Forbidden Son

by Loretta C. Rogers

  “The years slipped away, and now you’re on the cusp of becoming an adult.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess I thought I could keep from you forever the fact that Senator Tripp Hartwell is your father.”

  The way JT looked at her, his silence, the two bright red spots on his cheeks, Honey Belle steeled herself for an outburst. “I get it now. This is the reason you didn’t want me to go to D.C. Not because of the articles you read about some House Representative molesting a couple of junior pages, no. It was because you were afraid I’d meet Senator Hartwell, and we’d both figure out the truth.”

  A jolt of sick numbness surged through Honey Belle. “I started to tell you so many times.”

  His reply was stony. “Yeah, right. So, let’s choose a fast-food parking lot to tell poor JT a sordid story. Does your conscience feel better, Mom?”

  Honey Belle’s gasp turned to anger. “How could you even think such a thing? You know I’m not that kind of person. I took no pleasure in this. It’s been tearing me apart all these years.”

  He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “Yeah, like finding out I’m the bastard son of a rich senator is supposed to make me feel better? Big whoop, Mom.”

  “That’s unfair.” Tears streamed down Honey Belle’s face.

  JT pivoted toward the door handle. The scrapbook slid from his lap to the floorboard. The door swung open and he propelled out of the car.

  She hated the frantic tone in her voice. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Away…from you.”

  “JT!”

  Honey Belle swung her door open. She raced around the front of the car, banging her knee on the corner of the front bumper. She grimaced in pain. She lunged to grab her son’s arm as he headed toward the highway.

  “JT, I’ve…I’ve messed up. I know this. Please, honey, get back in the car. You don’t have to talk to me. You can hate me, if that will make you feel better. Just, please, running away isn’t the answer.”

  She tried to form a prayer, but the words in her mind were all jumbled up. “I deserve your anger, JT.”

  He looked at her. The emotional turmoil in his young face twisted her heart. “All this time, Mom, you let me believe I was the son of a war hero. What will my friends think when they find out I’m really an illegitimate bastard?”

  That question jarred Honey Belle to the core. Her eyes held her son’s. She hoped he saw the understanding and compassion. “First of all, you are not a bastard. You are my son. Secondly, your father is a war hero. Even you said he’s a great man. As for your friends, nothing has changed…not really. You are still the same person you were when you were born…the same as eight weeks ago…the same person as five minutes ago. Who’s to tell your friends? Certainly not me.”

  JT nodded. “Yes, but—”

  Honey Belle risked wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight. “Right now you feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Well, guess what, kiddo, I understand. More than you know.”

  JT blurted out, “I don’t know if I can deal with this.”

  Honey Belle held him at arms’ length, still afraid to relinquish her hold. “Remember when you were a little boy and had nightmares, and when you broke your arm, and when your puppy got run over, who was there to soothe away the fear and the hurt?”

  JT looked at his mother as if a light had dawned in his numb brain. “You, Mom. You and Aunt Tess. But…but this is different.”

  “We all make mistakes. Mine was running away instead of trusting the man I loved would care for me no matter what side of the railroad tracks I was born on. Everyone deserves a second chance, JT. One day you may find you’ll need a second chance, too.” She brushed a hand over his hair. “Okay if we go home now?”

  He looked down at the purpling bruise on his mother’s knee. “I’m sorry I made you hurt yourself, Mom.”

  Honey Belle let out a breath of relief. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go.”

  She waited for him to shut the car door before she turned the ignition key. With a deep sigh, she suppressed a smile when JT reached down, picked up the scrapbook from the floorboard, and opened it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Whenever he came back to Charleston, Tripp experienced a feeling of excitement. No matter how long he had been absent, be it months on end, a week, or merely a few days, he returned with a sense of well being inside, the knowledge he was coming home.

  Tonight was no exception.

  His anticipation started the moment he nosed the rental car between the massive twin oaks that marked the entrance to his family’s house.

