Читать книгу Spencer's Child - Joan Kilby - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
SPENCER SPOTTED the dusty Econoline van in the driveway and grinned. Ray was back.
He parked and ran up the steps, his jacket slung over his shoulder. The afternoon had warmed up and the front door was open to let in the sunshine. Through it came smells of cooking and the brassy sound of a blues band.
Spencer climbed onto the porch steps. He could see his dad moving around in the kitchen dressed in black leather pants and a dark blue shirt. He was singing along with the music, and when he stopped to play a riff on an air guitar, his body vibrated right up to his graying ponytail.
“Ray!” Spencer pushed through the screen door and dropped his jacket on the couch on his way into the kitchen.
“Spence, my man!” Ray came around the counter, arms extended, ebullient as ever. “Is this a coincidence or what?”
Spencer met his dad in a back-slapping embrace. “Sooner or later we had to land here at the same time. Sorry I missed you this morning.”
“I ran into an old buddy of mine in Victoria last night. We tied one on and I spent the night on his couch. When I got back to the cottage this afternoon and saw your note, I went right out and got us some grub and a bottle of Kentucky’s finest.” Ray moved back into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll pour you one.”
“Great.” Spencer walked over to the fridge and took a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. He dropped them into a glass and Ray sloshed in a healthy shot of Jack Daniel’s. “How long has it been since ’Frisco? Two years? Three?”
“Four, I think.” Ray grinned, his black eyes crinkling, and added more bourbon to his glass. “It’s a good thing we meet occasionally by chance.”
They raised their drinks, glasses clinking. The bourbon hit Spencer’s empty stomach like a fireball. The spreading warmth blended with the gutsy music and his father’s positive vibes. Let the good times roll.
“So when did you get into town?” Spencer asked, leaning against the counter.
“Coupla weeks ago.” Ray set his glass down to wrap a potato in tin foil. He did another one and tossed them in the oven. “What brings you up north? I thought you never stayed in the same place twice.”
“Not if I can help it. I’m teaching up at the university.”
“Coming back to your old haunts and teaching, which I know you don’t like as much as research. You’re changing, Spence. Here’s to it.” He lifted his glass.
Spencer shook his head. “Just doing a favor for my old prof is all.”
“Adults go through stages same as kids,” Ray said. “Some changes are harder than others.”
Spencer laughed. “Come off it, Ray, you haven’t changed a bit.” He opened the fridge door and peered in. The shelves, bare this morning, were now full. “What are you making? I’m starving.”
“The finest New York steaks money can buy. Outside New York, that is. I was there, let’s see, two years ago. Had a few gigs lined up, so off we went.” He brushed his palms together, one hand sweeping off in a curving arc. “What a life.”
“I attended a conference in New York last April,” Spencer said, grabbing an apple from the bottom rack.
“Crazy town. I love it.” Ray unwrapped the steaks from the butcher’s paper. “Did you get to any clubs?”
“One or two. Heard a few old tunes by my namesake.” He crunched into crisp green skin. “I like their style of bluesy rock and roll, but do you know how hard it is to go through life as Spencer Davis Valiella? People either think it sounds affected or that Davis Valiella should be hyphenated.” Grimacing, he recalled his encounter with Ashton-Whyte. “I don’t care for hyphenated names.”
“It was cool at the time. Hey, I still like it.”
“Ah, forget it, Ray, I’m just razzing you. I sure appreciate you buying all this food. I’m living on credit till they put me on the payroll here. Or until my money arrives from Monterey.” He gestured with the hand holding the apple. “How come banks require weeks to electronically transfer money when it only takes a split second to send an e-mail?”
“You got me, man.” Ray’s smile wavered. “No money, eh? What a bummer.”
“So how’s your new band working out?”
“Fantastic!” Ray widened his smile, but something flickered in his eyes. He turned to the counter hesitantly, as though trying to remember what he was looking for.
“Your last CD was great, but it was a while ago,” Spencer said. “I’m looking forward to the next. When’s it coming out?”
“Uh...soon.” Ray grabbed the bottle of bourbon. “Here, let me top you up.”
