, a sloping roof line, a large square front porch with a swing and a detached two-car garage. The white picket fence around the property boasted a fresh coat of paint, as did the house. Dylan wondered if his great-uncle’s old Packard was still parked inside the garage. As a teenager, he had longed to get behind the wheel of that antique gem, but his father had refused to let him even sit inside the car.

A large American flag, waving slightly in the wind, hung over the porch. His father, a Vietnam veteran, had been, in the best of times, a patriotic citizen, and no doubt he was now more so than ever. Looking back to his boyhood, Dylan could recall many reasons to have been proud of his dad. Why couldn’t he have realized it at the time?

As he stepped away from the cab and onto the walkway that led up to the front porch, Dylan experienced a moment of uncertainty. Standing at the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. Maybe he should have telephoned first to tell his father he was coming. Why the hell had he wanted his arrival to be a surprise?

Reminding himself that his father had been the one to call him, to extend the olive branch, to ask forgiveness, he punched the doorbell. Within seconds he heard footsteps inside the house, then the front door opened and there stood a broad-shouldered, stern-faced man of sixty, with a stock of neatly trimmed white hair and the same watery-blue eyes that Dylan remembered so well.

A sudden smile flashed across Carl Bridges’ face as he reached out to grab Dylan’s arm. “Come on in, son. Come on in.” Carl draped one arm around Dylan’s shoulders and escorted him into the house.

Dylan wasn’t sure what he had expected. A cordial handshake at most. But certainly not this warm, enthusiastic welcome. His father had never been an overly emotional man, and never one for displays of affection. The only hugs and kisses Dylan had gotten as a boy had come from his gentle, loving mother.

“I had no idea you would come home so soon,” Carl said as he led Dylan into living room. “I’d hoped you would want to see me as much I wanted to see you, but…” Carl cleared his throat.

Dylan stared at his dad, startled by the fact that the old man was almost in tears. This wasn’t the Carl Bridges he remembered. And this softer side of his father unnerved him. He had been prepared for both of them to feel and act a bit awkward, but it had never entered his mind that his father might have mellowed with age.

“Have you had supper?” Carl asked. “I could make us some sandwiches here at the house. Or if you’d like we could run over to the Mission Creek Café for some barbecue. Whatever you’d like.”

“Sandwiches here are fine with me, Dad.” Odd how easily he could say that word. Dad. And even more strange was how comfortable he felt in this house. The place had never felt more like home than it did at this very minute.

Dylan glanced around the living room and found fresh tan paint on the walls and a new sofa and chair. The same simple wood paneling around the fireplace and the sturdy coffee and end tables remained, but wooden shutters had replaced the heavy curtains and window shades.

“Come on back into the kitchen with me, son, and let’s talk.” Carl nodded the direction. “I’ll fix ham and cheese. That used to be your favorite.”

His dad actually remembered what his favorite sandwich had been. He would have sworn that his father hadn’t known a thing about him back then, certainly nothing as personal as his preferences in food. Guess it just went to show how wrong he’d probably been about other things, too.

“Yeah, it’s still my favorite.” Dylan followed his dad into the kitchen, a room that had changed even less than the living room. A new refrigerator seemed to be the only major difference. And the walls were now beige instead of the sunny yellow his mom had painted them.

“Sit down. Sit down.” Carl opened the fridge and began removing items, laying ham and various condiments on the table. “Tell me about yourself, Dylan. I know you live in Dallas and that you’re a stockbroker. That private detective I hired to find you told me that much.”

Dylan pulled out one of the wooden ladder-back chairs from the table and sat. “Why did you hire a private detective? Why didn’t you just use your local and state law enforcement connections?”

“You know me, boy, I go strictly by the book whenever possible. I call in favors only if I have no other choice.” Carl sliced several thick slabs of ham. “There are times when a man gets himself in a jam and he has to do whatever is necessary to get himself out of trouble.”

Staring at his father, Dylan wondered if he’d heard him right. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Is that why you asked me to come home? Do you need my help?”