  Tripp drove slowly. Peering out the window at the azaleas, he couldn’t help thinking of his mother and how much she had loved her flowers.

  Seventeen years ago he had been only twenty-three, so long ago, and yet it might have been yesterday, the memory was so clear in his mind of the evening he had told his parents about Honey Belle and his intention of marrying her.

  Casting his mind back now, he pictured her as she had been then—tall, skinny, legs like a young colt. Yet pretty, in a fresh sort of way. She had been full of life and vitality. He had taken to her at once. And so he had experienced an extraordinary relationship with a vivacious young woman, a relationship that had lasted all of one summer.

  You meet thousands of people, and then you meet just one, he thought, and your life is changed forever.

  He straightened in his seat as the house came into view. One lone window was lit. He had barely braked when bright light flooded the front porch.

  Moments later Blanch Milford, his father’s nurse, opened the door. “Welcome home, Senator. How is your father?”

  Tripp gave her the shortened version of his father’s condition. “He’s resting. We anticipate the doctor will keep him in the hospital a few more days.”

  “Until then, will you need my services?”

  “Starting tomorrow, take the week off, Mrs. Milford. Feel free to remain in your quarters until we know more about my father’s long-term prognosis.”

  “Very well, Senator. I wasn’t sure if you had taken time to eat. I baked a ham and made potato salad for you. Oh, and there’s grilled peaches topped with fresh mint. It was one of your father’s favorites. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself.”

  Tripp went into the kitchen, removed a glass from the cabinet, and added ice. Inside the walk-in pantry, he found a bottle of Stolichnaya Cristal and filled the glass with a good measure of his father’s favorite vodka.

  Once he’d made his drink, he went to the parlor, glancing around as he strolled to the large fireplace. The weather was too hot for a fire. The room had been his mother’s favorite, its blue carpet, blue velvet sofas, and tub chairs covered in blue floral and cream linen giving it a homey, comforting feeling. This was further enhanced by blue brocade curtains at the leaded windows, the polished mahogany paneled walls, and the blue shades on the wall sconces. It was a slightly masculine room.

  Facing the empty corner next to the fireplace, he envisioned the brightly decorated blue spruce with barely enough room to place the Christmas angel on top without it touching the high ceiling.

  He had wanted to add to his memories. He’d wanted to watch his child and his wife place an angel on top of the tree as had he and his mother. Yet Kathryn had hated this room. Garishly boring, she had called it.

  Thanks to his father’s malevolent interference, Tripp had missed the opportunity to form those traditions with young Jack Tripp Garrett.

  His musings were interrupted when his uncle entered and walked rapidly to the bar. “Got another one of those?”

  “Kitchen. Hungry?” Tripp explained about the ham and the potato salad.

  “Beats the hell out of hospital cafeteria food.”

  Settled at the kitchen table, Jake said, “Guess my brother’s confession comes as a shock to both of us. Before I honor the codicil, are you one hundred percent certain this boy sprang from your loins?”

  “
Give me a second and I’ll let you answer your own question.” Tripp placed his half-eaten sandwich on his plate and sprinted to the parlor. He lifted the suit jacket where he’d draped it over one of the tub chairs and in two shakes was back in the kitchen.

  He laid the photograph in front of his uncle. “You tell me, Uncle Jake.”

  Jake Hartwell stared at the image that could have passed for his nephew’s twin—if he’d had one. He wiped his hand on the linen napkin across his lap. As if picking up a piece of evidence, he held the picture at one corner with his thumb and forefinger. He turned the picture over. “Jack Tripp Garrett, Valdosta High School, 1980.”

  Tripp saw the calculator working in his uncle’s brain as he did the math. “The boy was born in 1964.”

  “May 24th, to be exact.”

  Jake Hartwell lifted an eyebrow. “Your birthday.”

  Tripp nodded.

  “What are your intentions?”

  Tripp let out a small sigh. Taking his glass with him, he rose and walked to the bank of windows overlooking the garden. He stood staring out at the view for a few minutes.

