Surrogate Dad

by Marion Smith Collins

  Luke got away as quickly as possible, too.

  Chapter 4

  Alexandra alternated between pacing her living room and looking out the window in the kitchen while she waited for Luke to come home. She had to talk to him.

  Starting high school, which should have been a milestone for David, had passed almost automatically two days ago. She had thought her son might be apprehensive about entering a new school, or enthusiastic, or nervous. She’d been prepared to deal with any one of those emotions. What she hadn’t expected was indifference.

  He saw the first day of school as something to get through before he could continue with his two main interests—his matchmaking efforts on her behalf, which he assumed were subtle but in reality were nothing of the kind, and his avid interest in anything Luke Quinlan did or said. Of course, the two were essentially intertwined, since her son had decided that Luke was the logical target of the matchmaking.

  Even when the new television, VCR and stereo had been delivered, he’d spared barely any attention for the latest in new technology.

  She had tried talking to David first, hoping she could avoid this discussion with Luke. But neither serious discussion nor a direct maternal order discouraged David’s cheerful efforts to get her and Luke together.

  Curiously, she trusted Luke where David was concerned. Trusted him to do the right thing. He might be unaware of David’s growing determination but he had taken a sincere interest in the boy.

  Alexandra, however, didn’t want David to bank on anyone other than himself. Or her.

  Besides, Luke had made inroads in her own life that made her uncomfortable.

  A week had passed since the trip to his house. A week that had found David living in the man’s pocket every available minute; and, when he wasn’t with Luke, he was arranging encounters.

  “Luke’s on his way to get a pizza, Mom, and he’s asked us to go along.”

  “I told Luke you made the best homemade ice cream in the world, Mom. I invited him to help turn the crank.”

  During that week, Luke had also introduced her son to the world of mechanical things, powerful cars and racing engines. Men things. One evening, he had taken David to the garage where his vintage car was being serviced.

  David had come home that night, impatient to explain to his mother the importance of testing every part of the awesome silver car, since it had been in storage for the better part of the year.

  He had returned covered with grease and a grin and more excited than she’d seen him in four years. For that she had to be grateful, didn’t she?

  He had regaled her nonstop with a description of the cars they’d seen, the things they’d done, how smart Luke was, how many friends he had.

  He had extolled Luke Quinlan’s virtues until she was nearly sick of the man’s name.

  Nearly, but not nearly enough.

  For those seven days, too, had left Alexandra unable to forget the passing touch of a man’s fingers on her cheek. The warm ribbons of heat that had wound their way through her bloodstream were unmistakably the result of his light caress. She’d thought herself, her emotions, her life, secure.

  And suddenly she was not.

  She had won her autonomy after a struggle of monumental proportions. She’d fought not simply for independence from financial worry, although that was significant, but to free herself from the dependence upon another person for happiness.

  The void left in her life by Daniel’s death had been wide and deep, and all passion had been exhausted on the long journey back from that black pit. She would not allow anyone to tempt her.

  Luke would soon be moving to his house on the river. Then they might never see him again.

  She halted in her tracks. Where had that concept come from? David, she amended. David might never see Luke again. There was no “we” about it.

  She had decided to be honest with Luke. She wanted him to be aware of David’s vulnerability. She wanted him to start pulling away gradually.

  When she saw his car pull into his space, she headed for the front door. She paused to smooth her hair, then reached for the knob. “Luke, I wonder if I could talk—” She broke off.

  He looked like hell. His hair was standing on end; his eyes were bloodshot. The man she’d once thought of as rigid was slouched over an armload of books. “Yes, Alexandra?” he asked impatiently.

  “Uh, nothing. I see you’ve brought work home. What I wanted to discuss can wait.” She started to go back inside, but during their exchange, West Chadwick’s sporty car had driven in. He got out and joined them.

  He looked as bad as Luke but he managed a smile and greeting for her. “How are you, Alexandra?”