Carl took a loaf of bread out of the cupboard, removed four pieces and placed them on two earthenware dinner plates. “I asked you to come home because I want a chance to get to know my grown son and—” Carl cleared his throat “—to make amends for past mistakes.”

“You weren’t the only one who made mistakes,” Dylan said. “I wasn’t blameless. I screwed up a lot, and most of the time it was on purpose. It seemed to be the only way I could get your attention.”

“I’m not making any excuses, but…well, I had a mighty difficult time after your mama died.” Carl spread mayonnaise and hot mustard on the bread, then stacked ham, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and dill pickle slices before adding the top piece of bread. “I should have been a better father. I should have done something to help you after you stole that Porsche from the country club. I let my stupid pride keep me from doing what I really wanted to do. But at the time, I told myself I was doing the right thing, letting you learn your lesson the hard way.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” Dylan said. “I had to learn everything the hard way back then. Even when I left the reform center, it took me a few more years to get on track and turn my life around.”

“You’ve done well, son, and I’m awfully proud of you.”

Dylan swallowed hard. “I…uh…I thought about calling you, you know. Over the years. From time to time. I even considered coming home, but I always chickened out. I wasn’t sure you ever wanted to see me again.”

Carl placed the plate in front of Dylan, walked around the table and laid his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Not a day has gone by since you left for Amarillo that I haven’t thought about you, worried about you and…cared about you.”

Dylan clenched his teeth, then lifted his hand and laid it on top of his father’s. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. That’s why I’ve come home for a while.”

Tears misted Carl’s eyes. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

While nibbling on a Caesar salad, served to her at an umbrella-shaded table on the patio adjacent to the club’s outdoor swimming pool, Maddie went over her checklist for the Mystery Gala coming up in only a few more days. Everything was set. The menu had been approved by Chef Tomas. The jazz band from New Orleans was due to fly in on a charter plane on Friday afternoon at one. Actors from the local Little Theater had been hired to play the murder victim and the police detective, and both had been sworn to secrecy on the mystery plot. Mrs. McKenzie, the talented designer who owned Mission Creek Creations, had whipped up a perfectly divine little black satin gown for Maddie, and a matching satin shawl with pearls and Austrian crystals dripping from the edges. She’d wear diamond earrings and a couple of her diamond bracelets, but no necklace. Understated elegance was the style she preferred.

One of the things Maddie enjoyed most about being filthy rich was being able to afford the best clothes money could buy. Some people called her a clotheshorse; maybe she was. Well, actually, no maybe about it. Her walk-in, fourteen-by-sixteen closet was a dead giveaway.

A young waitress who was part of the staff that rotated shifts in the Empire Room, the Yellow Rose Café and the temporary Men’s Grill replenished Maddie’s iced tea, then asked, “Would you care for dessert today, Ms. Delarue?”

“I’m not sure.” What was the young woman’s name? Maddie tried to remember. Daisy something or other, wasn’t it? “Maybe some fruit. Let me think a minute, please…Daisy.”

The waitress smiled. Ah, Maddie thought, I must have gotten her name right.

Wearing a modest one-piece dark green bathing suit, Josie Carson stopped by Maddie’s table on her way to the pool. “Working hard, I see.”

“Just going over things for the Mystery Gala Friday night. You and Flynt are coming, aren’t you?”

“We wouldn’t miss it.” Josie smiled, her face alight with a surreal glow. “Unless I have another serious bout of nausea and wind up in bed again.”

“Nausea? Have you been sick?” Maddie asked, thinking the young bride looked the very picture of health.

Josie laughed. “I’m not sick. Not the way you think. I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, Josie, how wonderful!” Maddie shot up out of her chair and hugged Josie. “Flynt must be ecstatic.”

“He’s so attentive that he’s driving me crazy.” Josie’s emerald eyes sparkled. “You’d think no other woman had ever had a baby.”

“The man’s madly in love with you, so just relax and let him pamper you. That’s what prospective fathers are supposed to do. Right?”

“I guess so. By the way he acts with Lena, he’s already shown me what a wonderful father he’s going to be.”