  Finally, when he swung around, he said, “I’m going to do what I should have done seventeen years ago. There’s no excuse why I didn’t search hard enough for her, Uncle Jake. I lost Honey Belle once. I’m not going to lose her again. I only hope she’ll have me.”

  “The boy is sixteen. Young men that age tend to be protective of their mothers and resentful of intruders. You might want to treat this as if you were walking through a mine field.”

  Tripp turned up the glass and swallowed the last of the vodka. “Honor the codicil, Uncle Jake. My father owes his grandson that much.”

  ****

  The insistent ringing of the telephone awakened Honey Belle with a start. As she jumped up to answer it, she realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Honey Belle Garrett?”

  She blinked against the sleep-haze film covering her eyes. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was six o’clock. No one called this early on a Saturday morning.

  It surprised her that she had spent the entire night on the couch without waking up once. She must have been extremely tired. On the other hand, the big overstuffed sofa was as comfortable as her bed upstairs.

  She coughed to clear the rasp from her throat. “Who is this?”

  “It’s…Tripp Hartwell. Honey Belle?”

  “Do you realize what time it is?” Idiot, stupid thing to say, she berated herself. “Why are you calling?”

  “I’m here in Valdosta. I’d like to see JT, and you. It’s important.”

  Afraid she was still asleep and dreaming, Honey Belle gripped the phone.

  Tripp broke the silence. “I know it’s early. I thought telephoning was better than showing up on your doorstep. How about it—may I come to your house?”

  Deeply torn, Honey Belle set her concerns aside. “Yes, of course. I’ll make breakfast. Do you need directions?”

  His chuckle filtered through the phone lines. “There are certain advantages to knowing the Secret Service. Is eight-thirty too soon?”

  She closed her eyes. Behind her lids she could see his face. She remembered what had gone through her mind that day on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial as she had stared back at him, held in the grip of his mesmeric gaze.

  Such a beautiful face for a man, she had thought, such a sensitive mouth, and those extraordinary eyes…such a lovely blue, like bits of sky, she had thought then.

  Breakfast was the least thing on her mind when she asked, “How do you like your eggs?”

  ****

  “Bogus, Mom. Senator Hartwell is coming here, to our house? Why?”

  “I should think it’s pretty obvious, JT. He wants to know his son. Are you okay with that?”

  “It’s weird. I mean, after reading all the articles and stuff about him in the scrapbook… Sure, I guess it’s okay.”

  “You won’t be rude?”

  “You mean like putting a garter snake in his coat pocket?”

  Honey Belle joined her son in raucous laughter at her son’s childish Halloween prank when he disapproved of the man who had come to pick her up for a date. “Poor Mr. Ridley. You scared him bald-headed.”

  JT managed to contain his laughter. “He was already bald.”

  She sobered. “I don’t think Tripp Hartwell is the type who scares easily.”

  Her son’s knitted brow brought the usual motherly concerns. “Okay, kiddo, spit it. What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey, we don’t play those games, remember?”

  “Do you think he really tried to find you? I mean really seriously.”

  Honey Belle moved between the gas stove and the countertop next to the sink, washing pots and spoons as she dirtied them.

  “It’s a fair question. The senator is an honest man. If he says he did, then all we can do is believe he’s telling the truth.”

  “He asked you to marry him once—do you think he will again?”

  Startled, Honey Belle gaped at him. “No, absolutely not.”

  JT said, “What if he did ask you?”

  “This is silly.” She wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist, then cupped JT’s cheeks. “He’s coming to see you, not me.”

  “But would you say, yes, if he did?” JT pressed.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t I know? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Honey Belle lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I just don’t, is all. It would be a big step for me to take, it would mean rearranging my life completely…and yours. Besides, aren’t you jumping to an awful lot of conclusions?”

  “So what. Ever since you told me about you and the senator, when you were young, and what his old man did to keep you apart, I’ve given it a lot of thought. If the senator asks, I think you should marry him.”

