Discovered: Daddy

by Marilyn Pappano

  He didn’t remember her.

  In the last nine months or so, she had come up with a dozen reasons to explain why Nick had left the way he did, with ten times that number to explain why he’d never called her, never come to see her, never made any attempt whatsoever to contact her. But she had never thought of that particular reason. She had never considered the possibility that he simply didn’t remember her. That he had found her utterly forgettable. That what they had shared had meant so little to him that he’d put it immediately out of his mind.

  She’d thought he’d felt awkward, maybe a little guilty, maybe even a little overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. She’d thought his job with the Houston Police Department was keeping him busy, that maybe he had some personal problems in his life, or that possibly he didn’t know how to handle what had happened between them. Later, of course, had come his marriage, only a month later. It was a surprise to his friends and family and a real shocker to her.

  But she had been wrong, so wrong. He hadn’t felt awkward or guilty or overwhelmed. He had forgotten her. Forgotten meeting her. Forgotten talking to her. Forgotten making love to her. Forgotten saying such sweet, sweet things to her. The most special, most memorable, most important night of her life and, as far as he was concerned, it had never happened.

  She pulled into the driveway of the big Victorian house Great-aunt Lydia had left her and shut off the engine. For a time she simply sat there, listening to the settling sounds as the motor cooled. When finally the car was silent and all she could hear was her own uneven breathing, she got out and headed for the steps to the wide veranda. It was only when the cold air hit her face that she realized she was crying.

  And why shouldn’t she cry? She was twenty-five years old, soon to be a mother, and she was alone in a way that she hadn’t been even just this morning. At least this morning she’d still had a few secret hopes, a few treasured dreams. She had believed that once Nick saw her he would realize the significance between her pregnancy and last February’s party, would acknowledge his paternity and accept his responsibility. She had believed that Amelia Rose would have a mother and a father — even if they weren’t married, even if he was married to someone else. She had believed that her baby would have a family to love her — grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles and a full two dozen cousins.

  Though her head had known better, in her heart she had believed — had pretended that that late February night had been as important to him as it was to her. But he didn’t remember it. He didn’t remember the magic. He didn’t remember the words. He didn’t remember her.

  So much for hopes and dreams.

  So much for magic.

  She had lied to him.

  As he made the short walk from the bank, where he’d dropped Faith Harper’s vinyl bag into the night depository, to his truck, Nick considered her denial. Obviously something had happened at Michael’s party, otherwise, she wouldn’t be acting as if he were her sworn enemy. Had he been rude to her? Made a pass at her? Somehow offended her?

  He couldn’t remember. She had seemed disbelieving, and it wasn’t something he was proud of, but he really had been drunk that night. He’d had too little sleep and too little food and Michelle’s demon nephews had kept him supplied with punch doctored with far too much booze. He remembered drinking a third cup — or had it been his fourth? — and the next thing he’d known it was morning. He had thought about asking Michael to supply the missing details, but there had been something just a little embarrassing about admitting to his kid brother that he’d gotten drunk enough to lose eight hours. Besides, it had just been a simple little party—all the Russos and the Parkers, Michelle’s family, some out-of-town relatives and a host of friends. With his mother and all his little nieces and nephews there, it was guaranteed that he hadn’t done anything too awful. And so he had forgotten about it, had put it out of his mind.

  Or had he?

  She said they’d met then and, on his earlier stop at the Baby Boutique this afternoon, he had been stunned to see her. He had been seeing her in his mind — even, damn it, in his dreams — off and on for months. He had thought that surely here in New Hope, surrounded by his loud, boisterous family and caught up in wedding plans, he would be safe from her. But there she’d been, exactly the way he had imagined her. Well, except for the pregnancy. He had never imagined that.

  But the rest of her had been the same. The long brown hair that he knew was as soft and silky as a baby’s — not guessed, not suspected, but knew. The voice sweeter than honey. The eyes as blue as any Texas sky. He had been absolutely shocked. Here he’d thought she was merely a figment of his imagination, a temptation of the only sort — during those long months on the Sanchez case — that he’d been able to succumb to, an elusive, ethereal angel come to haunt his nights. Sometimes he had awakened to the lingering touch of her fingers, cool and soft, on his skin. Other times he had sworn her scent clung to him in those first fragile moments of awakening, and his dreams of her had left him hot and flushed, his breathing labored, his body hard and his arousal almost — almost satisfied.

  Climbing into the truck, Nick slammed the door harder than necessary and started the engine, but he didn’t pull away from the curb. Instead he found himself staring at the Baby Boutique, at the tiny little doll-like clothes spotlighted in the window by pale pink bulbs overhead. He had convinced himself that the woman in his dreams wasn’t real, easy enough to do since he knew he’d never met her before. He never would have forgotten a face like that...or eyes like that... or a desire like that. He had a damned good memory for faces and names, for places and details. It was one of the tools of his trade... and he was good at his trade.