  She felt almost relieved at his presence. At least she could depend on West to be friendly. She smiled warmly. “Better than the two of you are, I imagine. You both look exhausted.”

  “Yeah. We—” he nodded at Luke, who had paused at his door and was fishing in his pocket for his key “—have some contract work for a big-shot client that has to be done yesterday. You look great. Got a date?”

  She had dressed in nubby silk slacks and an ecru blouse. She’d told herself she wanted to present a dignified front when she talked to Luke. In fact, the outfit was one of her most becoming. “Thank you. No, not a date.”

  “You coming over here to work, or are you going to stand there and socialize?” Luke asked West with cold, active dislike in his voice.

  Actually, most of the dislike was for himself. He needed to have his butt kicked from here to the Hooch. Alexandra had said she wanted to talk. Had she dressed like that for him? Why hadn’t he paid her a compliment? Why hadn’t he been cordial, at least, instead of sounding like a surly bastard?

  Because his mind was on other things. He was furious over being assigned to this client. The man was more trouble than anyone Luke had ever worked with.

  Before he and West had been ordered to work with this man, Luke had been drawing up a set of contracts for a young entrepreneur. But to Bolton, the senior partner, the young man’s business wasn’t as important as the big shot’s. When Luke had tried to protest, the senior partner had glared at him and told him to turn the young man’s file over to a junior.

  He’d backed off. Then he’d cursed himself for a coward. Someday...

  “I’ll be there,” West said, interrupting Luke’s thoughts. “In a few minutes.”

  Luke heard a coldness and outrage to match his own.

  * * *

  Alexandra left her studio at midnight, flipping off the lights with one hand while massaging her neck with the other. She had been working on a series of kids’ greeting cards for a children’s hospital. And they were completed. She could deliver them to the printer the next morning after she dropped David off at school.

  Now she needed a little self-indulgence. Cookies and milk and a long soak in a hot tub sounded about right. She started the bathwater, squirted in a generous amount of jasmine-scented gel and headed for the kitchen.

  She had just poured her milk and bitten into a vanilla wafer, when the doorbell rang. She looked at the clock. Who on earth would be ringing her bell at this hour?

  She checked the peephole, then unlocked the door. “Do you know what time it is?” she challenged with one hand on her hip.

  Luke stood with his forearm propped on the jamb, his free hand in his pocket. The white dress shirt was wrinkled but the cuffs were still fastened. His tie had been loosened but not removed.

  In contrast, she knew she looked like a castaway. She’d exchanged her slacks and blouse for cutoffs and a T-shirt.

  “I saw the light come on in your kitchen,” Luke explained. His voice sounded unfamiliar even to his own ears. Except for the brief glimpses of her in the mornings, he’d never seen Alexandra Prescott less than perfectly groomed.

  Tonight her lipstick had been eaten off, her hair was tangled and she wore no shoes. He realized that even in rags she would be just what she was, an incredibly beautiful woman.

&n
bsp; He smiled to himself. The disreputable shorts and stretched T-shirt spoke to him in more ways than the obvious one—that she was one hell of a sexy woman. They said that here, also, was a woman with unique allure.

  He was surprised and delighted to see that she didn’t have to be impeccable every minute.

  There was a crumb of something on her lower lip. As he watched, she licked it away.

  He realized that he was staring. And she was waiting for him to continue. “I wondered—that is—what did you want to discuss with me?”

  She looked at him for a minute. He knew what she saw. Beard stubble and bleary eyes. She must have taken pity on him for she smiled and opened the door wider. “Would you like some cookies and milk?”

  “Cookies and milk?” he said.

  She stepped back. “You know, the traditional bedtime snack. Come inside. You’re letting the air-conditioning out.”

  Moving in slow motion, he obeyed.

