It would be a fitting punishment if he had someday hoped to have children and then, when it was too late, found himself sterile. Or, better yet, impotent. Carly felt an instant moment of shame that she should be wishing that kind of sorrow on anyone. And then she reminded herself that he deserved that and more. Seeing the curiosity in Tracy's eyes, she forced herself to smile, but her heart was racing.
"Well, let's see," Carly said briskly, striving for a clinical detachment. "Your father had blond hair and brown eyes." Even as she said the words, she had to acknowledge privately that what sounded so ordinary was anything but.
"Like mine."
Carly nodded. "He was a California native, an only child, and liked to laugh. I know he'd had chicken pox as a boy, because he had a few scars." On his right shoulder and low on his flat, corded belly. She drew a breath. "I don't know about other childhood illnesses or family traits."
"Did he have a temper, like me?"
Carly recalled the articles she'd read about Scanlon's fury when a fellow player had made a boneheaded mistake. "Yes, but he didn't hold a grudge." Or so those same articles had stressed.
Tracy picked up a pen to scribble some notes on one of the papers at her elbow. Carly sensed that she was still troubled. "Trace? You didn't miss having a dad too badly, did you?"
Tracy suddenly busied herself with a stack of textbooks. "Sometimes, but it's no big deal, Mom. I can handle it."
"I know you can, sweetheart, but there's nothing wrong with wishing your life had been more conventional. Sometimes I wished that, too, but you wouldn't have wanted me to marry someone I didn't love just to give you a father, would you?"
Tracy shook her head, her gaze fixed on her notes. "I'm not blaming you, only I still don't understand why you won't at least tell me his name."
"We've had this discussion before, Trace. When I die, my attorney will give you his name—if you're still interested in knowing—but not before."
Tracy had always been an easy child, but there had been moments when she'd exhibited a streak of stubborn determination. Carly saw the sudden tension in her face and knew that this was one of those moments. "I'm not a child anymore. I'm not going to do something stupid, like showing up at his house someday. I just think I have the right to know his name."
"I disagree." Carly had to lock her knees to keep them steady. "I love you dearly, Tracy. I've done all that I know how to make sure that you grew up knowing how precious you are to me. You'll just have to trust me to know what's best for you in this one thing at least." She hesitated, then rested her hands on Tracy's shoulders. Beneath her fingers, her daughter's body trembled slightly. Guilt twisted a hot blade beneath her heart.
When Tracy remained silent, Carly rested her cheek against her daughter's cloud of honey-colored hair before saying goodnight. She made it all the way back to her room before she started shaking.
* * *
Marcella Kenworthy lived on the outskirts of Bradenton Falls in a house that had once been a stable. Weather-beaten and forlorn, it had sat unwanted and unloved for nearly twenty years before Marca had bought it six years earlier. Claiming she was tired of living in rentals, she had moved in the day the roof had been repaired, and bit by bit she'd turned the battered derelict into a cozy home, doing much of the work with her own hands. Only the smaller of the two bedrooms upstairs remained to be done, and the last time Carly had stopped by, she'd found Marca happily stripping four layers of ancient wallpaper from the walls.
Acting on an impulse that she herself hadn't fully understood, Carly had borrowed a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt from Marca, kicked off her shoes and waded in with putty knife in hand. They'd had a ball, and Carly had come away envying Marca her privacy—and the freedom to be utterly herself.
It was close to midnight when Carly pulled into the carport behind Marca's bright red Bronco. Marca had the floodlights on and the front door open almost before Carly switched off the ignition. Unlike the chic Professor Kenworthy who wore classic suits and Italian pumps, Marca at home was generally seen in an old paint-spattered sweatshirt and leggings. Tonight, as usual, her feet were bare.
Gypsy dark, Marca was barely five feet tall, with masses of curly hair and snapping black eyes. In what had to be one of life's greatest mysteries, her waif-thin body managed to radiate energy and health and more than her share of sex appeal.
Men from twenty to eighty found her irresistible, especially when she laughed. But Marca was still recovering from a marriage gone wrong, and had sworn to keep her relationships with attentive males strictly platonic. As far as Carly knew, she had kept that vow.
