Читать книгу Lucky - Jennifer Greene - Страница 10

“F or God’s sake, Kasey. No one’s killing you. You’re just having a baby!”

“Yeah, well, they told me all the pain would be in my head. None of it’s in my head!”

“Yelling and swearing isn’t going to help.”

Well, actually, she thought it might. She should have known it would happen to her this way. Breaking her water at a party—right in front of people she wanted to respect her, people Graham respected. Still, knowing she was going to die within the next hour definitely helped. It was a little depressing, realizing that peoples’ last memory of her would be with bloody water gushing down her legs in the middle of a dinner party. On the other hand, she’d be dead, so what was the point in worrying about it? For the same reason, there didn’t seem much point not to howl her heart out when the next pain hit, either.

As far as she could tell, she wasn’t likely to live through the next pain anyway.

“You wanted this baby,” Graham reminded her.

“Oh, Graham, I do. I do.”

“So try and get a grip. We’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes. Just stay here. I’ll run upstairs and get your suitcase and some towels for the car….”

He was gone, leaving Kasey in the kitchen alone for those few minutes. She sank against the white tile counter as another contraction started to swell.

Something was wrong with her. It wasn’t the stupid pain. They’d all lied about the pain—and she was going to stay alive long enough to kill the Lamaze instructor who promised that labor was simply work. It wasn’t work. It was torture, cut and dried. Yet Kasey fiercely, desperately, wanted this baby, and had expected to feel joyous when the blasted labor process finally started.

Instead, she felt increasingly overcome by a strange, surreal sense of panic. Goofy thoughts kept pouncing in her mind. This wasn’t her house. This wasn’t her life. This wasn’t really happening to her.

As the contraction finally ebbed, leaving her forehead flushed with sweat, she stared blankly around the high-tech kitchen. She realized perfectly well that anxiety was causing those foolish thoughts, yet the acres of stainless steel appliances and miles of white tile really didn’t seem to be hers. She’d never have chosen a white floor for a kitchen. The doorway led to a dining room with ornate Grecian furniture that she’d never chosen, either. The dining room led into a great room with cream carpeting and cream furniture—Graham had chosen all that stuff before they’d married, wanting a neutral color like crème to set off the artwork on the walls. He was a collector.

But now, the more she looked around, the more she felt a building panic roaring in her ears. This whole last year, she’d basked in a feeling of BEING LUCKY so big, so rich, so magical that she just wanted to burst with it. She’d found a true prince in Graham, when at thirty-eight, she’d given up believing she’d find anyone at all. And living in Grosse Pointe was like living in her own private Camelot—which it was, it really was. It was just that this crazy panic was blindsiding her. Maybe it had all been a dream. She didn’t live here. How could she possibly live here? She didn’t DO elegant. Cripes, she didn’t even LIKE elegant.

Not that she’d ever complained. Graham had said too many times that his ex-wife, Janelle, had been a nonstop complainer.

It wasn’t as if she spent much time in the fancy-dancy parts of the house, besides. With the baby coming, the kitchen was the room that mattered, and all the high-tech appliances were a cook’s dream. Still, the dishes were bone china. Heirlooms. Beautiful—but it was darn hard to imagine a baby in a high chair, drinking milk from a lead crystal glass and slopping up cereal from a 22-karat-gold-rimmed bowl onto that virgin-white tile floor.

Shut up, Kasey. Just shut your mind up. Another pain was coming. This one felt like lightning on the inside, as if something sharp and jagged was trying to rip her apart. Then came the twisting sensation, as if an elephant were swollen in her stomach and trying to squeeze through a space smaller than a spy hole.

She opened her mouth to scream her entire heart out, when Graham suddenly jogged into the room. “All right, I reached Dr. Armstrong. He’ll meet us at the hospital. You holding up okay?”

Of course she wasn’t okay. She couldn’t conceivably be less okay. She was wrinkled, stained, shaky, and positively within minutes of death by agony. Graham, typically, looked ready to host a yacht club outing. Abruptly—and with all the grace of a walrus—she pushed away from the counter and aimed for the back door. “Which car are we taking?”

“The Beemer. Easiest to clean the leather seats if we have to. Although I brought towels.”

For an instant she thought, Come on, Graham, couldn’t you think for one second about the baby instead of fussing over getting a stain in a car? But even letting that thought surface shamed her.

