Читать книгу A Dad Of His Own - Diana Whitney - Страница 9

Chapter One

“Chocolate chip. Cool.” Bobby Margolis plucked a cookie from the heaped platter and took a healthy bite. “Umm...good.” Between chews he remembered his manners. Wiping a moist crumb from his chin, he managed a hasty swallow, a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”

“’Tis welcome you are, lad.” A wrinkly woman with hair like cotton balls set the platter on a doilydraped table next to his glass of milk. “Help yourself now. A growing boy needs nourishment.”

“Okay.” He took another cookie, slyly palmed a third for later. Mom always said it was rude to be greedy, but he’d sneaked away from the class outing before lunch, and his stomach was rumbling like an old school bus on a bumpy road.

Humming softly, the nice lady with the pretty smile busied herself laying fancy napkins beside the platter of warm treats, pretending not to notice the extra cookie hidden in his hand. Bobby was pretty sure she’d seen him take it, though, because her eyes got all twinkly, and her mouth kind of twitched the way Mom’s did when she was trying not to laugh.

A sweet fragrance wafted around him as the lady moved, a scent that reminded him of the funny heartshaped packets his mother laid in closets and drawers. Lavender, she called it, and said it made things smell good. Only Bobby didn’t want his underwear reeking like girl stuff, so Mom had promised to keep all her flowery junk out of his bedroom. Mom always kept her promises. Well, not always. There was one promise she hadn’t kept.

That’s why Bobby was here.

He swallowed, squirmed, twitched his sneakered feet, which dangled several inches above the gleaming hardwood floor. “So when do I get to meet the lawyer?”

“You already have.” With an amused tilt of her head, the lady’s face spread into a wreath of wrinkles that made her look about a million years old. “Clementine Allister St. Ives at your service, young man.” She extended a leathery hand with swollen knuckles that were all red and lumpy.

Arthritis, Bobby thought, on account of his greatgreat-aunt Winthrop, who was his gramma’s mother’s sister, had arthritis, too. It made her hands all bumpy and swollen, and she said it hurt, so he was careful not to squeeze Clementine’s hand when he shook it. “You don’t look like a lawyer.” His gaze wandered across to a wall papered with oldfashioned flowers and studded with framed certificates. There were school names he didn’t recognize—Harvard, Stamford, Berkeley—and all kinds of peculiar terms that he’d never seen before. He knew what attorney-at-law meant, but he didn’t know what professor of genealogy was, and some of the other terms confused him as well. “What’s a fid?”

Clementine followed his gaze, smiling. “That’s a Ph.D. certificate, lad, a doctorate degree in psychology.”

Bobby sat up straighter. “You’re a doctor, too?”

“Not in the medical sense.” She settled into a big wooden rocking chair, flinching slightly. “I counsel families now and again.”

“Counsel?” The word evoked an unpleasant image of his elementary school vice principal lecturing kids about chewing gum and homework. “I don’t like counselors. They’re always bawling people out.”

“Bawling people out, are they?” Clementine regarded him kindly. “Well, lad, as my sainted da used to say, if God didn’t want folks to listen more often than talk, He wouldn’t have given them two ears and only one mouth.”

A tubby gray cat peeked out from behind a frilly lace curtain, then hopped onto the woman’s lap. She idly stroked the animal, which curled comfortably under her squishy bosom and purred so loud Bobby could hear it all the way across the room. The animal diverted Clementine’s attention long enough for him to surreptitiously snag another cookie.

“I got a cat,” he announced between bites. “His name is Mugsy. I want a dog, too, but Mom says a dog would be too lonesome, on account of she’s at work all day and I’m at school.”

“Are you now?” Reaching for a manila file on the desk beside the rocker, she retrieved her dangling glasses, slipped them efficiently into place. “And what grade would you be in?”

“Fourth.” Bobby figured she should know that, because he’d filled out a form for the pretty lady who worked in the front office. Deirdre, her name was. She had really nice eyes and a laugh that made him go all wiggly inside. She’d spent a lot of time with him, asking his address and stuff. She’d wanted to know what his birthday was, and that’s when he’d given her the birth certificate that he’d sneaked out of the metal box Mom kept in the back of her closet. Deirdre had made a copy of it.