"It's about time you got here," she called out as Carly exited the old MG roadster that was her pride and joy. "I've just about worn a groove in the floor waiting for you."
"It's only been fifteen minutes since I called," Carly reminded her as she entered.
"A long fifteen."
Carly tossed her jacket and purse on the nearest chair before sinking gratefully into the sinfully cushy sofa in front of the lava rock fireplace.
"Wine?" Marca asked, holding out a brimming glass.
"Lord, yes," Carly muttered, accepting with a guilty grimace. One was usually her limit, and she'd already permitted herself a glass of sherry. A very small glass.
"Are you all right?" Marca asked, seating herself opposite.
"I don't know yet. Mostly I'm numb." Carly tasted the wine, grimacing at its tart bite as it slid down her throat. "I thought dinner would never end. If Coach had told one more story, I swear, I would have gone for his throat."
Marca grinned, but her eyes remained shadowed. "How did you feel when you saw Scanlon again?"
Leave it to Marca to ask the one question she'd deliberately avoided asking herself, Carly thought. It took her a moment to sort out her thoughts.
"I'm not sure I can describe my initial reaction." She set the wine on the refinished chicken crate serving as a coffee table and allowed herself to slump against the pillow behind her. "Consumed by rage that he was intruding into my life comes closest," she offered slowly, feeling her way. "Followed by this overwhelming determination to keep him absolutely and totally out of Tracy's."
"If he takes the job, that might be more difficult than you think, especially if Tracy makes the cheerleading squad. In case you've forgotten, they practice on the same field and, quite often, at the same times."
Carly drew a slow breath. "Maybe she won't make the squad."
"Which would break her heart," Marca said softly.
"Oh, Marca, I know that," Carly murmured, brushing lint from her skirt. "And I want her to make the squad because she wants it so badly. I've always wanted her to be happy, you know that."
Marca nodded. "Of course I do. And I wasn't criticizing, just playing devil's advocate." She frowned, as though she'd just had a sudden thought. "He didn't recognize you, I hope?"
Carly drew a breath. Have we met? he'd asked in that too-familiar way, and for an instant her heart had stopped. "I think he did, in a fuzzy sort of way, but I'm positive he doesn't know why. And no, I don't think that's wishful thinking on my part," she hastened to add when Marca opened her mouth to speak. "Believe me, if I thought there was any chance of that, I would have broken my own rule about never interfering with my department heads and ordered Coach to send Scanlon packing."
"It's too bad you can't just tell Gianfracco the truth." Marca took a sip, then waved an impatient hand. "In fact, it's too bad you can't tell the whole world what he did to you."
"You know I can't do that! No matter what, I won't have Tracy hurt by my mistake."
Frowning, Marca lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Carly listened to the crickets chirping outside.
"Hey, I just had a thought," Marca said, her tone hopeful. "Scanlon's a southern California boy, remember? Used to three hundred days of sunshine every year. I'll lay odds he'll hate our gray skies so much he won't even stay a week, let alone an entire school year."
"Maybe, but that's n
ot something I'd care to count on." Carly drew a long breath. Her heart was still beating much too rapidly, though not pounding, as it had done through much of dinner. "The solution is actually pretty simple. All we have to do is convince Pete Gianfracco that Scanlon's not our man."
Marca shifted and drew her raven-dark eyebrows together. "I'll buy that. The question that comes to mind first, however, is how?"
"Well, for one thing, he's never coached before, which should be the cornerstone of our argument. The last thing Bradenton needs right now is a beginner trying to learn on the job." She sighed. "Lord knows, we've had miserable enough results from experienced men these past few years, which is what got us in this mess in the first place."
"Do you know he's a beginner for sure, or are you guessing?"
"I know." Carly saw surprise spark in Marca's eyes and sighed. "I do read the sports pages, you know." Carly didn't want any more wine, but she took a sip anyway, hoping it would wash away the sick feeling in her stomach. "After he was forced to retire as a player, there was all kinds of speculation about his becoming the Raiders' new quarterback coach. It didn't happen."