Her attitude had sucked all day, when she knew perfectly well that Graham was unhappy about the coming baby. During their courtship, he’d been bluntly honest about wanting no children—he adored his nearly grown daughter, but that was the point. He’d done the fatherhood thing. At this life stretch he wanted Kasey, alone, a romantic relationship with just the two of them.

Maybe there was a time when Kasey fiercely wanted children, but even at thirty-eight, there were increased health risks with a pregnancy. More than that, she’d already settled into a life without kids—and she loved Graham and everything about her life with him, so it just wasn’t that hard to go along with his choice.

Birth control hadn’t failed them so much as life had. She’d tracked conception down to the week she’d had a bad flu and couldn’t hold anything down—including her birth control pills. By the time she’d recovered, the fetus already had a grab-hold on life. If the problem had never happened, Kasey would undoubtedly have been happy as things were—but once she realized that she was pregnant…well, there was only one chance of a baby for her. This one.

She wanted this baby more than she wanted her own breath, even her own life. It was her one shot at motherhood. She just couldn’t give it up.

And she totally understood that Graham wasn’t happy about it—but there was no fixing that yet. Once the baby was born, she could work on him, make sure he never felt neglected, take care to shower him with love. Besides which, once the baby was born and Graham held the little one, Kasey felt certain the baby would win his heart. It’d all work out.

If she just didn’t blow it in the meantime.

“I love you,” she said in the car.

“I love you, too, hon.” But immediately he fell silent, steering through the quiet night, his profile pale as chalk. Dribbles accumulated on the windshield. Not rain, just the promise of it. She heard a siren somewhere, the thunk of the occasional windshield wiper, and realized that she was doing better. The pains were easing up, not one galloping right after the other now.

Randolph Hospital loomed ahead. Graham pulled up to the emergency-room door where a sign read NO PARKING UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. The hospital looked more like an elegant estate than a medical facility, with security lights glowing on the landscaped grounds and garden sculptures.

Graham slammed out of the car. “I’ll get a wheelchair or a gurney. I hate to leave you alone, Kasey, but I promise I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. He’d barely disappeared inside before another lumpy gush of blood squeezed between her legs. How come no one ever said labor was a total gross out? Certainly not that nauseatingly cheerful Lamaze instructor. And then another pain sliced her in half, so sharp, so mean, that she couldn’t catch her breath.

Pain was one thing. Being scared out of her mind was another. She fumbled for the door handle, thinking that she’d crawl inside the hospital if she had to—anything was better than dying here alone in the dark. She got the door open. Got both feet out. But then the cramping contraction took hold and owned her. She cried out—to hell with bravery and pride and adulthood and how much she wanted this baby. If she lived through this, and that was a big IF, she was never having sex again, and that was for damn sure.

The emergency-room doors swung open. She didn’t actually notice the man until she heard the clip of boot steps jogging toward her, and suddenly he was there, hunkering down by the open curb.

“You need help?”

“No, no. Yes. I mean—my husband’s coming. It’s just that right now—” The pain was just like teeth that bit and ripped.

“What do you want me to do? Get you inside? Stay with you? What? I can carry you—”

“No. It’s—no. Just stay. Please. I—” She wasn’t really looking at him, wasn’t really seeing him. Her whole world right then was about babies and labor and pain. Still, there was something about him that arrested her attention. Something in his face, his eyes.

Their whole conversation couldn’t have taken two minutes. She only really saw him in a flash. Background light dusted his profile, sharpened his features. He was built tall and lanky, with dark eyes and hair, had to be in his early forties or so. His clothes were nondescript, the guy-uniform in Grosse Pointe of khakis and polo shirt, but his looked more worn-in than most. He looked more worn in than most. The thick, dark hair was walnut, mixed with a little cinnamon. The square chin had a cocky tilt, the shoulders an attitude—but it was his eyes that hooked her.

He had old eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that held a lot of pain, had seen a lot of life. In the middle of the private hospital parking lot, mosquitoes pesking around her neck, panting out of the contraction, scared and hot…yet she felt a pull toward him. He exuded some kind of separateness, a loneliness.

She knew about loneliness.

Of course, that perception took all of a minisecond—and suddenly the emergency-room doors were clanging open again. The man glanced up, then back at her. “Damn. You’re Graham Crandall’s wife? And you’re having your baby in this hospital?”

