by Holly Jacobs
But she could see something in Carly's face, something that said she needed to vent, as well, so Michelle thanked Samantha and Carly. Then she pointed to Carly. "Your turn."
For a moment her friend hesitated. But Carly's need to unload was evident as she said in a burst, "Dean and I are trying to finish the divorce settlement with a mediator. As soon as that's worked out, it's all done. My marriage is over." She paused. "No, I take that back, the marriage was over the moment I caught him with his secretary on that couch I bought for his office. The actual divorce was in January, despite the fact we hadn't sorted out the marital assets. I graduate in December, and I'd really like to go into the new year with a degree, a new job and a totally finished divorce. I can't spare much more time for this. I've got a couple huge papers due, on top of getting ready for the start of the holiday season."
This time Michelle joined Samantha in making comforting noises as Carly continued to talk about her ex, and how he'd balked about paying for her to go back to school, despite the fact she'd quit college to put him through law school.
As Carly wound down, she joined Michelle in looking at Samantha. That's all it took for their friend to blurt out, "I broke off my friendship with Harry."
Samantha had been growing closer and closer to Erie Elementary's interim principal, Harry Remington. She'd claimed that they were simply friends, but Michelle and Carly had talked about it, and neither had bought Samantha's definition of their relationship. It was clear to them, if not to Samantha, that there was more than a friendship brewing between the two of them.
As Samantha told them she'd kissed Harry, Michelle shot Carly a private smile behind Samantha's back. Their suspicions were verified. But then Samantha said that her oldest, Stan, was having trouble accepting her friendship with Harry. "So, I ended it. I'm sure it's for the best. He's leaving soon, anyway."
That did surprise Michelle. Samantha didn't seem like the type who'd give up something she wanted without a fight. "And you didn't want to."
"No, I didn't want to, but right now, the kids have to come first. Stan has to come first."
The fact that Samantha would put her own wants and desires aside for her kids didn't surprise Michelle, either. Samantha was an unselfish, loving mother.
Was Michelle being selfish by denying Brandon her help in searching for his father?
Was it concern for her nephew or a selfish fear of losing him that had prompted her response?
She wasn't sure. And she didn't want to think about it, so she said, "We're supposed to talk about the Thanksgiving Pageant. Is there anything we can do?"
Samantha shook her head. "No, there's nothing either of you need to worry about. I've got it all under control."
Michelle wished she could say the same.
She'd built a solid life for herself and her nephew. A good life.
Brandon had spent his first eight years living a vagabond existence with Tara. Moving from place to place, while her sister moved from man to man. Always searching for something. For someone.
Yet maybe Michelle's life was too regimented. Maybe what she thought was a comforting sense of order had left Brandon feeling smothered and stifled. Maybe that's why he wanted to find his father, to find a way out.
She sat, eating chocolate-covered strawberries, and worried that somehow she'd messed up and that her nephew was going to be left to pay the price.
DANIEL MCLEAN CLOSED the shop door and walked the dozen or so steps through his backyard to his house's back porch, wading through what was left of the foot of snow that had fallen the day after Thanksgiving. This weekend had been warmer, reducing the snow to a troublesome slush in the yard.
He kicked off his boots next to the door and walked into the kitchen. He stood a moment and took it in. The cabinets he'd spent last winter working on between jobs looked perfect. Their deep maple hue gave the room a warm feeling. Once he finished the mantelpiece he was carving, this room would be done. Then it was on to the library.
He'd bought the old house last year. It was perfectly situated on a small wooded lot just outside Erie in Greene Township. He had neighbors who were close enough if he needed a hand, but not in eyesight of the house. Making the old barn in back into a workshop had been his first project. The house was going to take longer, mainly because it wasn't a priority. Work had to come first.
McLean's Restoration had taken off. He was booked for the next nine months.
He opened the fridge and took out a can of soda. He'd just popped the tab when the doorbell rang.