"True, but that was five years ago. He could have done a lot of things since, including coaching."
Carly sat forward and waved a hand. "I doubt that very much."
"Why? Because of his handicap?"
"No, because of his notoriety. If Mitch Scanlon had gotten back into football, it would have been splashed all over the evening news, just like everything else he did. You know how the press loves that kind of human interest story, and—" She stopped, appalled at her own words. "Oh my God, what am I saying?"
Marca glanced away, a look of pain on her face. When she made eye contact again, Carly winced. "Don't say it, please."
"All right, I won't." Sitting back, Marca sipped her wine and regarded Carly with an impassive face. Carly reached for her glass, then changed her mind. Instead, she slipped off her shoes, drew up her legs and rearranged herself until she was curled snugly into the corner of the sofa.
"I would kill for a cigarette," she muttered, fervently wishing she hadn't promised Tracy to quit after her last bout of bronchitis.
"Sorry, I gave up the habit years ago," Marca gloated mercilessly.
"Fifteen months ago, you mean," Carly groused, shifting.
"Feels like more than that to me."
Carly managed a wan smile, which quickly faded. "Don't look at me like that."
Marca arched her eyebrows, the very picture of innocence. "Like how?"
"Like you're humoring me."
"But I am humoring you," Marca declared patiently. "You don't want to talk about the man you've hated for seventeen years, and I understand why. I'm willing to talk about anything else you like. Your choice."
Carly snorted. "Isn't that like trying to ignore a prowling tiger who's targeted you for lunch?"
Marca bit her lip, then laughed. "An apt analogy, or a random thought?" she wondered aloud.
An image of Scanlon's deep-set amber eyes rose in Carly's mind. "There was this … moment in the sitting room when he first looked at me, when I was sure I felt…" She paused to clarify her jumbled thoughts. "When I sensed a terrible, well, aloneness, I guess, is the best way to describe it, in the man he is now." She moistened her lips and tried to banish his image from her mind. And she failed.
"I suppose it does tend to set a man apart when he goes from being a world-class athlete to a paraplegic in the span of one night."
The sympathy in Marca's voice had Carly's head jerking up. "That's not the worse thing that can happen to a person," she declared on a flare of anger. "I wish everyone would stop talking about his handicap. He might have crippled legs, but he's the same man inside."
"Sorry," Marca muttered. "And you're right, of course. A disability doesn't necessarily come with instant sainthood."
Carly shivered, cold on the inside in spite of the room's cozy temperature. "I will not feel sorry for that man," she declared, her jaw suddenly tense. "If he's suffered, it's none of my doing or my concern."
"No, it isn't," Marca said very quietly. "But I can't help thinking that on some cosmic level, what happened to Scanlon has a certain element of justice to it." She shifted, frowned to herself, then sought Carly's gaze. "It's been a long time since I was in Sunday School, but I remember one of my teachers telling me once that no sin goes unpunished, no matter how privately it was committed."
"In the best of all possible worlds, maybe, which we already know this one is not."
"I'm serious, Carly. Think about it for a minute. Seventeen years ago Scanlon took something very precious from you without a second thought. And now he's lost the one thing that was precious to him, his athletic ability. Sounds like some higher power at work to me."
Carly managed a wan smile. Her slight headache had gradually turned into a hard pounding in both temples. "It does have a certain logic, doesn't it?"
Even when he was seated and his crutches were out of sight, there was a stillness in his lower body that sooner or later became evident. While others shifted and moved easily, he had to work at it. And when others stretched out their legs to relax, his remained motionless. So why wasn't she gloating? Or at least feeling a certain satisfaction?
"I think I'd better call it a night," she muttered, sitting up. "I hate jet lag. It makes me feel like I'm underwater, and I have a full calendar to deal with tomorrow."
Marca finished her wine and stood up. "Including a five o'clock appointment with yours truly to go over the media campaign for Project Cinderella—unless you'd rather reschedule?"
"No, but thanks for offering." Carly slipped into her jacket and retrieved her purse, then turned slowly to pin her best friend with a look.