  “I’m not discussing this any further, JT.” She pointed a finger at him. “This subject is no longer open for discussion. Hear me? Closed.”

  She could feel her close ties to JT stretching. In nine months he would graduate high school and then go off to college. As much as she refused to admit it, he didn’t need her as much these days, and with Tripp entering their lives her maternal instincts were all mixed up. She felt as if she were losing control of her life.

  JT snapped his fingers in front of Honey Belle’s face. “Mom, you zoned out. If you’re worried about me pulling a blind side on the senator, don’t.” He crossed his heart and said, “Scout’s honor.” He reached around her to sneak a strip of bacon.

  She playfully cuffed his shoulder. “Go set the table.”

  Lately, Tripp was seldom out of her thoughts. Frowning at that admission, she dropped a spoonful of butter into the grits and gave a vigorous stir.

  Marriage. Where had JT come up with such an idea? Somehow she couldn’t get their discussion out of her head. It would mean leaving Georgia, her job, and all she’d grown to love.

  Right now she wished Tess were here to lend moral support, instead of off attending a nurse’s retreat in North Carolina.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tripp needed to see Honey Belle. The sky looked low and bruised. Black thunderheads gathered against the darkening sky. Dense and full-bellied, they threatened the type of summer storm common in the south—intense rain for twenty minutes, then bright clear skies.

  He turned into the driveway.

  Instead of getting out immediately, he cut the motor and stared at the two-story white house surrounded by tall pine trees and low, neatly trimmed boxwood shrubs. The house and yard looked peaceful and serene. Like a picture on a postcard.

  He stepped out of the Lincoln Town Car, unsure of his next step, except that it had to be taken. Waiting for the ideal moment was no longer an option.

  It felt good to wear comfortable faded jeans and a golfing sh
irt—regular clothes. Despite his position in life, he liked to think of himself as a regular guy.

  How did one converse with a sixteen-year-old? He tried to recall what he was like at the age of sixteen. What was it Honey Belle had said? Oh, yes. JT excelled in sports. Tripp couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually watched a football game on television.

  He’d faced a lot of fear in his life—Vietnam, the loss of his leg. Today was no exception. He actually feared the reaction he’d receive from his sixteen-year-old son.

  He found Honey Belle waiting when he got to the house. Apparently, she was anxious to get this meeting over with. She looked pale, carved out of ice. She greeted him with just about the same level of warmth.

  ****

  Honey Belle couldn’t deny the thought of seeing Tripp again left an aching emptiness in her heart. Watching him get out of the car and cross over the sidewalk, she wanted him to go away, she wanted him to stay. In all honesty, she didn’t know what she wanted but suspected it was about six-foot-two, chisel-featured, fair haired, blue-eyed, tanned. So quick and sprightly and energetic. Full of good humor, tall tales, laughter, and life. No wonder she had fallen in love with him instantly, the first day she had set eyes on him.

  So long ago now.

  In his faded blue jeans and a pale blue golfing shirt, he cut a crisp stride up the walk. Even with his prosthetic leg, she’d never seen him take an awkward step. Something was wrong. He stopped in the shade of the magnolia tree. His eyes shadowed with determination.

  He appeared nervous—unsure—his shoulders tense—his body stiff. Apparently this wasn’t easy for him either, which brought some comfort. And he didn’t look any happier than she felt.

  This morning, he’d said they had to talk. What if he tried to take JT away from her? No, JT was old enough to make his own decisions. Like all sixteen-year-olds, he wanted a car, a dune buggy, a telephone in his room, his own personal television. All the toys every kid desired. In her heart, she trusted her son wasn’t so shallow that he would cave in to the lure of money and expensive gifts.

  Until this moment, she’d hoped for a reprieve. There was none. No masked man wearing a black cape, riding up on his magnificent black stallion to rescue her. There was only Tripp, and he didn’t look any happier than she felt. Where was Zorro when she needed him?