A spurt of anticipation surged through him. It had to be the triple iron complex cabinet molder he'd ordered from Scotland. Scanning antique tool sites was one of his hobbies. He didn't feel guilty about his passion for old, authentic tools because not only did using them on projects add authenticity to his work, they were a tax write-off.
Smiling, he opened the door, expecting to see the brown uniform of the deliveryman, Rich.
Instead, a gangly teen with rust-colored hair stood looking as if he was going to throw up.
"You okay?" Daniel asked.
"Are you Daniel McLean?" the kid countered, standing up straighter.
"Yes. Can I help you?"
"Did you go to Penn State about thirteen years ago?"
Daniel did a quick mental math problem and realized it had been that long ago. Only eleven years since he graduated, but still over a decade since he'd been in college. On one hand, that sounded like a long time. On the other, he felt rather proud at how well the business was doing. "Yes. What's this all about?"
"Did you know a Tara Hamilton?"
The kid wasn't very good at answering questions. But talk about a blast from the past.
Tara Hamilton had been a waitress at a local café. He could still see her wearing her short skirt and apron, smiling as she handed out food and drinks. They'd become friends his freshman year and, for one brief moment, right after the holidays in his sophomore year, he'd thought that maybe they'd become more. . . .
He shook himself from his reverie. "Yes. I knew Tara."
The boy extended his hand. "I'm her son, Brandon Hamilton, and I was wondering if you could be my dad."
The boy turned deathly pale at the words, but he held his ground.
It was Daniel who felt as if the world wobbled beneath him. "Did you ask Tara—your mom?"
"She's dead." The boy's answer was flat and matter-of-fact.
Daniel's world shifted again. He'd thought of Tara over the past thirteen years. She'd been so instrumental in propelling him toward his own dreams and not someone else's expectations. Each small success as he'd built his business had brought her to mind.
They'd bonded over the fact they'd both been from Erie. It might have been only a three-and-a-half-hour drive between there and school, but to a homesick college student it had seemed a world away. Tara had been a tangible connection to home, to the familiar, at first. Later, she'd been a friend. And for that one night, she'd been his. That next morning, Daniel had thought there was potential for a true and lasting relationship, but Tara had left.
He'd eventually come to terms with the fact no one would ever clip free-flying Tara's wings. When he thought about her, he imagined her in exotic ports, backpacking through Europe. A hippie in an age of yuppies.
But dead?
The thought shook him in a way that thirteen years of separation shouldn't have allowed.
"How long?" he managed.
"Five years," the boy said.
What was his name?
Brandon. It was Brandon.
"She's been gone five years," Daniel said aloud, wondering if that would make it seem more real. It did, and the pain, despite the decade-plus of separation, was acute. "And your father. . ."
"She never told me who he was. But I went into the attic and found her stuff. There was a program for some Penn State art show, with your name highlighted. And she gave me this when I was little."
Brandon dangled a silver medal from a chain. Sai
nt Joseph.
Daniel unconsciously touched his neck. That medal had hung there for only a year. His grandmother had given it to him before he left for college. His grandfather had insisted that Daniel pursue a business degree. Make something of yourself, son. Don't live hand-to-mouth like we have, he'd said over and over. But his grandmother had known he wanted nothing more than to follow in his grandfather's footsteps and turn his carpentry hobby into a career. Saint Joseph was a carpenter, she'd said. Maybe he can show you the way.
Maybe in a way he had, through Tara. That's why he'd given the medal to her. He'd slipped it from his neck and onto hers and told her, "You've shown me my dream, now maybe he'll help you find yours." She'd kissed him for the first time, then. She'd kissed him before, in a friendly way, but this kiss had spoken of intimate things. He'd taken her to bed, and started to consider the possibility of a future together. In the end, he hadn't been surprised that Tara's dreams hadn't led to a life with him.
"It says D. McLean on the back," said the boy.
Daniel realized they were still standing in the doorway. He threw the door open wider. "Maybe you'd better come in."
