by Nora Roberts
Still, something about him nagged at her. There was something familiar about that sun-streaked mop of hair, the glossy tan, the casual beach-boy look.
She forgot it and him when given the signal to board.
She settled down, strapping in and gearing up for the short flight back to L.A. She thought that Eve would be amused to hear her impressions of Kenneth over dinner that evening.
And with any luck, she thought while the plane bumped down the runway for takeoff, this would be her last flight until the one that took her home.
Home, she thought, clinging to the armrests as the plane took to the air. There was part of her that yearned for the solitude of her own house, the routine of it, the simple fact of it. And yet, what would it be like to go back alone? To leave love now that she’d found it. What would happen to her relationship with Paul with him on one coast and her on another? How could there be a relationship?
The self-sufficient, independent Julia, single mother, professional woman, needed, and how she needed, someone else. Without Paul she would continue to raise Brandon, she would continue to write, she would continue to function.
Closing her eyes, she tried to picture herself going back, picking up where she had left off, moving quietly, solitarily, through the rest of her life.
And couldn’t.
With a sigh she rested her head on the window glass. What the hell was she going to do? They’d discussed love, but not permanance.
She wanted Paul, she wanted a family for Brandon, and she wanted security. And she was afraid to risk the last for the possibility of the others.
She dozed, the wine and her own thoughts coaxing her to sleep. The first jolt awakened her, had her cursing herself for the instant streak of panic. Before she could order herself to relax, the plane veered sharply to the left. She tasted blood in her mouth from her bitten tongue, but worse, much worse, was the coppery flavor of fear.
“Stay in your seat, Miss Summers. We’re losing pressure.”
“Losing …” She forced back the first bubble of hysteria. The strain in the pilot’s voice was enough to tell her screaming wouldn’t help. “What does that mean?”
“We’ve got a little problem. We’re only ten miles from the airport. Just stay calm and strapped in.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Julia managed to say, and did them both a favor by putting her head between her knees. It helped the dizziness, almost helped the panic. When she forced herself to open her eyes again, she watched a sheet of paper slide out from under the seat as the plane dipped into a dive.
OUT, OUT, BRIEF CANDLE.
“Oh, Jesus.” She snatched at the paper, crumbling it in her hand. “Brandon. Oh, God, Brandon.”
She wasn’t going to die. She couldn’t. Brandon needed her. She willed the nausea back. The single overhead bin popped open, spilling out pillows and blankets. Over the prayers that spun inside her head all she could hear was the roar of the spitting engine and the pilot shouting into the radio. They were coming in, and coming in fast.
Julia righted herself and grabbed her notebook out of her briefcase. She felt the shudder as they dropped through a thin layer of clouds. Her time was running out. She scribbled a quick note to Paul, asking him to look after Brandon, telling him how grateful she was to have found him.
She swore richly when her hand began to shake too hard to hold the pencil. Then there was silence. It took her a moment to register it, and another longer moment to understand what it meant.
“Oh, my God.”
“Fuel’s gone,” the pilot said between his teeth. “Engines are dead. We’ve got ourselves a good tail wind. I’m going to glide this baby right on in. They’re ready for us.”
“Okay. What’s your name? Your first name.”
“It’s Jack.”
“Okay, Jack.” She took a deep breath. She’d always believed will and determination could accomplish almost anything. “I’m Julia. Let’s get this thing on the ground.”
“Okay, Julia. Now put your head between your knees, grip your hands behind your head. And say every fucking prayer you know.”
Julia took one long last breath. “I already am.”
“Better guard the ball.” Paul panted as he feinted over Brandon’s shoulder. The boy grunted and pivoted away, dribbling the ball with small hands and deadly concentration.
They were both sweating—he more than the boy. Age, he thought as he dodged Brandon’s bony elbow, was a bitch. He had the kid on height and reach. So he was holding back. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to—
Brandon ducked under Paul’s arm and hit a lay-up dead on. Eyes narrowed, Paul rested his hands on his hips while he caught his breath.