  “Go into the kitchen. I left water running. I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared in the direction of the bedrooms. He did as he was told. In the kitchen he saw the glass of milk and a box of vanilla wafers on the table. “You weren’t kidding,” he said when she returned. She had taken time, he noticed, to brush her hair and secure it at the nape of her neck with a barrette.

  “I never kid about cookies and milk,” she said almost playfully. She took another glass from the cabinet and poured milk into it. Then she sat at the table and reached into the box for another cookie. “Are you going to eat standing up or did you want to take it with you?”

  He slumped into the chair across from her. “Sorry. I’m in a stupor, I guess. And before I forget my name, here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and, with two fingers, pulled out a pair of tickets. He tossed them onto the table between them.

  Alexandra saw the Road Atlanta logo and her spirits fell. So much for pulling back gradually from David. “I’d almost forgotten,” she said guardedly. “Labor Day is this coming weekend.”

  “Right.” He delved in the box and took out several cookies, popped one into his mouth whole and chewed. Then he lifted the tall glass of milk and drank in thirsty gulps. “That’s good. I forget the last time I had a bedtime snack. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  She slid her glass around in its condensation. Then she must have realized what she was doing. She went to a cabinet and came back with two paper napkins.

  “David,” she finally said when she had reseated herself. “First, let me tell you that I’m grateful for the time you’ve spent with him. Learning about the cars firsthand has been a wonderful experience.”

  “I’ve enjoyed his showing interest in my car. Most kids his age are more into MTV.” He remembered a woman he’d dated last year. She was divorced with two kids who spent so much time in front of the television, their complexions were pasty. He thought Alexandra did a good job balancing her son’s activities.

  “I appreciate that.” Suddenly Alexandra stood up and moved around the kitchen with restless steps. “How do I say this without sounding like a jerk?” she said almost to herself.

  “Come on, spit it out.” He smiled. “I can take it.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “To you this is a temporary friendship initially pushed onto you by an overeager teenager. You’ve been patient and kind. But what happens to him when you move? Luke, David is becoming too dependent on you.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before answering. “You don’t think you’re exaggerating?” He slipped the glasses back on.

  “I’m afraid not. Fourteen is such a vulnerable age. You’ll soon be moving away. I realize that you wouldn’t deliberately...” She let her voice fade off. “You’ll get caught up in your own life. It worries me that he might be hurt.”

  He took another bite of vanilla wafer and chewed. “Are you sure that’s all that bothers you about David’s behavior?”

  She paused, looking at him, trying to read his expression. But she couldn’t. As usual, he had control of his features. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m talking about his attempts to throw us together.”

  She hadn’t intended to discuss that subject. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a child.”

  “For a child, he does a pretty good job of dropping hints. You told me that you don’t date, but maybe you should. Maybe if you went out occasionally, he wouldn’t be so fixated about finding you a man.”

  “I don’t want a man,” she snapped. How had he managed to turn this around and make her the villain? “I’ve had a husband. He died. Now I have a son and a fulfilling career.”

  “And that’s enough for you?”

  She raised her chin. “More than enough,” she said decisively.

  * * *

  “I thought we’d be there by now,” David said. “How come they call it Road Atlanta when it’s so far away?” He’d been squirming for the past thirty miles.

  Alexandra raised her sunglasses and gave him a short, but telling, look. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I asked that before, didn’t I?”

  “At least a dozen times,” she affirmed. She was not feeling terribly charitable toward her son; his attempts at matchmaking were becoming an irritant. She had bargained with him—stop trying to throw Luke and her together, in exchange for this weekend at the races. He’d promised, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

  David flopped back against the seat. She’d convinced him to wear shorts because of the weather and his berry-brown legs twitched with impatience.

  As usual, Labor Day weekend in Georgia was classic southern summer. The sky was a beautiful, clear blue bowl, and the weather was hot—sweltering, scorching, sizzling hot.

  From the radio, the announcer informed them that the stalled high over South Carolina meant the heat wave would continue, with no relief in sight. The sun beat down on the car, taxing the air-conditioning to its limit.