His question and tone confused her. She started to answer, but there was never a chance. Graham noticed the man, said something to him—called him “Jake”—but then he disappeared from her sight. The world descended on her. In typical take-charge fashion, Graham had brought out an entire entourage—a wheelchair, three people in different medical uniforms, Dr. Armstrong.

Graham was midstream in conversation with the doctor. “I don’t care what you have to do. She comes first. No exceptions, no discussion. You make sure she’s all right and gets through this. And I want her to have something for the pain. Immediately.”

“Mr. Crandall—Graham—first, I need to examine her, and then everything else will follow in due course. I swear that I’ve never yet lost a father—”

“I don’t want to hear your goddamn reassuring patter, and forget trying to humor me. I want your promise that nothing is going to happen to my wife.”

“Graham.” Kasey had to swallow. She’d never seen her husband out of control. Graham didn’t do out of control. And love suddenly swelled through her, putting the pain in perspective, reassuring her like nothing else could have. “I’m just having a baby. Really, I’m fine. The pain scared me. I didn’t realize it was going to be this bad—”

“I’ll take care of this, Kasey.” Graham cut her off, and rounded on Dr. Armstrong again. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care how many people or what it takes—you don’t let anything happen to my wife. You understand?”

The next few hours were a blur of hospital lights and hospital smells. The labor room was decorated to look like a living room, with a chintz couch and TV and even a small kitchenette. Dr. Armstrong did the initial exam. As always, he was patient and calm and as steadfast as a brick.

“But I can’t be only three centimeters dilated! You have to be kidding! I thought I was in transition because of the amount of pain.”

“I’m going to give you something to help you relax, Kasey.”

“I don’t want to relax! I want to get to ten centimeters and get this over with! And I want to be able to see the fetal monitor! Is our baby okay?”

“Your baby’s just fine,” Dr. Armstrong said reassuringly, but he hadn’t even looked. What was the point of being all trussed up with the fetal monitor if no one was even going to look at it? “You can have ice chips. And your husband can rub your back. And you can watch TV or listen to music….”

She just wanted it over with. But at least, once they all left her alone with Graham, she thought she could get a better hold on her fears and emotions. Later—an hour, or two, who knew?—she remembered the man outside, and thought to ask Graham who he was.

“Name is Jake McGraw. Used to be from the neighborhood.”

“I thought you called him by name, so I was pretty sure you knew him.”

“Yeah, I knew him. He’s Joe’s son. You’ve heard of Joe, used to be one of GM’s high-step attorneys. Money from generations back. Joe had a heart attack a while ago, put Jake back in the neighborhood now and then to help his father.”

“So that’s why he was at the hospital?” God. Another pain was coming on. How many did you get before you’d paid your dues? And now she knew you didn’t die from the little ones, because there were lots, lots, lots bigger ones after that.

“I don’t know why he was at the hospital. Forget him, Kasey. He’s a loser. An alcoholic.”

“Really?” For an instant she pictured those old, beautiful eyes again.

“Was part of a big fancy law firm, wife from the Pointe, fast lane all the way. Had a wild marriage, and I mean capital W wild. Gave one party that started out in GP and ended up in Palm Springs. They both played around, until some point when Jake went off the deep end. Or so they say. He’s got a teenage son, Danny, lives with his ex-wife. Doesn’t practice law anymore. You hearing me? He’s bad news all the way. Lost everything. And deserved to.”

“You never mentioned him before—”

“Why would I? And it beats me why we’re talking about him now.”

And then they weren’t. She’d only asked the question in passing. The man wasn’t on her mind. Nothing was, as the minutes wore on and the night deepened and darkened. Somewhere in the wing, a woman screamed. A door was immediately closed, sealing out the sound. The nurse came and went. Graham survived for a while—at least the first couple hours—but then he started pacing.

“Do you want some more ice chips, Kase? Are you cold? Warm? Want to watch any specific show on the tube?”

His solicitousness was endearing—except that every time a pain ripped through her, he paced again, like a panther who wanted to throw himself against the bars. Anything—but be trapped in here. “Graham, go out,” she said finally.

“No way. I’m not leaving you.”

“I know you’re willing to stay. But this is hard…harder than I thought. And to be honest, I believe I’ll handle the pain better if I’m alone. I’ve always been that way. Go on, you. Go get some coffee, or something to eat. Don’t feel guilty, just go.”

He kissed her, hard, on the forehead, squeezed her hand. But eventually she talked him into leaving.