“Thanks. Whoa, easy.”
Ray splashed some more into his own glass and put the bottle down. “Enough about me. What’s going on in your life?”
Spencer took a sip of his drink. Should he tell Ray about Meg? Would he mention her if she meant nothing to him? He decided he would. “Talk about coincidences. My honors student is a girl I knew from before. Meg McKenzie.” Her name fell self-consciously off his tongue.
“Hey, I remember meeting her. Blond, sassy smile—right? That’s great. You won’t want to hang with your old man all the time.” Ray slid a cast-iron frying pan onto the stove.
“I doubt I’ll be seeing her socially. The university frowns on fraternization between faculty and students.” It was a good excuse, anyway.
Ray poured cooking oil into the pan and turned on the heat. “I could see it if you’re talking about an old fart like me hittin’ on some sweet young thing, but you and Meg are about the same age.”
Spencer found he didn’t want to talk about Meg, after all. “Do you ever see Mom?”
Ray’s ever-present grin faded.
Damn. Surely he could have come up with something better than that to change topics.
“I called her to say hello before I came north,” Ray said.
“I went through San Clemente around Christmas last year,” Spencer said. “She seemed fine then.”
Ray rolled the oil around the pan. “She’s doing great. Big house, rich hubby. Most importantly, she’s happy. And I’m happy for her. You don’t have to pussyfoot around my feelings.”
Spencer nodded skeptically.
Ray laughed and spread his arms. “Hell, it’s been over twenty years. I haven’t exactly been alone all that time. How do you like your steak?
“Medium-rare.” Spencer eyed his father over the rim of his glass. Ray was always up, but tonight there was something a little manic about him.
Ray threw the steaks in the pan where they sizzled and sputtered in the hot oil. Spencer got plates out of the cupboard and carried them to the small wooden table tucked against the wall. A bentwood chair sat on either side. “How about giving me a preview of your new CD after dinner?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear your old man play. Let’s take a run into Victoria. We could hit some clubs, catch up with each other.”
“I still haven’t caught up with my sleep. I was planning on an early night.” Spencer got knives and forks out of the drawer and returned to the table. With his back to Ray, he laid out the cutlery. “What do you say? Just a tune or three right here.”
Silence.
Spencer straightened, turned. “Ray?”
The sober expression on his father’s face made the bourbon churn in his stomach.
Over the sound of the sizzling steaks, Ray said quietly, “I can’t play for you. I pawned my guitar to buy the food.”
Spencer felt the world shift on its axis. Ray had pawned his guitar? It was like the Pope giving up religion. “No way.”
“The band went bust,” Ray said, suddenly looking years older than fifty-two. “I haven’t worked in almost a year. I only came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
MEG CAME THROUGH THE DOOR of the bungalow, textbooks piled in her arms. In the kitchen Patrick sang in his hearty baritone, “‘I am the ruler of the King’s navy,’” then switched to a falsetto for the chorus, “‘Yes, he is the ruler of the King’s navy.’”
“Can I watch TV, Mom? Thanks.” Davis took off for the living room and in less time than it took her to shout, “Keep the volume down,” she could hear Daffy Duck lisping his way to destruction, and Davis chuckling like a maniac.
Meg kicked the door shut and shuffled into the dining area of the kitchen to set her pile of books on the table. Patrick had changed out of his uniform and into linen slacks and a matching taupe shirt. He’d donned an apron and was at that moment waving a carrot baton in front of Noel’s cage. Noel cocked his head to one side and squawked, “Na-vy!”
Meg took in Patrick’s grin. “You got the promotion!”
“It’s not official...but I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”
“Oo-ooh, that’s so great,” Meg squealed, and ran around to hug him. “What will be your official title?”
“Lieutenant Patrick Warren, at your service,” he replied with a snappy salute and clicking heels.
“Very impressive.” Containing a smile, she stepped back to study him, one finger laid alongside her cheek. “But don’t you think the frilly pink apron rather mars the effect?”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.” Patrick went back to the kitchen counter and began tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. “There’s just one teensy-weensy little thing you should know.”