“Tie score!” Brandon shouted, doing a quick dance that involved a lot of scraped-knee pumping and skinny-butt wiggling. “That’s six-all, dude.”
“Don’t get cocky. Dude.” Paul dabbed at the sweat that had dribbled through the bandanna he’d tied around his forehead. In a show of nonchalance, Brandon wore his Lakers cap jauntily backward. He grinned when Paul retrieved the ball. “If I’d put that hoop up to regulation height—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Brandon’s grin widened. “Big talk.”
“Smartass.”
Immensely flattered. Brandon let out a whoop of laughter at the muttered comment. He could see the answering grin in Paul’s eyes. And he was having the time of his life. He still couldn’t believe Paul had come over to see him—him—bringing a hoop, a ball, and a challenge for a game.
His enjoyment didn’t lessen when Paul whizzed by him and sent the ball through the net in a nearly soundless swish.
“Lucky shot.”
“My butt.” Paul passed the ball to Brandon. He might have picked up the hoop on impulse. He might have bolted it over the garage door thinking Brandon would enjoy the opportunity to shoot a few baskets now and again. Even the one on one had been impromptu. The thing was, he, too, was having the time of his life.
Part of the visit that afternoon had been calculated. He loved the mother, wanted to be a part of her life—and the most important part of her life was her son. He hadn’t been completely sure how he’d feel about the possibility of instant family, of taking another man’s child into his heart and home.
By the time the score was ten to eight, his favor, Paul had forgotten all about that. He was just enjoying.
“All right!” Brandon waved a triumphant fist after he’d tipped another one in. His Bart Simpson T-shirt was plastered to his shoulder blades. “I’m right on your tail.”
“Then get ready to choke on my dust.”
“In your dreams.”
Distracted by his own chuckle, Paul lost the ball. Like a hound after a rabbit, Brandon pounced on it. He missed his first shot, wrestled for the rebound, and hit the second.
When Paul’s dust had settled, Brandon had edged him out, twelve to ten.
“I’m number one!” Brandon skipped over the concrete pad, arms stretched, fingers pointing to the sky.
Eyes narrowed, hands resting on his knees, Paul watched the victory lap and sucked in hot air. “I went easy on you. You’re just a kid.”
“Bull!” Cherishing the moment, Brandon ran a circle around him, his lightly tanned skin gleaming with sweat and bad Bart sneering. “I took it easy on you” he said. “Cause you’re old enough to be my father.” Then he stopped, embarrassed by what he’d said, shaken by his own longings. Before he could figure out how to retract it, Paul had him in a headlock and was making him scream with laughter as knuckles rubbed hard on the top of his head.
“Okay, big mouth. Two out of three.”
Brandon blinked, stared. “Really?”
By God, Paul thought, he was falling for the kid all on his own. Those big, hungry eyes, that shy smile. All that hope, all that love. If there was a man alive who could resist that look, his name wasn’t Paul Winthrop.
Paul gave him a big, evil grin. “Unless you’re chicken.”
“Me, scared of you?” He
liked being held there, in a male embrace, smelling male smells, exchanging male taunts. He didn’t try to wriggle out of Paul’s hold. “No possible way.”
“Prepare to lose. This time I’m going to demolish you. Loser buys the beer.”
When Paul released him, Brandon raced to the ball. He was laughing when he saw his mother come out of the garden and onto the path. “Mom! Hey, Mom! Look what Paul put up. He said I could use it as long as we’re here and everything. And I beat him first game.”
She was walking slowly, had to walk slowly. That first comforting sheen of shock was melting away, leaving smears of fear behind. When she saw her child, his face grubby with dirt and sweat, his grin huge, his eyes excited, she broke into a run. She swooped him up, pressing him hard against her, burying her face against the damp and tender side of his throat.
She was alive. Alive. And holding her life in her arms.