“How is little Lena?”

“Growing bigger and prettier every day.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any news about her real parents?”

Josie shook her head, swinging her shoulder-length, platinum-blond hair about her face. “I’m really torn about Lena. I know it’s selfish of me to want to keep her. Flynt and I adore her so much. But somewhere out there she has a mother, possibly both parents.”

Maddie suddenly remembered the waitress who stood attentively waiting for her to decide about dessert. “Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’d like a bowl of strawberries. No cream.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Daisy turned to Josie. “Mrs. Carson, may I add my congratulations about your pregnancy? This must be a wonderful time for you and your husband. And I imagine having a child of your own will help y’all give up little Lena when…if her real mother shows up to claim her.”

“Thank you, Miss…Daisy, is it?” Josie smiled at the young waitress.

“Yes, ma’am. Daisy Parker.” Daisy turned her attention to Maddie. “I’ll bring those strawberries right back out, Ms. Delarue.”

“Thank you,” Maddie said, then when Daisy hurried off, Maddie hugged Josie again. “Give Flynt my love and tell him how happy I am for the two of you.”

Josie nodded, then headed toward the pool. Maddie slumped down in her chair and glared sightlessly at her planning book lying open on the table. Josie Carson was pregnant. How did it feel, Maddie wondered, to be carrying the child of the man you loved—a man who adored you. She’d probably never know. Not all of her billions, not even all the money in the world, could buy her the kind of happiness Josie and Flynt shared.

Dylan and Carl sat up until nearly midnight. Father and son talked—really talked—for the first time in Dylan’s life. They reminisced about the years before Dylan’s mother died, when they had been a family. Then they caught up on the years they’d lost during Dylan’s self-imposed exile, each cautiously sidestepping any discussion of the events directly prior to and following Dylan’s two-year term in the Reform Center. Twice during the evening, Carl had received phone calls that obviously upset him, but he assured Dylan that it wasn’t anything to worry about, simply legal matters that he was having a slight problem solving. And since he was just getting reacquainted with his father, Dylan didn’t press Carl to disclose the particulars.

As the evening wore on, they shared a pot of coffee and kept talking. Carl wanted to know everything about Dylan, all the details of the years they had spent apart. And Dylan found himself questioning his father about Mission Creek and some of the people he remembered from his youth.

“So, whatever happened to Maddie Delarue?” Dylan asked.

Carl sighed. “Jock’s dead, you know. Died a few years back.”

“Yeah, I’d heard. When a man as important as Jock Delarue dies, the whole state knows about it.”

“Maddie inherited everything, except for some sizable charitable donations and the trust fund he’d set up for his second wife, Renee,” Carl said. “You know he divorced Nadine and married a girl not ten years older than Maddie, whom he’d been having an affair with for years.”

“When did that happen? The divorce?”

“Oh, about a year after…” Carl paused, then looked Dylan square in the eyes. “You were still in the Reform Center, so I suppose Maddie was seventeen.”

Seventeen? He’d been seventeen when he’d received that strange letter from Maddie, the one telling him that life could throw you some cruel punches. Hell, she’d probably written to him around the time of her parents’ divorce. Back then, he’d been too self-absorbed to have considered that maybe she needed him to write back to her, to be a strong shoulder for her to cry on. God, what a terrible time that must have been for a girl like Maddie, who’d always been the center of her parents’ lives.

Carl sighed. “There was a big scandal and a messy divorce. I don’t think Maddie spoke to her daddy for quite a few years after the divorce. And of course, Nadine was a basket case, so Maddie wound up taking care of her instead of the other way around.”

“So, what’s she doing now?” Dylan asked. “Running all of Jock’s business interests, or is she leaving that up to her husband?”

Carl shook his head. “Maddie’s never married. She’s been engaged twice. To that Newman boy first. But it didn’t work out. And then to some English count or duke or something. He turned out to be a penniless phony. Don’t guess it’s worked out too well for her. A woman with that much money could never be sure if a man was marrying her or her bank account.”