“What’s that?” Meg eyed him narrowly. Patrick’s teensy-weensy little things generally turned out to be the size of battleships.
“I might have given the selection panel the impression I was married. With a son.”
“Patrick! How are you going to pull that off? And why? I thought it was against navy rules to harass people for their sexual orientation.”
“That’s official policy, sweetcheeks. Sure, I could win a case if it came up, but after all the trouble I go to being discreet, I don’t want the publicity. Daddy would not be amused.”
“He’s some high-mucka-muck in the navy, isn’t he?”
“My dear, he’s practically an admiral.”
“How amused is he going to be when he hears you’ve got a family you haven’t bothered to mention?”
“He’s based in Ottawa. Gossip doesn’t travel that far east. A harassment suit would.” Patrick ripped at the lettuce as though storming the beaches.
“Patrick, does your father know?”
“I told him a couple years ago. He hasn’t disowned me or anything, but he doesn’t like it spread around.”
“Oh. Well, okay, I’ll be your cover. Those navy types aren’t going to come poking around the house, are they?”
Patrick flapped a hand. “I doubt it. But if anyone calls whose voice you don’t recognize, can you throw in a reference to ‘my husband, Patrick’?”
“I’ll try to remember,” Meg said, and reached for a carrot stick.
“Those are for Davis,” he said, slapping her hand away. “So how did it go at the university?”
Meg let her shoulders sag. “Emotionally exhausting. Terrifying. Weird.”
“And you haven’t even started classes yet.” He pushed an open bottle of chardonnay across the counter. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and tell me all about it. I’ve been prostrate with curiosity about your mysterious phone call.”
Meg got herself a glass of wine and sat on the bar stool across the counter from Patrick. “That was my new honors supervisor who called.”
Patrick stopped tearing lettuce. “Go on. Is he a hunk?”
“You could say that. But mainly, he’s Davis’s—”
“Mom, when’s dinner?”
Meg gave a start. Drops of cool wine spilled over her fingers. “Davis! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking, I was just walking,” Davis said with an expression of bewildered hurt. “Is it dinnertime yet?”
“Almost,” Patrick said. “How about setting some plates on the table, champ? That way dinner will happen a lot quicker.”
“Okay.” On his way to the cupboard, Davis paused at the recycling bin to pick up a plastic yogurt lid. Forgetting about the plates, he wandered around the kitchen, swooping the lid through the air. “Bweep. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
“Davis,” Meg said. “The table.”
“I’m a UFO. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
Meg exchanged a glance with Patrick. Some days were better than others. Unfortunately Davis’s bad days often seemed to coincide with hers. She got up and pulled a stack of plates out of the cupboard. “Earth to Davis,” she said in her best automaton voice. “Transport circular space stations to planet Table.”
“Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.” Davis took the plates.
They got through dinner. Then Davis’s bath and bedtime story and the ritual arranging of his toys around the edge of his bed. Then the bedtime song. Twice. When he was finally tucked in, Meg remembered they hadn’t played catch. Well, she wasn’t foolish enough to mention it now.
She returned to the kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of decaf from Patrick.
“So, where were we?” Patrick sat opposite Meg at the table and added a spoonful of sugar crystals to his coffee.
Meg ran a thumb around the rim of her cup. “My supervisor is Spencer Valiella—Davis’s father.”
Patrick ceased stirring his coffee. “No!”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to explain the complications. She’d told Patrick the whole story years ago, ruining his best silk shirt with her tears in the process. But she hadn’t cried over Spencer in years. And she refused to start again now.
“So how do you feel about this?” Patrick asked.
Meg sipped her coffee. “Confused. Worried. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to tell the man,” Patrick said firmly. “Right away, before you start lying about it.”
“I’ve been lying by omission for years.”
“And feeling guilty about it, right?”
She couldn’t deny it. “Spencer’s got his own life. How’s he going to feel if he suddenly finds out he’s got a kid?”
“Good question. Tell him and find out. For all you know, he might be thrilled.” Patrick paused. “Do you still love him?”