She’d lied about wanting to be alone. The truth was, she desperately wanted Graham to be with her, yet he was obviously miserable, seeing her in pain. And for a while, for a long time, the fear completely left. Medical help was just a call away, and so was her husband, so it seemed easier to relax. She inhaled the silence. The peace. The feeling as if there was no one in the universe but her and the baby.

She cut all the lights but one, shut off the television. In between contractions, she rubbed her tummy, talking softly to her baby. This was about the two of them. No one else. “You’re going to love your room. I bought you a teddy bear the size of a Santa, and the toy box is already filled. The wallpaper is balloons in jewel colors, and over your crib, I set up real jewels dangling from a mobile—amethyst, citrine, jade, pink quartz. When the sun comes, you won’t believe what brilliant crystal patterns it makes on the wall. And there’s a wonderful, big old rocker. You and I are going to rock and sing songs, and I’m never going to let you cry, never….”

An hour passed, then another. Suddenly a pain seared through her that was different from all the others.

Finally, she thought, the transition stage. All the books claimed this stage was the hardest—but it also meant that they were nearing the end. Soon enough she’d hold the real baby in her arms after all these months.

Another pain. Just like that one, only worse. More of the fire, more of the scalding feeling of being ripped apart. She hit the button for the nurse, then hit it again.

No one came.

Now she realized what a sissy she’d been before, because these contractions were completely different. And possibly that’s why no one was coming now, because they thought she’d been crying wolf? Only Graham…where was he? Surely they wouldn’t leave her much longer without someone checking on her?

This wasn’t pain where she could scream or yell like before. This was pain so intense that it took all her concentration to just endure. This wasn’t about whining how she could die; this was about believing for real that she may not survive this. Agony lanced through her, again and again, not ceasing, not letting up, not giving her a chance to catch her breath. Her body washed in sweat. Fear filled her mind like clouds in a stormy sky, pushing together, growling and thundering. She wanted her mom. She wanted Graham. She wanted someone, anyone. She pushed and pushed and pushed the call button, but she had no possible way to get up out of bed and seek help on her own, not by then.

Finally the door opened a crack. Then a nurse’s voice. “Good God.” Then…lights and bodies and motion and more pain. “There, Kasey, you’re doing good—it’s going to be all over very soon.” By then she didn’t care anymore—or, if she cared, she couldn’t find the energy to respond.

They wheeled her into an unfamiliar room. Stuck her with needles. “Where’s Graham?” she asked, but no one answered. Everyone was running, running. The baby seemed to be rushing, rushing. And the pain was there, but with that last hypodermic, the knife edges of pain blunted, and her mind started blurring.

Somewhere, though, she heard a woman’s voice. One of the nurses’. Low, urgent. “Doctor, there’s something—”

She tried to stir through the thick mental fuzz, recognizing that something was happening. Something alarming. She heard the doctor’s sharp, “Be quiet.” And then, “Get out of the way. Let me see.”

“Is something wrong?” she whispered.

No one answered.

“Doctor, is something wrong with my baby?”

Still no one answered. But she felt another needle jab in her arm. And immediately came darkness.

Her dreams were all sweet, dark, peaceful. She remembered nothing until she heard the sound of a nurse’s cheerful voice, and opened her eyes to a room full of sunshine. “Are we awake, Mrs. Crandall? I’m bringing your beautiful daughter. There you go, honey… I have on your chart that you want to nurse, so I’m going to help you get set up. Can we sit up?”

She pushed herself to a sitting position, listening to the nurse, taking in the pale-blue walls of the private room, the fresh sun pouring in the window, the washed-clean sky of a new day. All those sensory perceptions, though, came from a distance.

Once the bundle was placed in her arms, there was only her and her daughter.

OhGodOhGodOhGod. The pain and fear had all been real, but mattered no more now than spit in a wind.

The feel of her daughter was magic. Reverently she touched the pink cheek, the kiss-me-shaped little mouth, then slowly—so carefully!—unwrapped the blanket. She counted ten fingers, ten toes, one nose, no teeth. Without question, her daughter was the first truly perfect thing in the entire world. Love rolled over Kasey in waves, fierce, hot, compelling, bigger than any avalanche and tidal wave put together.

“She’s all right? Really all right? I remember the doctor sounding worried in the delivery room. I was scared something was going wrong—”

The nurse glanced at the chart at the bottom of the bed, then quickly turned away. “She sure looks like a healthy little princess to me.” Efficiently the nurse adjusted Kasey’s nightgown, and finally coaxed Kasey to quit examining the baby long enough to see mom and daughter hooked up. “I’m going to give you two a few private minutes, but I’ll check on you in a bit, okay?”