  But Faith Harper was very definitely real — and, if she was to be believed, very definitely someone he’d met before. Someone he had offended before? Or, considering the erotic nature of his dreams, someone he had—

  Swearing aloud, he refused to complete the sentence. Shifting into gear, he released the brake and, after a quick look over his shoulder, gunned the engine and pulled into the street. He was in fourth gear and approaching fifty miles an hour before he reached the end of the block, where he brought the truck to a screeching halt beside the phone booth on the corner.

  Telling himself to leave well enough alone — hadn’t she insisted that nothing had happened between them? — and that even looking was a waste of time, he got out and flipped open the ragged-eared book hanging from a chain inside the booth. Faith Harper might very well be married — New Hope was the sort of place where women still got married before getting pregnant. Even if, by some chance, she wasn’t married, single women who lived alone didn’t have their names and addresses listed in the phone book for security reasons, not even in New Hope.

  But there it was: Harper Faith 411 Sycamore.

  Four hundred eleven Sycamore. That was the corner of Sycamore and Lee Streets. The house there was old, built around the turn of the century, dominating its lot. It was a Victorian, with lots of gingerbread and a big porch, a wrought-iron fence enclosing a big lawn, plenty of trees and a curving brick driveway. He had lived away from New Hope for sixteen years, but he remembered that old house well because the last time he’d come back, he had gone there. Michael and Michelle’s party had been held at Faith Harper’s house on the night she said they’d met and he absolutely couldn’t remember.

  The night about nine months ago.

  The night...

  Oh, God.

  The phone book slipped from his hands, banging against the glass on the way down before the chain stopped its fall and set it on a slow pendulum sway. Nick stared at it, imagining he could hear each creak of the fine chain, but all he could really hear was his own breathing and, barely audible somewhere deep down inside him, a tiny little voice, one that had been silent more years than he cared to remember, softly praying, Please, God, no.

  Please don’t let it be my baby.

  Please don’t trap me that way.


  Please let this be a bad dream.

  Please, please, please...

  “Hey, Nick, you okay?”

  It took a moment for the question to register, a moment longer to realize that it was directed to him and that it was his brother speaking. Turning slowly, he saw that Michael had pulled to a stop just through the intersection and rolled down the window of his battered old Chevy. The gray suit and black overcoat he wore presented an amusing contrast to the fifteen-year-old sedan, but Nick wasn’t in the mood to be amused.

  “Nick? What’s wrong?”

  He gave a shake of his head to clear it. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  Michael glanced from him to the phone booth behind him. “You get some bad news?”

  The worst, Nick thought grimly. He couldn’t imagine anything he wanted to hear less right now than that he was about to become a father. He didn’t want to get married, had never wanted to get married, and he certainly had no intentions of ever bringing a child into the world. But he might have done just that in a night he couldn’t even remember.

  “Mama’s going to have dinner on the table in about ten minutes. We’d both better get moving.”

  Nick glanced down the street where a lighted sign flush against the stone building marked Faith Harper’s store, and he thought about going home, about sitting down to dinner with his parents and Michael. About eating and talking and pretending that everything was okay when he’d just found out that he might have royally screwed up his life. He thought about facing his father, who had passed on to Nick his own rather strict code governing the behavior of an honorable man, and he knew he couldn’t do it. Not without a few answers from Faith Harper.

  And if her answers were the wrong answers, he just might never be able to face his father without shame again.

  “Listen, Mike, tell Mom and Pop that I had to take care of some business. I won’t be able to make it to dinner, but I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Aw, come on, Nick. You know Mama’s been cooking all day. She’s made all your favorite foods.”

  “It’s important, Mike.”

  His brother sighed, then nodded. “All right. I’m sure she’ll understand. See you later.” He rolled the window up as he drove away.

  His comment about their mother made Nick feel guilty. No doubt she would understand. Since he’d made detective eight years ago, business had always come first with him. She didn’t approve — didn’t believe that a man should let a job be more important to him than his family — but she understood.

  But this business tonight wasn’t business at all. It was personal. But if he tried hard enough, he could make it business. He could keep his emotions out of it. He could hide the sick feeling of doom that was already settling in his stomach. He could be very logical, very reasonable and detached. And he could find some way — besides the obvious — of resolving this problem.

  His truck was warm, the heater blowing on high, when he returned to it. He fastened his seat belt, then made a left turn. Lee Street was a couple of blocks over from Main, and the four hundred block of Sycamore was a mile or so north. Pulling up to the stop sign at the intersection of the two streets, he sat for a moment and simply stared at 411.

  He’d been right. It was definitely the house where the engagement party had been held. He had come late, and the broad curving driveway had been filled with cars. He had parked on the street at the opposite end of the block and walked to the house through the cold and a light layer of snow. His entire family had been there when he’d arrived, along with every old friend he’d had in high school, all of Michelle’s family, people he’d known growing up and plenty of strangers. He had been introduced to so many people by the time Michelle’s nephews had offered him the first cup of spiked punch that he’d lost track of them all.