Squinting at a document inside the file, Clementine ignored the cat batting at the pearl-studded loop dangling from her funny-looking spectacles. “So you’d be nine years old, would you?”

“Nine and a half.” He swallowed, reached for the glass of milk and drained half of it in a single swallow. “I’ll be ten in March.” He started to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, then noticed the stack of linen napkins Clementine had laid by the cookie platter and used one of them instead. “Mom says I’m smart for my age.”

“That you are, laddie, that you are.” Wise blue eyes twinkled over lenses that looked like they’d been chopped in half. “You must be a crafty young man to have found your way into San Francisco all by yourself.”

Bobby shrugged. “It wasn’t no big deal. My teacher got a big bus to take the whole class to the museum today, so when the rest of the kids went inside, I ran around the corner and looked for a cab.”

“Ah, how clever. Don’t you think your teacher might be a wee bit perturbed when she notices you’re gone?”

“Nah. If she asks where I am, my best friend, Danny, is gonna tell her I’m in the bathroom.” Bobby glanced at an ornately carved wall clock positioned between a pair of intricate tapestries. “Only I’ve gotta be back by two o’clock, ’cause that’s when the school bus is gonna be back to take everyone home.”

“And home is—” she adjusted her glasses, peering down at the file “—in Marysville? That’s quite a distance. How is it you decided to visit me instead of enjoying the museum with your class?”

Bobby sucked in a breath. His hands were sweaty and kind of cold, so he wiped his palms on his jeans. “A long time ago you helped my friend Danny get adopted. He told me I should call you, on account of you’re real good at finding parents for people.”

“I see.” Clementine studied the open file. She looked sad, so Bobby figured she was looking at his birth certificate. His whole name was there, Robert James Margolis. So was his mom’s, along with the name of a man he’d never known.

“Can you find my dad?” Bobby blurted.

“Ah, so it’s your father you’re seeking, is it?”

Without warning, Bobby’s throat went dry, and his eyes went wet. He laid the half-eaten cookie aside, took another healthy swallow of milk. His heart was beating really fast, and his hands were still cold.

Closing the file, Clementine rocked quietly for a moment, stroking the sleeping cat in her lap. “Your mum doesn’t know you’re here, does she, child?”

Bobby sniffed, shook his head. “She doesn’t like to talk about my daddy. I think she figures it’ll make me sad.” Actually, Bobby had only asked her once, when he’d been just a little kid. Her eyes had gotten all red and watery. She’d promised they’d talk about it when he was older. Bobby was older now. He was almost grown up. But his mom had broken her promise.

Squaring his shoulders, he hiked his chin, willed his lip to stop quivering. “I brought money.” Digging into his pocket, he retrieved a crumpled wad of bills, $18.65 that represented his life savings. He plunked it all beside the cookie platter, then remembered he’d need cab fare, and stuffed five dollars back into his pocket.

Noting a peculiar expression on Clementine’s wrinkled face, he quickly added, “I got more.” Squirming in the chair, he pulled the boom box reverently into his lap. It had been a Christmas gift from his mother, and was his most treasured possession. “This is worth a whole bunch of money, maybe even fifty dollars. It has real good sound. You can make it so loud that the speakers puff out. It’s got bass and treble adjustments—” he demonstrated with a flick of the slide bar “—and it plays tapes and CDs and all the cool radio stations. It’s really neat.”

Clementine’s smile was kind of sad. “Is it now?”

“Want me to turn it on for you?”

“That won’t be necessary. ’Tis a fine instrument, to be sure.”

“Oh.” Swallowing a stab of disappointment at not being able to play his beloved music one last time, he reached inside his shirt, pulled out a wrinkled envelope with the name of the man he’d yearned for all his life. He touched the smeared ink with his fingertip, then passed the envelope to Clementine. “It’s a letter to my dad, for when you find him.”

She took it gently, cradled it in those gnarled hands as if it were as fragile as a butterfly. “Tell me why you’re wanting to locate him after all these years.”