“I haven’t seen him in seven years. In all that time he’s never so much as sent me a postcard.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Meg ran a hand down her hair and pulled up a fistful of ends for inspection. The chemistry between her and Spencer had to do with lust, not love. “No, of course I don’t love him.”
“Hmm.” Patrick sounded unconvinced.
She made a face. “He’s probably already planning where he’ll be going after he leaves here. A son would be an inconvenience.”
“You’re not giving him credit.”
“Okay, I agree Spencer has a right to know. But I have a right to protect my child from hurt. Do you have any idea what it would do to Davis to meet his father only to have him leave again? As he will.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Anyway, a part-time father is better than none.”
“The last thing I need is him popping in and out of my life every six months.”
“You’re not over him.”
“I don’t know,” Meg wailed, and propped her head in her hands. “Everything’s finally coming together for me. Davis is about to start school and he’s got more than enough to adjust to right now. You know how hard transitions are for him.”
Patrick wagged a finger at her. “You’re rationalizing . This Spencer character should be paying support, if nothing else.”
Meg gazed wearily at her friend. “I know he would if I asked. But I made the decision to have Davis. Nobody else. I can do it on my own. And get my degree.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, darling. I’m not your mother.” Patrick lifted his cup with slender fingers and drank.
“The problem will be keeping the two of them apart,” Meg went on. “I’m dropping Davis off at my dad’s on Saturday while Spencer and I go kayaking. One look at Davis and Spencer will know he’s—” Meg froze, her head tilted toward the hallway. “Did you hear something?”
Patrick put his cup down quietly. “No.”
She got up and tiptoed into the hall. Crouched behind the door was Davis. Meg went cold all over. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“How long have you been sitting there?”
“I don’t know.”
She took him by the hand and tugged him gently to his feet. It was hard to be cross when she knew the medication made him wakeful, but she felt sick thinking about what he might have heard. “You’ve got to get used to early nights, honey. When school starts, we’ll have to be up early.”
“Can I stay up for a while?”
“No.” She led him back down the hall to his bedroom. “Did you hear what Patrick and I were talking about?” She hoped her interest sounded casual.
“Kayaking. Can I come? Please?” Davis tugged on her hand. “I’ve always wanted to go kayaking.”
Relief made her knees weak. He must not have heard the whole conversation. “This Saturday Grandpa’s taking you golfing with him. Remember I told you about it in the car?”
“Oh, yeah,” Davis said happily as he climbed back into bed. “I like Grandpa. He lets me keep the tees.”
“Good night, honey.” Meg placed a kiss on his forehead.
“Can I have my song?”
“You had it already.”
“Can I have another one?”
“No. Good night. And stay in bed.”
DAVIS WATCHED HIS MOM close the door. His eyes remained open, adjusting to the darkness. Mom had said the guy she was going kayaking with was named Spencer. His dad was named Spencer. But if this man was his dad, Mom would have told him. Grown-ups acted real dumb sometimes. And sometimes they lied. But not Mom. She never lied to him. And she wouldn’t keep something that big a secret.
Gradually Davis’s eyes drifted shut despite his best efforts to keep them open. Images floated through his head. There was water all around, and islands, like when he and Mom went on the ferry. Only he wasn’t looking down at the water from above. He was in a kayak. A two-seater. A man sat behind him, paddling. Davis couldn’t see the man’s face, but somehow he knew it was his dad. Drops flew off the paddle blades as they rose and fell, splashing on Davis’s cheeks. His father’s strong strokes were taking them toward the tall black fins of the killer whales. Davis drifted deeper toward unconsciousness. Just before he went under, he saw Tommy’s face floating mysteriously above the kayak. Davis smiled at him. See, Tommy, I do too have a dad.
SPENCER PAUSED outside Doc’s room in the cardiac unit. Now that he was here he almost didn’t want to go in and see his mentor diminished. One fallen idol was bad enough.
But when he’d come by the other day, Doc had been asleep. So Spencer put on a smile and strode into the room. “Hey, Doc.”