The boy shook his head. "My aunt's going to kill me as it is. Going into a stranger's house would only make her madder. But we could sit on the porch."
Daniel nodded. His brain had gone fuzzy. He wasn't sure what to say to this kid—Brandon. Tara's son. Maybe his? He slipped on a pair of sneakers.
"So?" the boy demanded as he sat gingerly on the edge of one of the rocking chairs Daniel had made. "Are you?"
Daniel sank into the chair next to him. "Son—Brandon, I did know your mother. We were friends for a couple years. Good friends. And I guess there's a chance that I could be your father, but it's a remote chance at best. How old are you? When's your birthday?"
"I turned thirteen at the end of September. I should be in eighth grade, but Mom and I moved around so much, Aunt Shell held me back."
The timing wasn't wrong. But when he'd known her, Tara had gone through multiple boyfriends, one she'd broken up with not long before they had their very brief fling. He almost laughed at the phrase. Brief fling? One night was as brief as flings could get.
He tried to remember the name of that last guy Tara had dated, but couldn't. What he did remember was Tara's laughter. She'd always been laughing at everything, as if she were full of so much joy she had to let some of it out so she didn't explode from it. Her laughter bubbled over. At a time when Daniel had felt at odds with the world, that sound was a salve, soothing him like nothing else could.
He'd felt the lack when she'd left. She hadn't told him where she was going, and there was no note of explanation. Nothing.
For a long time he'd waited, hoping she'd be back, or at least call. Having witnessed the demise of more than a few of her relationships, he should have known better. When Tara broke it off with a guy, she severed things completely.
He wasn't sure what, if anything, to say to this boy who was studying him intently. Brandon had soft brown eyes, and the stubborn cowlick at the crown of his head sent his rusty hair going in too many directions at once.
Tara had been from Erie. That first day he'd met her in the diner, they'd talked and found they shared this city as a connection. After he'd moved home, he'd always fantasized that someday he'd pass her on the street, or spot her at the mall, or having coffee. All these years he'd lived with that possibility.
But she was dead.
He'd never bump into her and hear her laughter as they talked over old times.
The pain was intense.
"Brandon, you mentioned an aunt?" He seemed to vaguely recall Tara talking about having a sister.
The boy nodded. "My aunt Shell. I live with her since Mom. . ."
"And this aunt doesn't know you're here?" he asked, though he realized, from the boy's comment about not coming into the house, she couldn't know.
Brandon confirmed that when he shook his head.
"Listen, I think I should talk to your aunt."
"She didn't want me looking for my father. She'll be mad."
"Like I said, there's a chance you are my son." Saying the words felt foreign. A son. Even if it was the remotest of chances, it was there. This boy might be his son. His and Tara's. Daniel couldn't walk away from that. He wouldn't.
"If you're mine that means your aunt will find out eventually. Would you want to spring it on her? Or give her a chance to get used to it while it's still only a possibility?"
"Aunt Shell doesn't do springing." He sighed. "Okay, we should talk to her." He gave Daniel an address on Erie's east side.
"Want to toss your bike in the truck and ride with me?"
"Nah, she's going to be upset regardless. I'm not getting in a car with a stranger and making it worse. I'll ride my bike and meet you there."
"It's quite a haul back into town and it's freezing out." Daniel's place was about five miles from the city of Erie proper. And Erie in November was cold. Today was in the low forties, a bone-chilling ride on a bike.
"I made it out here, I can make it back," Brandon said firmly.
"Fine. Just let me get my keys then." Daniel started toward the house, then turned around and drank in the sight of the boy, searching his features for some sense of the familiar, some sign that this Brandon was his son.
"Mr. McLean, what if you are my father? How are you going to feel?" There was vulnerability in the question.
Daniel wasn't sure how he'd feel, but he could see that Brandon needed something, so he said, "I'll confess, this is out of the blue, and I haven't thought about having kids, but if I'm your father, then I can promise you I'll want to be a part of your life. We'll have to wait and see how. Your aunt will have something to say about that, I'm sure."