The request surprised him, made him think for a moment. “’Cause there’s gonna be a father-son picnic next month, and I don’t wanna get stuck with dorky old Mr. Brisbane again.”

“Mr. Brisbane?”

“Yeah. He’s the school janitor, and he always partners up with kids who don’t have dads so they don’t feel, you know, left out and stuff.”

“That’s very nice of him.”

Bobby shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, only I’m sick of borrowing dads all the time. I want my own dad.”

“Of course you do,” Clementine murmured. “Every boy deserves a father of his very own.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Bobby leaped to his feet, clutching the boom box to his chest. “So you’ll do it, you’ll find him for me?”

“I’ll do my best, lad.”

A tremor of excitement shook him to his sneakers. He heaved a sigh of relief, and would have laid the boom box on Clementine’s desk had she not extended a hand to stop him.

“You keep it safe for me, child, until I find just the perfect place for it.”

He swallowed hard. “You mean it?”

“I do indeed. Deirdre?” In less than a heartbeat the pretty, dark-haired woman stepped into the room. “Will you please call a cab for young Mr. Margolis? He has a bus to catch.”

Deirdre flashed Bobby the brightest smile he’d ever seen in his whole life. “Of course.”

At the doorway, Bobby hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. “Danny was right. You’re a real nice lady.”

Clementine’s chuckle startled the snoozing cat. “Thank you, lad.”

His gaze flickered to the small wad of bills and scattering of coins on the corner of her desk. Chewing his lip, he motioned to Deirdre, who bent down so he could whisper in her ear. “Do you think that’s enough money?”

“More than enough,” Deirdre whispered back. “Clementine doesn’t care about the money.”

“Then why does she do stuff?”

“For the children, of course. It’s always for the children.”

The house was larger than he’d expected, old and quaint, with fading gray clapboards and a covered porch hung with a riot of blooming flowers. A pair of peaked-roof dormers protruded from the second story like startled eyes keeping watch on the neighborhood. The lawn was sparse, closely clipped but barren in spots, as if well used by the same children who played there now. Happy laughter echoed in the dry autumn air, a universal symbol of boyish joy.

A fat gray cat sprawled on the porch rail, tail twitching in time to the music blasting from one of those massive portable stereo units with speakers powerful enough to blast paint off a wall. It blared with the pulsing discordance popular nowadays, although the undulating rhythm made his teeth ache and raised the fine hairs along his nape. Aggravating adults was the purpose of youthful music. In that context, the chaotic sounds emanating from the shiny black boom box had done its job.

The entire image was enthralling, the scampering children, the biting noise punctuated by thrilled laughter, hoots of joy. Memories in the making, he thought, sweet images of childhood that would someday be cherished beyond measure. Childhood was such a fleeting thing. His own had ended all too soon.

From his vantage point across the street, he gazed out his car window at the youngsters playing soccer on the scuffed lawn. A gregarious blonde was the leader, a shouting, whirling, whistling bundle of knobby-kneed energy shrieking orders like a five-star general, orders that his teammates cheerfully ignored. A sweating, heavyset child puffed around the makeshift field as if every step was an effort. Others encouraged him, included him, although it was painfully apparent that the chubby child’s soccer skills were far below those of his friends.

Joining the game was a lanky youth with hair shorn over the ears to leave a peculiar hank at the crown pulled into a ponytail, and a youngster wearing a ripped football jersey who seemed to be the clown of the group. He pranced, danced, cheered, jeered and wiggled his bony butt at the slightest provocation, much to the delight of his giggling comrades.

There was also a boy slightly smaller than the others, quieter, wearing a white T-shirt so huge it hung nearly to his denim-clad knees. Tufts of straight brown hair poked out from under a blue baseball cap worn backward so the bill covered his nape, but exposed large, anxious eyes.

It was this boy who tossed a chummy arm around the heavyset child’s shoulders when a kick-pass was missed. The smaller boy said something with a grin and a shrug that made the chubby youngster smile. He liked that.

In fact, he liked everything he saw. The hoots and hollers of kids at play, the sweaty little faces and the whirling energy of youthful exuberance on a clear Sunday afternoon. Even from a distance he could see that the boys were very different from each other, every bit as unique in style and personality even at this tender age as the adult men they would become. Each of them appeared happy, well cared for and loved. Each undoubtedly possessed special talents, specific gifts. Children at play, laughing, eager, filled with joy. A lump lodged in his throat as he watched, awestruck.