Kasey nodded vaguely. The nurse was nice—but not part of her world. Not then. She stroked and cuddled her miracle as the little one learned to nurse.

She and Graham had bickered about baby names for months. Boys’ names had been tough enough, but girls had seemed impossible. Cut and dried, Graham wanted Therese Elizabeth Judith if the child was a girl. Kasey thought that sounded like a garbled mouthful…now, though, she found a solution to the problem in an instant. Graham could have whatever name he wanted on the birth certificate.

But her name was Tess.

Kasey knew. From the first touch, the first smell and texture and look…the name simply fit her. And it was hard to stop cherishing and marveling. The little one had blue eyes—unseeing but beautiful. Her skin had the translucence of pearl. The head was pretty darn bald, but there was a hint of rusty-blond fuzz. Little. Oh, she was so little.

Kasey thought, I’d do anything for you. And was amazed at the compelling swamp of instincts. How come no one had told her how fierce the emotion was? That mom-love was this powerful, this extraordinarily huge?

“Oh, Graham,” she murmured as she caressed the little one’s head. “Wait until you see how precious, how priceless your daughter is. She’s worth anything. Everything. All…”

Kasey stopped talking on a sudden swallow. She looked up.

Darn it—where was Graham?

Jake pulled his eight-year-old Honda Civic into the driveway on Holiday, touched the horn to announce his arrival, and then walked around and climbed into the passenger seat.

He saw the living room curtain stir, so Danny heard the car—but that was no guarantee his son would emerge from the house in the next millennium. Rolling down the window—it was hot enough to fry sweat—he reached in the back seat for his battered briefcase. Sweet, summery flowers scented the late afternoon, but the humidity was so thick it was near choking.

He glanced at the windows of his ex-wife’s house again, then determinedly opened his work. The top three folders were labeled with the names of suburban Detroit hospitals— Beauregard, St. Francis and Randolph. All three hospitals had a history of superior care until recently, when they’d had a sudden rash of lawsuits, all related to rare medical problems affecting newborns.

Traditionally even the word newborn invoked a panic flight response in Jake—yeah, he’d had one. He still remembered the night Danny had been born fifteen years ago—and his keeling over on his nose. So babies weren’t normally his favorite subject.

But he’d accidentally come across one of these mysterious lawsuits when he’d been researching a separate story for the newspaper, and then couldn’t shake his curiosity. Every question led to another dropped ash—a lit ash—and no one else seemed aware there was an incendiary pile of embers in the forest.

In itself, the increase in lawsuits didn’t necessarily mean beans, because everybody sued for everything today. People especially freaked when something happened to a baby—what parent didn’t suffer a rage of pain when their kid didn’t come out normal? Although Jake was no longer a practicing lawyer, he knew the system. Knew how lawsuits worked.

He’d already told himself not to get so stirred up. What looked like a Teton could still end up an anthill. But it smelled wrong, this sudden burst of lawsuits—and this sudden burst of serious health problems for babies, especially when the affected hospitals had longstanding excellent reputations.

Momentarily a woman’s face pounced in his mind. Kasey. Graham Crandall’s wife. Crandall was one of those starched-spine controlling types—a silver-tongued snob, Jake had always thought, the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back—as long as you gave him a medal for doing it. There was no trouble between them, no bad history. Jake didn’t care about him one way or another, even back in the years when he’d hung with the Grosse Pointe crowd.

But it had been a shock to meet Crandall’s wife. Coming out of the hospital that night, he’d only seen a woman in labor—she was crying. Who wouldn’t? About to give birth to a watermelon? Yet her face kept popping in his mind. The short, rusty-blond hair. The freckled nose and sunburned cheeks.

She wasn’t elegant or beautiful or anything like the women Jake associated with Crandall. Instead, there was a radiance about her, a glow from the inside, a natural joyful spirit. The wide mouth was built for laughter; her eyes were bluer than sky.

Pretty ridiculous, to remember all those details of a woman he didn’t know from Adam—and a woman who was married, besides. Jake figured he must have had that lightning-pull toward her for the obvious reason. It had momentarily scared him, to realize she was going into that hospital to have a baby—the same hospital where he’d been researching the lawsuits.