“Jeez, Mom.” He wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed or apologetic in front of Paul. He rolled his eyes once, showing that this was something he had to put up with. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She had to swallow, to force herself to relax her grip. If she started babbling now, she’d only frighten him. And it was over. All over. “Nothing, I’m just glad to see you.”
“You saw me this morning.” His puzzled look changed to astonishment when she. Released him to give Paul the same fierce, possessive hug.
“Both of you,” she managed to say, and Paul could feel her heart thundering against his chest. “I’m just glad to see both of you.”
In silence, Paul cupped her chin to study her face. He recognized the signs of shock, of stress, of tears. He gave her a long, soft kiss and felt her lips tremble against his. “Close your mouth, Brandon,” he said mildly, bringing Julia’s head to his shoulder to stroke her hair. “You’ll have to get used to me kissing your mother.”
Over Julia’s shoulder he saw the boy’s eyes change—wariness, suspicion. Disappointment. With a sigh, Paul wondered if he had the ability to handle both mother and son.
“Why don’t you go inside, Jules? Get yourself something cold and sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Yes.” She needed to be alone. If she wasn’t going to fall apart, she needed a few moments to herself to scrape together those flimsy rags of control. “I’ll see if I can come up with some lemonade. You both look like you could use some.”
Paul waited until she was well on her way before he turned back to the boy. Brandon’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. He was staring hard at the toes of his scuffed Nikes.
“Problem?”
The boy only shrugged his shoulders.
Paul mirrored the gesture before he walked over the shirt he’d tossed off during the heat of battle. He took out a cigar then fought a brief battle with damp matches.
“I don’t figure I have to explain to you the man-woman sort of thing,” Paul mused aloud. “Or why kissing’s so popular.”
Brandon stared so hard at his shoes, his eyes nearly crossed.
“Nope. I didn’t think so.” Stalling, Paul drew in smoke, then exhaled. “I guess you should know how I feel about your mother.” Brandon still said nothing, trapped in the silence of his own confusion. “I love her, very much.” That statement at least had Brandon lifting his head to make eye contact. It wasn’t, Paul noted, a particularly friendly look. “It might take you some time to get used to that. That’s okay, because I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Mom doesn’t go out with guys and stuff very much.”
“No. I guess that makes me pretty lucky.” Christ, was there anything harder to face than a child’s direct, unblinking stare? Paul blew out a long breath and wished he had something stronger than lemonade to look forward to. “Listen, you’re probably wondering if I’m going to mess up and hurt her. I can’t promise I won’t, but I can promise I’ll try not to.”
Brandon was having a hard time even thinking about his mother in the way Paul was describing. She was, after all, first and last, his mother. It had never occurred to him that anything could hurt her. The possibility had the inside of his stomach jittering. To compensate, his chin shot out, much the way Julia’s did. “If you hit her, I’d—”
“No.” Paul was instantly in a crouch so that they were eye to eye. “I don’t mean like that. Not ever like that. That is a promise. I mean hurt her feelings, make her unhappy.”
The thought cued into something nearly forgotten that made Brandon’s throat hurt and his eyes water. He remembered the way she had looked when his grandparents had died. And before, sometime in that misty before, when he’d been too little to understand.
“Like my father did,” he said shakily. “He must have.”
There the ground was too soft and unsteady for him to tread on. “That’s something you’ll have to talk to her about when you’re both ready.”
“I guess he didn’t want us.”
The man’s hand cupped the boy’s shoulder. “I do.”
Brandon looked away again, over Paul’s right shoulder. A bird zipped into the garden in a bright flash of blue. “I guess you’ve been fooling around, hanging around with me because of Mom.”
“That’s part of it.” Paul took a chance and turned Brandon’s face back to his. “Not all of it. Maybe I thought it’d go a little easier for me with Julia if you and I got along. If you didn’t like me, I wouldn’t have a shot. The thing is, I like hanging around you. Even if you are short and ugly and beat me at basketball.”