  This was not the kind of day to spend outside, even for a national celebration. She had dressed as coolly as possible without wearing her bathing suit, in scarlet Bermuda shorts and an oversize white camp shirt knotted at the waist but barely touching her anyplace else. Her sneakers were a patriotic navy blue.

  The traffic began to slow as they approached the track. She followed the directions Luke had given her and finally found a place to park.

  David scanned the area, getting his bearings quickly. “The grid is this way,” he told her. According to David, the grid was the name given to the area where cars and racers prepared for the races. They approached a rise overlooking the activity. The smell of high-octane exhaust was stronger here and the noise of revving engines was bone-vibrating.

  “Gosh, Mom, look at that! Isn’t it great?”

  She grinned at him. It was a sight to behold. These cars weren’t the analogous formula racers seen on television from Indianapolis.

  Dashing, splashy, jaunty, they belonged to another age, an age of individualism. Many of them were very old indeed, though the shining paint and flawless maintenance made the cars look as if they had been assembled yesterday.

  Alexandra was glad she’d taken the time last night to look through the books David had borrowed from Luke. Neither the written explanation, nor the color photographs, could have prepared her for the circuslike atmosphere, but at least she wasn’t at a total loss.

  She recognized several of the models from the illustrations—a Porsche, a Jaguar. The sleek lines and older, more debonair designs were particularly beautiful to her artist’s eye.

  The orbiting support groups—mechanics, sponsors, groupies, moral supporters—seemed as diverse as the cars themselves. Huge custom-built tractor-trailers vied with rusty pickup trucks. People swarmed everywhere, like a hive of energetic bees—around the cars, under the hoods, on rolling dollies beneath the bodies. Some sat in lawn chairs watching the parade—colorful tents or large sun umbrellas provided shade—some picnicked, others strolled around greeting old friends,
meeting new ones.

  Alexandra’s fingers itched for her sketch pad. She touched the tote bag slung over her shoulder to reassure herself that she hadn’t forgotten to bring it.

  “Hi,” said a voice behind her. “Did you have any trouble finding a place to park?”

  “Hey, Luke, you got new glasses,” David said. “I like ‘em.”

  Alexandra turned, a smile ready.

  Her smile collapsed. Indeed, she was hard-pressed not to gape at the devastatingly good-looking man at her side. The night of the robbery, she had thought he’d looked unlike himself with his jacket off and his tie loosened. When he’d come for dinner, he had seemed more relaxed, less rigid. Late the other night, sitting at her kitchen table, she’d seen yet another side to him. She’d seen him several times lately in casual situations.

  But she’d never seen him like this. Surely a new pair of glasses wouldn’t make so much difference.

  She fought to control her features, hoping neither of them noticed her shock.

  He shook David’s hand—a nice man-to-man thing to do—and said something to the boy. But she was deaf to their conversation.

  There was nothing rigid about his easy smile, which activated a slash in his cheek. His hair was ruffled by the wind. And he never looked like this in his Brooks Brothers suits.

  The white T-shirt had been washed a few times. In hot water. It molded to his broad shoulders, chest and upper arms like a lover’s touch. The jeans must have been washed in the same load; the way they fit his trim hips and strong thighs left little of his sexual definition to the imagination.

  As David had noted, the conservative horn-rimmed glasses had been exchanged for a tinted pair with aviator-style rims. The wing-tip shoes had been replaced by well-worn running shoes. He slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and stood, hipshot, his body easy and oddly graceful, devoid of the stiffness and severity she had associated with him.

  The man was the epitome of masculinity. Lusty, tempting, virile masculinity.

  The smells, the noise, the activity faded into a white shadowy backdrop. For the first time in four long years, she experienced earnest stirrings of hunger, of sexual awareness. Not just ribbons of heat, prompted by a brief caress on the cheek, but true desire. Familiar and yet alien, foreign; an emotion sensed, not felt.