Now, though, he sighed impatiently and turned back to his papers. Kasey was none of his business. Hell, even these lawsuits weren’t. For two years, he’d tried his best to just put one foot in front of the other, pay his bills, make it through each day, be grateful that the half-assed weekly paper had been willing to give him a job. Even the research on these hospitals he was doing on the q.t., his own time.

Jake had done an outstanding job of screwing up his life. Now he was trying to run from trouble at Olympic speed. He figured there was a limit to how many mistakes a guy could make before any hope of self-respect was obliterated for good.

The instant he heard the front door slam, he looked up, and immediately hurled his briefcase into the back seat. Quick as a blink, he forgot all about lawsuits and strangers’ babies. His focus lasered on the boy hiking toward the car. Just looking at Danny made him feel a sharp ache in his gut.

At fifteen, Danny had the look of the high school stud. The thick dark hair and broody dark eyes drew the girls—always had, always would. The broad shoulders and no-butt and long muscular legs added to the kid’s good looks. The cutoffs hanging so low they hinted at what he was most proud of, the cocky posture, the I-own-the-world bad-boy swagger…oh yeah, the girls went for him.

Jake should know. He’d looked just like the kid at fifteen. But there were differences.

Last week Danny’s hair had been straggly and shoulder-length; this week it had colored streaks. The kid’s scowl was as old as a bad habit and his eyes were angry—all the time angry, it seemed. The swagger wasn’t assumed for the sake of impressing the girls, but because Danny was ready to take on anyone who looked at him sideways.

Jake understood a lot about attitude. What knifed him in the gut, though, was knowing that his son’s bad attitude was his fault.

The boy yanked open the driver’s door and hurled his long skinny body in the driver’s seat. “You’re late.”

Not only was Jake ten minutes early, but he’d been waiting. Still, he didn’t comment. If Danny hadn’t started the conversation with a challenge, Jake would probably have had a heart attack from shock. “You brought your permit? And you told your mom that you’re going out with me?”

“Like I need to be treated like a five-year-old.” Danny fussed with the key, the dials, then muttered, “If I had any choice—just so we both know where we stand—I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

That about said it all. Danny wanted to drive so badly that he was even willing to spend time with his dad—and then, only because no one else wanted to practice-drive with him. Even his mother valued her life too much to take the risk.

“I suppose you’re in a hurry.” Danny used his favorite world-weary tone as he started the car.

“Nope. I’ve got as much time as you want—although I assume your mom wants you back by dinner.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Can I go on the expressway today?”

Maybe Churchill thought there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but the image of Danny on a Detroit expressway at rush hour was enough to make bile rise up Jake’s throat in abject terror. The kid had just gotten his practice license. The last time he’d tried to do something as basic as making a right turn, he’d climbed over a curb. “I think you probably need to get a little more comfortable with the stick shift before we take on the expressway.”

“That’s what you said last week.” Danny shoved the stick in reverse, made the gear scream in pain, and then stalled out when he let up the clutch too fast. Red shot up his throat. “That wasn’t my fault,” he said furiously. “It’s this old heap of a car. It’s so old it doesn’t respond to anything.”

It was going to be one of their better times, Jake thought. Of course, as they aimed toward Lakeshore, the test questions began. Can I play the radio. Can I drive by Julie Rossiter’s house. Can I this, can I that.

As far as Jake could tell, all the questions were designed to elicit a no, at which point Danny would instantly respond with a look of anger and disgust. Jake knew the game. He did his absolute best to say yes to any request that wasn’t definably life-threatening. Sure, Danny could drive by the girl’s house. Sure, he could play the radio—any station and at any volume he wanted. Jake encouraged him to drive exactly as he would be driving later, when he was alone, so he could see how distractions affected his concentration.

“Oh, yeah? Does that mean I can smoke while I drive?”

“No.” Jake didn’t elaborate, knowing how a lecture on smoking would be received. Besides, just then his right foot jammed on the imaginary brake and his pulse pumped adrenaline faster than a belching well. No, they hadn’t hit that red Lincoln going through the intersection. No, scraping the tire against the curb wouldn’t kill them. No, braking so fast they were both thrown forward didn’t mean either of them was going to end up hospitalized.

“I’m going to be sixteen in another seven months,” Danny said, as he turned on Vernier.

“I know.” Jake resisted holding his hand over his heart. Suburban driving wasn’t too bad, but Vernier eventually turned into Eight Mile. Eight Mile was a Real Road. The kind that tons of people actually used. Some of them might not realize how close they were to imminent death.