Daniel knew what it was like to be abandoned, to feel as if you didn't matter. Nothing, and no one, not even this Aunt Shell, would keep him away from the boy if he was Brandon's father. He'd have to make that clear right from the start. He didn't want to disrupt their lives, but he wouldn't be shut out, either.
Brandon offered him a timid smile. "Uh, sir, I mean, Mr. McLean, my aunt will definitely have something to say, and I'm pretty sure most of it is going to be aimed at me."
Daniel paused. "She doesn't. . ." He wanted to ask, needed to know that Tara's son wasn't being abused, but he didn't know how to ask.
Brandon must have caught his meaning. "No. Nothing like that. My aunt loves me, and would do anything to protect me, even if that means trying to protect me from myself."
"Or from me?"
"You, too. She's afraid that looking for my father might end up hurting me. Mom didn't always have the nicest boyfriends, and Aunt Shell is afraid that my father might be someone who could hurt me. But I had to know, even if it hurts." That said, Brandon got his bike, climbed on it and pedaled down the driveway and onto the street.
Daniel moved as if in a fog. In the house, he grabbed his keys and wallet, then got in the truck and followed him. He passed Brandon on Old Wattsburg Road, before he passed the top of Kirsch Road.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at the boy pedaling madly.
A son?
Would Tara have had a baby and kept it from him? He'd love to be able to say unequivocally no, but he couldn't. Tara had been. . .well, Tara.
He felt a wave of sorrow over the loss of his friend, even though it had been more than a decade since he'd seen her.
A son?
He kept circling the idea.
A son?
A thirteen-year-old son?
Suddenly, he was furious. The speed at which he went from mourning to anger took his breath away. If Tara had been pregnant with his child and hadn't contacted him. . .
He realized there was nothing he'd be able to do about it now.
He let out a long breath, strangely deflated and a little numb.
What should he do?
He'd meet up with this Aunt Shell and tell her what? That he'd slept with her sister exactly onc
e and didn't have a clue if he could be Brandon's father. When she asked what he wanted to do about it, what would he say?
He needed to know if he was Brandon's father. That much was clear. And obviously, Brandon wanted the same thing.
After that? If Brandon was his son, then he'd want to be with him. He wasn't sure in what capacity, but he'd want to spend time with him and help out financially. He'd make sure that Brandon knew Daniel hadn't abandoned him. That if he'd known he had a son, he'd have done whatever it took to be a part of his life for his first thirteen years.
Since Daniel couldn't go back and do that, he'd do whatever it would take to play some role in his life now.
He'd try to give Aunt Shell—who didn't do springing—some time to adjust, but he'd be frank. One way or another, if he was Brandon's father, he was going to be part of both their lives from here on out.
Chapter Two
Daniel drove slowly down the street, checking the numbers on the houses. He pulled up in front of a small, brick home in a nice, middle-class neighborhood. There were flowerbeds in the front, now covered with a mixture of slushy snow and leaves from the big maple tree that stood on the eastern side of the property.
Everything about the house was. . .precise. That was the word to describe this house. A very symmetrical arrangement of bushes on either side of the porch steps. The inch or so of snow sat lightly on the grass but was brushed off the sidewalk and stairs. A grapevine wreath, decorated with red flowers, sat centered on the door. All the blinds in the window were pulled halfway up, with no deviation.
Precise.
The whole exterior of this house spoke of someone who liked things neat and orderly.
The fact that Daniel was here was going to disturb Brandon's aunt Shell's order. Daniel knew he had no choice—he had to know whether Brandon was his son—but it didn't stop him from feeling bad about shocking the woman.
He could wait for Brandon. He was pretty sure that's what the boy expected. Daniel could see him standing on Daniel's front porch, so scared and yet so determined. Brandon would face his aunt's anger head-on.
But Daniel wasn't about to hide behind a boy. He'd go up and introduce himself, take the brunt of this woman's anger.