  What man in his right mind could forget meeting a woman like Faith Harper? But he had already established that he hadn’t been in his right mind. After those few drinks, he had been drunker than he could remember ever being, and he had paid for it the rest of the weekend with one hellacious hangover. It had been almost enough to make him swear off booze for the rest of his life.

  If his fears were on target, he might be paying for those few drinks for much longer than one weekend. He might spend the rest of his life paying for his sins.

  The tap of a horn behind him made him realize how long he’d been sitting there. He crossed the intersection and continued down Lee, then, after a few blocks, turned to the right, again to the right and back down to Sycamore. This time he parked in front of the house.

  It was a big place for a woman all alone...but maybe she didn’t live alone. Maybe she was married after all. So what if she hadn’t worn a wedding ring? She was pregnant—pregnant women had problems with swelling and weight gain. Maybe the wedding band didn’t fit anymore.

  But he didn’t think she had a husband tucked inside. He had nothing to base the presumption on, just instinct... and he had good instincts. That was part of what made him such a good cop.

  There was a car parked in the driveway and lights on inside — in several rooms on the first floor and upstairs. He wondered what she was doing that required such illumination, wondered if all those empty rooms ever bothered her, if she ever wished for the security of a compact, easily secured apartment or condo like his in Houston. In this white elephant of a house, he could count three sets of French doors in addition to the main entrance, countless ground-floor windows, trellises leading to the porch roof and plenty of other windows above, and that was only from the front.

  After a time, he got out of the truck and shoved the door shut. It sounded loud on the quiet street. There was a gate in the iron fence just a few steps away and a brick path that led across the lawn to the driveway and the porch beyond. He listened to his boots echo on the brick, the sound slowing the closer he drew to the house. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to see her again, didn’t want to ask the questions that he had to ask, and he damned well didn’t want to hear the answers he fully expected her to give. He wanted to turn around, get in his truck and drive all the way back to Houston. He wanted to exorcise those dreams, forget those blue eyes, wipe all record of today from his memory as thoroughly as the alcohol had erased that February night. He wanted to return tomorrow, once again blissfully unaware of Faith Harper’s existence, to spend the holiday with his family. He wanted to attend Michael’s wedding on Saturday and leave again without any obligations, without any responsibilities following him back home.

  But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t stop the dreams or forget those eyes. He’d been trying for months. He couldn’t forget today, either, and as long as he had even the slightest suspicion, even the slightest doubt, he couldn’t face his family.

  Hell, he wouldn’t even be able to face himself if he left here without knowing — and once knowing, if he left without doing something. Without accepting those obligations and responsibilities the way his father had taught him.

  Crossing the porch, he rang the doorbell, then waited impatiently. Resisting the urge to ring it again only seconds later, he shoved his hands into his pockets to warm them. To hide the fists they immediately clenched into.

  Through the frosted sidelight, he watched a shadow approach. A moment later the lock clicked and the door slowly opened inward. Faith Harper stood there, one hand on the cut-crystal knob, the other gripping the wooden door as she frowned at him. Unable to form the important questions into words, he asked the first unimportant one that came to mind. “What kind of idiot gives her cash deposit to a stranger and tells him to take it to the bank while she goes home?”

  She tilted her head back until those damnably blue eyes were locked with his, and she offered him a cool smile. “You may not know me, but I know you. You’re a cop in Houston. You’re Assistant District Attorney Michael Russo’s brother. Most importantly, you’re Antonio Russo’s son. If you can’t be trusted with a few dollars’ cash, who can?”

  She had a good point. M
ost importantly, he was Antonio Russo’s son, and Antonio Russo’s son didn’t steal. He didn’t cheat, he didn’t lie — except in the course of his job—and he didn’t shirk his responsibilities. Antonio’s son couldn’t simply go back to Houston and forget her. Antonio’s son had to ask the difficult questions, and he had to live with the unwelcome answers.

  He exhaled heavily, then grudgingly asked, “Can I come in?”

  “Why?”

  “There are some things I need to know.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at something out of his line of sight, then back at him. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Are you alone?”

  Her answer came after a brief hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Are you expecting a husband home soon?”

  “No. There’s no husband.” She waited a moment, then continued. “What? No shock? But of course not. You live in the big city of Houston. You people down there aren’t as easily shocked as the small-town minds of New Hope.” After another brief silence, she stepped back, opened the door wider, and gestured for him to come into a foyer cluttered with cardboard and parts of a crib.

  As she closed the door, Nick edged the box back a few inches with his foot, then took a long look around — at the stairs that made a long, straight journey to the second floor, at the living room on the right, the study opening on the left and the family room straight back. He remembered this place from February. It had been filled with people — every room on the first floor and spilling outside in huddled groups, smokers on the front porch, drinkers out back. There had been such a crowd that, when he’d felt the first real punch from the doctored fruit drink, he’d had to look long and hard to find a quiet, cool place where he could sit down, be alone and draw a breath for the first time all evening.