“So, any chance you might buy me a car?” Danny rushed on, “Mom’ll never let me drive the Buick. It’s uncool, anyway. But she’s already warning me that I won’t be able to use her car all the time. I really need wheels.”

“I can’t afford a car, Danny.”

“You could. If you were still a lawyer. If we were still a family. If you weren’t a drunk.”

There now. Every one of the accusations stung like a bullet, just as his son intended. Sometimes Jake wanted a minute with his son—just one damn minute—when Danny wasn’t trying to wound him.

But of course he’d earned those accusations. And all he could do now was hope that time—good meaningful time together—could start to heal that old, bad history. “Getting you a car isn’t just about having enough money to buy one.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Danny, come on, you’re a new driver. You know that you need more practice before you’ll be safe—or feel safe—on the road. It’s nuts to start out with a new car before you have some experience under your belt.”

“You care about being safe on the road? You used to drive drunk.”

“Yeah, I did. And I hope you never do. I hope you’re way smarter than me.”

“That wouldn’t take much.” Danny made a left on Mack, where approximately five thousand cars were speeding toward home. Horns blared when the Honda accidentally straddled two lanes. Jake reached for an antacid. Then Danny tried another jibe. “Mom’s going out with some guys. Three of them, in fact.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’ll bet she’s screwing at least one.”

Jake understood that this comment was supposed to be another way to hurt him. Danny assumed that he still cared what Paula did. And even though Jake should have known better than to bite, he couldn’t quite let this one go. “Don’t use words like that about your mother.”

“Oh, that’s right. We’re not supposed to tell the truth about anything. We just lie and pretend everything’s okay, right? The way you lied about being an alcoholic. And about you and Mom staying together, that you were just going through a rough time but we’d all be fine.”

Halfway through a yellow light, Danny gunned the engine and it stalled. The light turned red while they sat clogging the middle of the intersection. Sweat beaded on Jake’s brow. He said, “Take it easy. The other drivers can see you, so there’s no immediate danger. Just concentrate on getting the car started and going again.”

On the inside, Jake marveled at the epiphany he kept getting from these practice driving sessions with Danny. You sure learned to value your life when it was constantly at risk.

Besides that—and in spite of Danny’s sarcasm and surly scowls—Jake still felt the wonder of being with his son. It wasn’t a given. Danny hadn’t been willing to see him for most of the two years since the divorce—and God knew, that wouldn’t have changed if Danny wasn’t desperate to drive.

Jake realized he was riding a shaky fence. He fiercely wanted to make things right for his son, yet there seemed no parenting rule book for this deal. The kid was always egging him on, pushing him to lose his temper. What was the right dad-thing to do? Be tough? Or be understanding? Give him the tongue lashing he was begging for, or keep proving to the kid that he’d never vent temper on him?

Hard questions surfaced every time they were together. Jake didn’t mind the kid beating up on him—hell, he had a lot to make up for. But just once in his life, he’d like some answers. Some right answers. He was already a pro at the other kind.

When Danny turned again, aiming down a side road toward Lakeshore, the boy suddenly muttered, “Julie’s house is down here.”

Abruptly the kid slowed to a five-mile-an-hour crawl—which was fine by Jake—until Danny made another left. Four homes down from Sacred Julie’s house was the Crandall place. Jake spotted a BMW pulling into the driveway. Saw Graham Crandall climb out of the driver’s seat. Saw the passenger door open.

And there was Kasey.

His pulse bucked like a stallion’s in spring—just like it had the first time he’d seen her. The kick of hormones struck him as incontestable proof that a man had no brain below his waist…still, it made him want to laugh. The last time he remembered that kind of zesty hormonal kick, he’d been sixteen, driving Mary Lou Lowrey home from a movie, and 51% sure from the way she kissed him that she was going to let him take her bra off. Second base was hardly a home run, but sixteen-year-old boys were happy with crumbs. Even the promise of crumbs. At that age, the thrum of anticipation alone was more than worth living for.

Hormones were undeniably stupid, but damn. They made a guy feel busting-high alive and full of himself—a sensation Jake hadn’t enjoyed in a blue moon and then some.

Temporarily his son diverted him from the view—primarily because he was doing something to torture both the gears and the brakes simultaneously. “Danny, what are you trying to do?”

Danny shot him an impatient look. “Parallel park, obviously.”