Angus Campbell sat propped up in bed with his knees bent, as though his six-four frame was too long for the mattress. Doc had been bald as long as Spencer had known him and his weathered face was deeply lined, but he had the vitality of a man half his age.
“Spencer, m’boy! You came.” Despite Doc’s enthusiastic greeting, the right side of his face sagged and the faint Scottish burr of his native Glasgow was slurred.
“Of course,” Spencer said, taking a seat beside the bed. “How’d you land up here, anyway? Eat too many cheeseburgers? Or was it too many run-ins with Ashton-Whyte?”
“Don’t talk to me about Ashton-bloody-Whyte,” Doc growled. “The only good thing about this infernal place is his absence. As for the stroke... I was divin’ for abalone with my grandson. We were in the water for hours and I got hypothermia, for God’s sake. That set off cardiac arrhythmia. A blood clot formed in my heart, traveled to my brain. Next thing I know, I’m in here, providin’ free entertainment to the nursing staff who love nothin’ better than sticking a thermometer up my bum.” His blue eyes twinkled at the pretty young nurse who was currently strapping a blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm.
“You’re a disgusting dirty old man,” she scolded with a smile. “The sooner you’re out of here, the happier we’ll all be.”
Spencer turned to Doc. “What about it? Will you be back at the university after Christmas? You know I’ve applied to Bergen, but I don’t want to let your students down.” One in particular.
“I’ll be back. Got research to finish.” Talking suddenly seemed an effort and Doc paused to take a deep breath. “But I’m glad you’re here, lad. First chance you get I want you to check the stationary hydrophone I’ve got positioned in Trincomali Channel. Lee tells me it stopped broadcasting.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Lee is a good lad. I hope you’ll keep him on.”
“Of course. He’s analyzing the data you and he collected over the summer. Good thing you got him on the payroll before you checked into the hospital, though. Randolph isn’t giving me a bean more than he has to.”
“That bloody...!” Doc’s face turned red. “He was nosin’ around here the other day, tryin’ to read my chart. Just because he’s a vertebrate physiologist, he thinks he’s a bloody doctor. He works with hamsters, for cryin’ out loud—last time he did any real research, that is.”
“Now don’t go getting yourself worked up, Dr. Campbell,” the nurse admonished, letting the pressure off the cuff. “Time for your tablets.” She handed him a paper cup containing pills and another cupful of water.
Doc took them with a growl and shot a glance at Spencer. “They’re feeding me rat poison!”
“Warfarin is an anticoagulant,” the nurse explained with an indulgent smile. “Take your pills like a good boy.”
Doc gulped down the tablets and tossed back the water. A little of it dribbled out the paralyzed side of his mouth. The nurse had moved on and Spencer had to stop himself from leaning forward to wipe it away.
“How’s Meg?” Doc rasped. “Weren’t you two friends years ago?”
Spencer shrugged noncommittally. “She seems fine.”
“Has she decided on a thesis topic yet? We only talked in general terms when we met in June.” Doc gripped Spencer’s hand. “She’s keen as mustard. Make sure she’s got a project she can get her teeth into.”
Spencer squeezed Doc’s hand. It was hard to see someone who’d always been full of piss and vinegar brought so low. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good lad.” Doc’s eyelids flickered. He seemed to tire suddenly and he slumped back against his pillows. “When Lee’s finished doing the stats on those recordings, he can start writing up the paper. And for God’s sake, keep Ashton-Whyte away from here if you possibly can. He mustn’t find out...”
“What?” Spencer leaned closer. “What shouldn’t he find out?”
“My age.” Doc’s eyes closed again. “He’ll force me to retire.”
“He can’t do that...” Spencer began, then realized Doc had fallen asleep.
Gently he replaced Doc’s hand on the coverlet and went around the end of the bed to peruse the chart hanging there. He scanned the vital statistics.
Age: seventy-two. Spencer blinked and looked again. Unbelievable but true. He would have sworn Doc wasn’t a day over sixty.
“Be a good lad and alter the numbers for me, son.”
Doc’s sudden request made him drop the chart with a metallic clatter against the bed rails.