He wondered which one was his son.

“Bobby, lunchtime!”

“Aw, Mom, five more minutes, please?”

Stifling a smile, Chessa Margolis forced a parental firmness that had never come easily. Her son was the light of her life. She adored him beyond measure, and was loath to deny him anything, preferring to wheedle his acquiescence rather than insist upon it. “It’s up to you, sweetheart, but the pizza will be cold by then.”

“Pizza?” Bobby straightened, eyes huge, shoulders quivering. Rotating the black-and-white soccer ball in hands that seemed too small for the task, he angled an apologetic glance to his disappointed teammates. “Gotta go.” He flipped the ball to his best friend, Danny, a skinny blond dynamo who lived two houses away. “Later, dudes.”

Ignoring grumbles from his buddies, Bobby snatched up his beloved boom box, hit the porch running, dashed through the screen door his mother held open for him and skidded into the kitchen, sniffing the air like a hungry hound dog.

“Wash your hands.” Chessa waited for Mugsy’s unhurried entrance before releasing the screen door, which squeaked shut with a hollow shudder. “And take off that filthy hat before you eat.” A peek into the kitchen confirmed that the grungy blue baseball cap had been hooked on a peg by the back door while Bobby scrubbed up in the kitchen sink beside a large bowl of whole peeled apples waiting to be sculptured.

Wiping clean hands on his dirty T-shirt, Bobby spun from the sink, bounced into the nearest chair and helped himself to a slice of the freshly baked pizza. He bit into it without a trace of fear, as if a blistered mouth was small inconvenience compared to the joy of devouring his favorite food.

Chessa turned off the blaring radio on her way to the sink, eliciting a muffled protest from her chewing son. “You know the rules. No television or music during meals.”

Having polished off one slice of pizza, Bobby reached for another. “Danny’s got a new pair of sneakers,” he announced between chews. “They’re really cool. You can pump them full of air and stuff.”

“That’s nice.” At the sink, Chessa completed the apple processing with a diluted lemon juice bath, then set them into a colander to drain. Later that afternoon she’d carefully carve them, dry them and use the unique results to create country craft dolls that provided a tidy second income for Bobby’s college fund.

“I wish I had a pair.”

“A pair of what?”

“Air pumps, like Danny’s.”

“Oh. Do you have enough money saved up?” When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder. He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “How much more do you need?”

A limp shrug. “A lot.”

“There are some extra chores around here I could use some help with.” She set the draining apples aside and wiped her hands on a tea towel. “We’ll sit down and count out exactly how much money you have, then we’ll calculate how much more you need and—”

“Never mind.” Pushing away his half-empty plate, Bobby leaped up from the table with startling speed and an expression that could only be described as apprehensive. “I don’t want to count money and stuff.”

“Managing finances for things you want is important, sweetie. You know that. We do it all the time. That’s how you saved up for that remotecontrol car you love so much.”

Eyes darting like a cornered cat, Bobby snatched up his radio, sidestepped toward the door. “Can I go outside now?”

“You haven’t finished your lunch.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Not hungry for pizza?” She frowned, concerned by the peculiar flush staining his cheeks. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m okay, I just wanna go out—” A knock at the door spun him around, flooding his tense features with obvious relief. “That’s Danny. Can I go, Morn?”

Heaving a sigh, she nodded, and watched her son bolt from the room. Bobby had been acting strangely for the past week. He’d been elusive, jumpy, even more anxious than usual. Just as disturbing was his refusal to acknowledge anything was wrong, let alone agree to discuss it.

Chessa knew her son, understood every nuance of expression, every subtle tilt of body language. He was biding something, something that both worried and excited him, something that, for the first time in his young life, he’d chosen not to share with the mother who adored him.

Lost in thought, she retrieved a paring knife and was absently eyeing the peeled apple in her palm when a peculiar sound caught her attention.