He was a quiet child, and by nature an observant one. He heard the simplicity in Paul’s answer, understood it. And, looking into the man’s eyes, trusted it. His nerves settled, and he smiled. “I won’t always be short.”
“No.” Paul’s voice roughened even as he answered the smile. “But you’ll always be ugly.”
“And I’ll always beat you at basketball.”
“I’m going to prove you wrong there, a little later. Now, I think something’s upset your mom. I’d like to talk to her.”
“By yourself.”
“Yeah. Maybe you could go over to the main house and charm some cookies out of Travers. Again.”
Faint, embarrassed color stained Brandon’s cheek. “She wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“She wasn’t supposed to tell your mom,” Paul said. “People tell me everything. And the thing is, Travers used to sneak me cookies too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He rose then. “Give me about a half hour, okay?”
“Okay.” He started off, then turned at the edge of the garden. A young boy with dirt on his face and scabs on his knees and the disconcertingly wise eyes of childhood. “Paul? I’m glad she didn’t hang around with guys and stuff before now.”
As compliments went, Paul couldn’t remember better. “Me too. Now, beat it.”
He listened to Brandon’s quick, appreciative laughter, then turned toward the guest house.
Julia was in the kitchen, slowly, mechanically squeezing lemons. She’d slipped out of her suit jacket, stepped out of her shoes. The sapphire-colored shell she wore made her shoulders look very white, very soft, very fragile.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
Her voice was steady, but he heard the underlying nerves. Saying nothing, he pulled her over to the sink to rinse her hands under cool water. “What’re you doing?”
He dried her hands himself with a dishtowel before he switched off the radio. “I’m going to finish it. Sit down, take a couple of deep breaths, and tell me what happened.”
“I don’t need to sit.” But she did lean against the counter. “Brandon? Where’s Brandon?”
“Knowing you, I thought you’d hesitate to let it loose in front of him. He’s over at the main house for a while.”
Apparently Paul Winthrop knew her much too well, much too quickly. “So Travers can sneak him cookies.”
Paul glanced up as he added sugar. “What, have you got a hidden
camera?”
“No, just a mother’s primitive sensory skills. I can smell cookie breath at twenty paces.” She managed a weak smile and finally did sit.
He pulled a wooden spoon from the rack and stirred. When he was satisfied, he filled a glass with ice and poured the tart drink over the cubes so that they crackled. “Was it the interview with Kenneth that upset you?”
“No.” She took the first sip. “How did you know I was seeing Kenneth this afternoon?”
“CeeCee. When I came by to relieve her.”
“Oh.” She looked around blankly, just realizing CeeCee wasn’t there. “You sent her home.”
“I wanted to spend some time with Brandon. Okay?”
Struggling for calm, she sipped again. She hadn’t meant to question him so sharply. “I’m sorry. My mind keeps going off on tangents. Of course it’s okay. Brandon looked as if he was enjoying himself. I’m not much competition on the basketball court, and—”
“Julia, tell me what happened.”
With a jerky nod she set the glass aside, then linked her hands on her lap. “It wasn’t the interview. In fact, that went very well.” Had she put the tape in the safe? Unconsciously she unlinked her fingers to rub them against her eyes. Everything seemed so fuzzy, from the time she had clasped her hands over her head. She started to get up, to go to him, but her legs wouldn’t allow it. Funny that her knees would go weak now, when everything was all right again. The kitchen smelled of lemons, her son was sneaking cookies, and the faintest of breezes was nudging a tinkle out of the wind chimes. Everything was all right again.
She started when Paul scraped back his chair and went to the refrigerator. He yanked out a beer, twisted the top, and drank deep.
“I’m not thinking straight,” she said. “Maybe if I start at the beginning.”
“Fine.” He sat across the table from her, ordering himself to be patient. “Why don’t you do that?”
“We were flying back from Sausalito,” she began slowly. “I was thinking that I’d finished nearly all of the hard research, and that in a few weeks we’d be going home. Then I was thinking about you, and what it would be like to be there while you were here.”