"From a public relations standpoint, hiring Mitch Scanlon would be a terrific idea, wouldn't it?"
Marca nodded, a rueful smile curving her lips. "It would be pure magic. The press would eat it up. The headlines practically write themselves." She traced the words in the air. "'Injured hero returns to football after five years of self-imposed exile.' 'Legendary quarterback turns to coaching.' With Scanlon on the sidelines, the Wolves wouldn't even have to win a game and the stands would be jammed." She dropped her gaze. "If I didn't know what I know, I'd be urging all of us to grovel at the man's feet if that's what it would take to get him on board."
Carly's laugh was strained. "Leave it to you to bring things back into perspective."
Marca's head came up, her blue eyes solemn, her gaze brutally direct. "Oh, hell, kid, you know I'm on your side, and I always will be. But I think you'd better be very clear on your priorities before we go much farther with this."
"Tracy comes first. She always has, and she always will."
"And she should," Marca agreed. "But you love Bradenton almost as much as you love your daughter. And, with your exaggerated sense of responsibility, I know that you would feel personally at fault if Bradenton closed its doors."
Carly felt a shiver of raw fear at the thought. "Not necessarily," she hedged, glancing past Marca toward the distant lights of the campus, framed by the large picture window. "It's just a college, after all. A bunch of old buildings on a few hundred acres of land, and a random number of trees that just happen to predate Oregon's entry into the Union. Nothing really earth-shattering would happen if it closed its doors." She shifted her gaze to Marca's face. "Right?"
"I could live with that. The question is, could you?"
"I don't know, Marce. I wish I did." Carly drew a shaky breath. "I wish I'd never come up with this idea in the first place."
"Yeah, but you did, and now that the train is on the track, you can't stop it without causing a major wreck."
"What is this, Madison Avenue lingo?"
Marca grinned. "Sorry, I'm still going through withdrawal."
Carly managed a laugh. "Thanks. I can always count on you for something profound."
"Hey, what are friends for?"
Marca walked her to the door.
They exchanged hugs, and then, with a wave, Carly headed into the night.
* * *
Mitch tucked his hands under his head and stared at the ceiling. In his playing days he'd slept in his shorts, a remnant from his years in one training camp or another. Since his legs had become paralyzed, he slept naked. Pulling on a pair of skivvies took more effort than he wanted to expend when he was already dead tired from a day of dragging around full leg braces.
He heard a distant creak, like a footfall overhead, and he glanced toward the door to the hall. Coach had been right about one thing—the accommodations were four star. A decent bed, a soft pillow, even a bathroom with a bathtub he'd actually been able to get in and out of without too much trouble.
It had been a while since he'd gotten the VIP treatment. He should be happy as a clam. Instead he was lying there brooding about a pair of distant green eyes and a ripe little mouth that smiled at everyone but him.
He dug his head deeper into the pillow, trying without a lot of success to ignore the burning ache in his legs. He'd worn the braces longer than he should have, and now he was paying for it.
His chair was still in the trunk of his car. No sweat to haul it out and use it part of the day, the way the therapists had drummed into him. Half the clients at the gym used wheels, some part-time, some all the time. It got so he was more used to seeing someone in a chair than out.
It wouldn't be that way if he got back into football. He would be the one everyone looked at then. The way Caroline Alderson had looked at him—with pity.
Damn Gianfracco and his wild hare of an idea, he thought, shifting his gaze to the travel clock by the bed—2:00 a.m.
Who are you trying to kid here? he thought as he maneuvered to his side and closed his eyes. He wanted to get back into football almost as much as he wanted to be able to make love freely again.
How long had it been since he'd been with a woman? he wondered. Six, seven months maybe. Longer since he'd had the kind of sex that made a man feel full inside instead of empty. Before his paralysis, he would have already been planning his campaign. Wine, roses, candlelit dinners. Dancing. A turn in one direction, a slight swaying in the other. Gradually, he would pull her closer until her thighs were melded with his, and then together they would move more and more slowly until they were simply standing, so close he could feel her heart beating. So close that her scent was a part of him.
Her Secret, His Child Page 6