She returned the apple to the colander, laid down the paring knife and listened. It was a man’s voice, not a boy’s. A man speaking quietly, gently, in a tone too soft for words to be deciphered. Bobby’s response was choked, broken, inaudible.

Alarmed, Chessa rushed to the living room and nearly fainted. There he was, a specter from the past with the power to destroy everything she held dear.

From the doorway the man gazed over Bobby’s head, expectantly at first, then his eyes slowly clouded with confusion. “It’s been—” he paused, swallowed, studied her for a moment longer “—a long time.”

Her mouth went dry. She steadied herself on the doorjamb. The room continued to spin. It was her worst nightmare.

This time it was real.

She was beyond beautiful. The woman staring at him as if seeing a ghost affected him like a punch in the gut. A twist of sable hair above a fragile, heartshaped face with huge, liquid eyes so blue they took his breath away. It was a remarkable face, exquisite in its perfection even as its color dissipated to a sickly pallor. She clutched the doorjamb with a white-knuckled grip.

“Yes.” A whisper more than a word. “A long time.”

He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for having abandoned her so very long ago. He wanted to heap blessings and gratitude upon her for having gifted him with such a precious son. Most of all he wanted to know why he couldn’t remember ever having laid eyes on her.

This was a woman no sane man could forget.

Then again. Nick Purcell’s youth had been anything but sane. Town bad boy, blamed for everything and responsible for much, he’d been an angry adolescent who’d risen above poverty and abuse by having removed most of it from his mind. He could barely remember those years, didn’t want to remember them. That was his cross to bear, not this lovely woman’s. Clearly he’d hurt her enough. Nick would rather gnaw off his own arm than cause her more pain by confessing his own failure of recall.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” he told her, and meant it.

She swayed slightly, those gorgeous eyes so wide the China-blue pupils were completely surrounded by white. Lush lips quivered, moved slightly.

A sob, a sniff, a small hand clutched his sleeve. “I knew you’d come, I knew it.”

Dragging his gaze from the trembling woman, Nick knelt before the child whose eyes, as blue as his mother’s, gleamed with moisture and excitement. Words choked in Nick’s throat, caught behind a lump of emotion. Gazing into the face of his child was like a religious experience. His heart felt swollen, raw. His son, his flesh and blood. It was the proudest moment of his life. And the most poignant.

Bobby’s chin quivered. “Are you really my dad?”

In the breast pocket of his suit coat, a folded birth certificate forwarded from the St. Ives Law Firm burned over his heart. “Yes, Bobby, I’m really your dad.”

“Don’t go away again.” A tear slid quietly down his small cheek. “Please don’t go away.” With that, the child threw himself into Nick’s arms, sobbing.

Nick hugged him fiercely. “I won’t,” he whispered, barely about to choke out the words. “You’re my son, and I’ll never leave you. Never.”

The woman issued a strangled gasp. Nick barely heard it.

This wasn’t happening.

Icy fingers of fear closed around Chessa’s throat. Terror choked her dry. Dear God, she prayed silently. Let this be a dream.

Across the room that man, that horrifying phantom from the past, knelt down to gaze at her beloved child as if regarding a small god. In a blatant display of mutual veneration, Bobby focused on his newly discovered father with an expression of utter adulation that quite frankly drove a stake through Chessa’s heart.

For over nine years Bobby’s happiness had been the driving force of her life. Nothing else had mattered. Chessa had completely devoted herself to meeting her son’s emotional and physical needs. She’d thought it had been enough. It hadn’t.

That hurt.

There was more, so much more. Bobby didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that what he clearly believed to be the happiest moment of his life was in reality the worst thing that could possibly have happened. The joy in his young eyes would soon be replaced by pain and loathing. Chessa couldn’t allow that to happen but didn’t know how to stop it.

With a choked cry she spun back into the kitchen, staggered to the sink. Bracing herself, she gasped for breath, propped herself against the counter with widespread, trembling arms. Perhaps this was all a hoax, a cruel joke played by an impeccably groomed imposter wearing Italian loafers and a designer suit that probably cost more than her monthly mortgage. After all, the vision of prosperity in her living room bore little resemblance to the angry young man she remembered, the sullen adolescent in low-slung jeans and trademark black T-shirt with the sleeves torn out.