“Thought I was asleep, did you?” A feral grin played around one side of Doc’s mouth. “Caught Ashton-Whyte that way.”
“How come the university doesn’t know your correct age?”
The good side of Doc’s mouth curved into a smile. “Years ago when I was getting close to retirement age, I cultivated the acquaintance of a verra’ obliging lassie over in Records...”
“Doctor Campbell, I’m shocked.” Spencer grinned. “But your secret’s safe with me.”
Spencer didn’t know which was more surprising—that Doc looked so young for his age or that he hadn’t had a stroke before now, given his temperament and his frequent contact with Ashton-Whyte.
SATURDAY MORNING, Meg was parked in front of her parents’ house. It was already later than she would have liked and Davis was in one of his obstinate moods, refusing to get out of the car.
“Come on, Davis,” she said. “It’s time to go inside.”
Davis picked at a tear in the fabric seat cover. Meg could feel a pain start to throb in her temple. She glanced at her watch, then down the curving driveway. Empty—so far.
Straightening, she threw her father an apologetic glance.
Roger frowned. “Doesn’t he want to stay with me?”
“He’s really excited about it, honestly.” She took a bottle from her purse and handed it to him. “Give him one tablet after lunch. No matter what he says. He might not be very hungry, but you should try to get something into him.”
Roger tucked the bottle in his pocket “Are you okay, Meggie? You seem nervous. Is your new honors supervisor some kind of ogre or something?”
Meg pulled her father away from the car and lowered her voice. “He’s Spencer Valiella.”
Roger’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown and his jaw jutted forward. “Spencer Valiella is not welcome on my property.”
Meg put a hand to her damp forehead. “We can’t talk about it now. He’s due to arrive any minute. I want to get Davis inside. They can’t meet. Not yet.”
“Damn right they can’t meet!”
Which only made Meg want to argue on Spencer’s behalf. Ridiculous. She went back to the car. The passenger door was open. Davis was on his knees in the gravel, staring intently at a bug crawling through the stones.
“Come on, honey.” She bent and took his hand. “I bet Grandpa would like to show you the fish in his aquarium.”
Davis jumped up. “Does he have any new ones?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“You ask him.” The boy pressed against her side, darting a glance to Roger. Roger smiled and Davis turned his face into her waist.
“Let’s go ask him together.” Meg knew trying to hurry him was fatal, but the pace was excruciating. She glanced over her shoulder at the driveway again.
“Hello, Davis.” Roger bent and extended his hand. Davis shook his head, and looked at his mom.
“Go on, honey, shake,” Meg said. She turned to Roger. “He could hardly sleep last night he was so excited.”
“So you said. Don’t worry about it.” Roger dropped his hand.
Davis touched Roger’s pant leg. “Did you get a new fish?”
“No, but I’ve got a new castle. The Siamese fighting fish like to swim through the archway.”
Meg heard the roar of a mufflerless car turn into the driveway. “Why don’t you go see, Davis? Quick, before they get tired.”
Davis rolled his eyes. “Fish don’t get tired of swimming.”
The car was still out of sight behind the box hedge but was getting closer by the second. She didn’t need to see the driver to know it had to be Spencer. None of her parents’ friends, or even their children, would drive something that sounded like that.
She fixed her most powerful stare on Davis. “Go. Now.
Roger touched his grandson on the shoulder, turning him toward the house. “Do fish ever sleep, Davis?”
Meg watched them go into the house through the garage and almost broke into tears at the relief. She would tell Spencer, but in her own time. If he found out by surprise, it would be too dreadful.
The door had just shut behind Roger and Davis when Spencer’s black Camaro, kayak strapped to the roof rack, came to a halt beside her Toyota. Meg remembered suddenly the Matchbox cars Davis carried with him wherever he went. Had he left any lying on the back seat where Spencer might see them? The back door was still wide open.
Spencer got out, and closed his own door, his gaze fixed on her. Without so much as a glance inside her car, he reached over and flicked shut the door on the Toyota. Meg let out her breath, her heart pounding crazily. She wasn’t going to survive, she just wasn’t.