If Maddie the woman was half as fabulous as Maddie the girl, Dylan couldn’t imagine a man wanting her for anything other than herself. She’d been pretty and smart and had done a real number on Dylan’s teenage hormones and his young heart.

“Then I guess Maddie’s the big businesswoman, huh?” Dylan wondered if she’d cut that mane of golden-red hair and started wearing severe, nondescript business suits.

“Actually, she has a group of financial advisors and company executives that handle things for her.” Carl finished off his fourth cup of coffee. “Of course, she makes all final decisions, but she doesn’t deal with the day-to-day running of Delarue, Inc. No, Maddie’s got herself an ordinary job as the events manager over at the Lone Star Country Club, and from what I hear she’s good at it, too. She’s always got something going on. Take this weekend for example. She’s put together some sort of black-tie murder-mystery gala. You know, one of those interactive things.”

“This weekend?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you going?”

“I’d planned on it.”

“Would you like for me to go with you?”

Carl beamed. “I’d love for you to go with me. It’d give me a chance to show you off.”

And it would give me a chance to see Maddie Delarue again, Dylan thought.

“Then we’ll go and make a night of it,” Dylan said. “I’ll wear one of my Armani tuxedos and we’ll drive to the club in my Porsche. I’m having it driven here.”

Carl grinned from ear to ear. “Can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

Maddie opened the French doors that led onto the second-floor balcony. As she stepped outside, the warm summer air enveloped her and the muted hum of a midsize town at midnight drifted up from below. Her plush, ultra-modern condo was located in the center of Mission Creek, and the entire complex of luxury housing belonged to her as it once had belonged to her father. As a matter of fact, her father had kept his mistress in one of the adjacent condos, then after they married, he and Renee had lived there for almost a year before they moved out of town and resettled in Corpus Christi.

It had taken her years after the divorce to forgive her father for breaking up their family, and in time she had even learned to like her stepmother. But she’d never been able to reestablish the kind of relationship with her father that she’d wanted, mostly due to the fact that her mother expected her to choose sides.

Illumination from the town brightened the dark night like soft lights on a Christmas tree. Often she stood out here and drank in the serenity of Mission Creek in slumber, peaceful and beautiful, the cares of the day laid to rest for a few brief hours. She couldn’t help thinking about all the families in all the houses in town and on the surrounding ranches. Men, women and children living perfectly normal lives and never realizing how lucky they were.

Don’t do this! An inner voice commanded. Stop wallowing in self-pity.

What was wrong with her? She had a wonderful life. She was rich—filthy rich—and relatively young and quite attractive. She had a job she enjoyed. Being the country club’s events manager might have started out as a lark, but over the years, it had become an integral part of Maddie’s life. After all, a person could be a guest at only so many social functions, head up only so many charitable organizations, take only so many holidays abroad.

Besides, with far more knowledgeable people than she taking care of Delarue, Inc., people she trusted as her father had trusted them, Maddie needed a real job of some kind. Otherwise, she would have been available twenty-four hours a day for her mother’s never-ending succession of crises.

Then again, as Nadine had said, if she had several grandchildren to dote on, to spoil rotten, then maybe she’d have something else to concentrate on other than herself.

So, what are you going to do, Maddie, marry some money-hungry Don Juan just so your mother can have grandchildren? The very thought turned her stomach. What about artificial insemination? What about adoption? Neither solution required a husband.

Off in the distance an ambulance siren wailed. It struck a sad, sobering note in the stillness of the night. Illness? Death? Another life with problems far more serious than hers? She felt almost guilty for wanting more when she already had so much. Far more than most people. But was it too much to ask for a man who would love her and her alone? Out there somewhere, there had to be a guy, rich and successful in his own right, who could look beyond the huge Delarue fortune and see the woman who longed to be loved and cherished. A man who would teach her to trust again, to believe in the happily ever after that had eluded her parents.

Where are you? Maddie whispered. Where’s the man who will sweep me off my feet and carry me away with him? Where’s a guy like Dylan Bridges when you need him?