The young Nick Purcell had been wild, rebellious, always on the cutting edge of trouble, with a doleful James Dean sex appeal that teenage girls had found irresistible. He’d been the subject of gossip, whispers, speculation, and had been rumored to enjoy a love life more active than a rock musician.

Every town had at least one bad boy. The central California farming community where Chessa grew up had more than its share, although Nick Purcell had been far and away the most notorious. It was in the blood, folks had said. Like father, like son.

Like father. Like son.

“Chessa?”

She spun around, faced him with terror in her heart. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. She blinked rapidly. The image did not disappear.

He was there. He was real.

Extending a hand, Nick started to speak, then dropped his arm to his side with an anguished expression. His gaze flickered around the neat kitchen to settle on the plate of half-eaten pizza on the table. He smiled. “Sausage and mushroom,” he murmured. “It’s my favorite, too.”

Chessa found her voice. “Why are you here?”

The smile faded, tucked itself back into a face that was stronger than she remembered, but just as handsome. A square jaw. Perfect nose. Lips that were both virile and vulnerable, and dark eyes beneath a swath of brow that gave him a uniquely brooding appearance.

His sigh was nearly imperceptible, more sad than impatient. “I had to see him.”

She closed her eyes, clamped her lips together. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

Pivoting around, she snatched a paring knife off the counter, grabbed an apple and carved frantically. “You had no right to come here.”

“He’s my son.”

Breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, then refilled her lungs and dug the paring knife into the pale fruit flesh to shape the bridge of the nose, the gouge of a mouth. “Bobby is my son, not yours.”

A moment of silence. When Nick spoke again, she realized he’d moved closer to her. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I should have been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

The knife hovered over the partially carved apple. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, regretted it instantly. The expression on his face was one of guilt and torment.

He covered his pain quickly, clasping his hands behind his back the way a powerful man does to display command of an uncomfortable situation. “I wish you’d been able to tell me about our child. Of course, I understand why you couldn’t.”

Caution deadened her voice into a dull monotone. “Precisely what is it that you understand, Mr. Purcell?”

Raising his chin a notch, he twisted his mouth in a type of a shrug. “Calculating back from the date of Bobby’s birth, I realize that I’d already left town before you could possibly have known you were pregnant.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d punched her. “How do you know when Bobby was born?”

Apparently baffled by the question, he retrieved a folded sheet from his breast pocket, stepped forward to display it.

A moment before the room started to spin, Chessa recognized the copy of her son’s birth certificate. Without realizing that she still held the paring knife, she absently clasped her trembling hands, oblivious to the sting until Nick sprang forward.

“You’ve cut yourself.” Alarmed, he dropped the document, pried the paring knife from her hand, then snatched a tea towel from the counter and pressed it to the superficial wound. His touch was warm, firm, exquisitely gentle. “Do you have any bandages?”

“That isn’t necessary.” She pulled away, feeling strange. “I’d like you to leave now.”

A peculiar sadness shadowed his gaze. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. You’re good at leaving.”

The snap in her voice jarred him. He stepped back, regarding her with unnerving intensity. “I understand how you feel.”

“No, you don’t.” She hated the frantic quaver in her voice, the high-pitched hysteria hovering at the back of her throat. “You can’t possibly understand. Please, please, I’m begging you, just go away and leave us alone.”

His eyelids fluttered shut, and she saw a scrape of white as his teeth grazed his lower lip. A shudder moved through him. When he opened his eyes, he regarded her with a peculiar hesitance. “Chessa, you have every right to be hurt, and to feel abandoned. I want to make that up to you.”

“You can’t.”

“I can try.” As she tried to turn away, he touched her arm, and the warmth radiated from his fingers like a small flame. “I want you to know that—” he paused for breath “—that you were always special to me.”

Chessa stiffened. “Excuse me?”

He licked his lips, tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it. “What we had together, what we shared was very special.”

All she could do was stare at him in utter awe. How gallant of him, she thought, to fake memories that didn’t exist about a relationship that never happened. Until five minutes ago, Chessa Margolis and Nick Purcell had never even met.