“Ah.” Perhaps it should have been obvious. They’d edged up the curb, down the curb, up on the stranger’s grass, down on the grass, several times now. Ahead of them was a freshly-washed SUV, behind them a satin-black Audi. In principle there was an ample ten feet between the cars. “Try not to go quite so close—”

“Well, this is hard,” Danny groused. “How the hell are you supposed to know where the back end of another car is if you can’t see it?”

But he could see her. Kasey, climbing out of the passenger seat, holding a small pink blanket. She hit him exactly the same way she had before—as if he were suffering the dizzying, stupefying effect of a stupid pill.

The darn woman wasn’t any prettier than she’d been the first time. No makeup. Her rusty-blond hair was wildly tousled. She was wearing some God-awful green print that overwhelmed her delicate features. But the details just didn’t matter.

The sound of her laughter pealed down the street. She didn’t laugh like a lady; she laughed as if her whole heart and belly were into it, joyful laughter, the kind of hopeless giggling that sucked in strangers passing by.

And the way she held the baby, it was damn obvious the kid was worth more than diamonds to her. As Graham crossed the car to her side, she climbed out, then surged up on tiptoe and kissed him. She looked up at him with a love so radiant and full that you’d think Graham was everything a woman ever dreamed of in a guy.

And there it was, Jake mused wryly. He got it, the reason he had such a hard time looking away from her. It was plain old jealousy.

He knew damn well no one had ever looked at him like that.

No one’s fault for that but him. He’d grown up a spoiled rich kid, raised to be selfish, to feel entitled, to take whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. God knew his parents only meant to love him, but that upbringing had still skewed his perspective. It had taken his losing everything for Jake to figure out what mattered. He’d run out of time. Either he got around to developing some character, or he was going to end up lost for good.

An alcoholic—at least an alcoholic who was serious about recovering—discovered certain things about life. There were things you couldn’t do. Other people could. You couldn’t. Life was as simple and mean as that. No one else had your exact list, but Jake knew what was written on the forbidden side of his sheet. Being attracted to a married woman—a very, very married woman—was as off-limits as it got.

He understood Kasey’s tug on him. Something about her reminded him of what he once thought life could be—when he still believed in dreams, when he still believed in himself, when every moment of sunshine was a treasure. He understood—but he turned off the volume and the vision, promptly.

Danny had given up trying to parallel park. He took the first left turn, aiming back toward his mother’s house. He didn’t speed. His driving problems had never been about carelessness, but about having no natural sense for the stick shift and the car. The more impatient he got with himself, the more he tended to make mistakes. Jake tried to shut up. Time and experience were the answers, not carping. Besides, dads couldn’t die from nerves, could they?

Danny accidentally hit the gas, pulling into Paula’s driveway, tried to recover by slamming on the brakes, and then, of course, stalled. For the first time in almost two hours, the kid looked him straight in the eye.

“I suppose you don’t have time to do this again on Thursday,” he said disgustedly.

“I suppose I do.”

It probably hurt the kid like a sore, but hope surged in those broody blue eyes. “Same time? Four o’clock?”

“I may be a little late.”

“Yeah, so what’s new? The question is whether you’ll show at all, just because you say you will.”

Jake said easily, “Damn right. You think I don’t know how much I need to make up for, Sport, you’re mistaken. And in the meantime, if you also want to take on a drive on Saturday or Sunday—there’s less traffic early in the morning, so we could go for a longer trek.”

“You mean get up early?” Danny’s tone suggested that particular idea was as appealing as a snake bite.

“No sweat if you don’t want to. I just know you’re hot to get more driving hours in, and I can’t get here during the work week until after four. Weekend mornings could give us more time.”

Danny heaved out of the car. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.” Jake got out, too, and crossed to the other side, conscious that his son hadn’t used the word Dad, much less said anything as pleasant as “goodbye.” This lesson, though, had been significantly more peaceful than the last one. Danny hadn’t sworn at him. Hadn’t hit anything.

“Hey.” Danny stopped at the front door, key in the lock, turning back to offer one last belligerent look.

“Yeah?” Jake assumed the “hey” was meant as some kind of question.

“Thanks for taking me,” Danny said stiffly, and then promptly disappeared in the house and slammed the door.

Well, hell. Jake was stunned speechless. The kid had actually thanked him? Maybe, just maybe, father and son did have a chance to mend their fences. Of course, earning the kid’s respect was still an uphill battle.