The Man Who Would Be Daddy

by Marie Ferrarella

  He hadn’t allowed for Christa in his schedule.

  Battery reconnected, Malcolm straightened and flexed the cramped muscles in his shoulders and neck. He sighed. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

  “And I won’t be finished,” he added for her benefit. “At least, not tonight.”

  He began to wipe his hands on the back of his jeans. Christa offered him a towel that looked much too clean to handle the grease he’d accumulated.

  He declined the towel. “It’ll get dirty.”

  She pushed the small kitchen towel into his hands. “It’s a towel. Getting dirty is its job.”

  With a shake of his head, he took it, cleaning off the dirt as best he could. It wasn’t enough. What he needed was some good industrial hand soap, he thought.

  Giving her back the towel, Malcolm glanced at the pile of cracked, worn hoses that lay like a rubber funeral pyre on the curb. By all rights, her van should have died a long time ago.

  “I can’t figure how your van kept going all this time.”

  She smiled at him brightly, as guilelessly as her daughter had. It had the same effect on him.

  “I guess my luck held up, at least in this department.” She patted the side of the hood as if the vehicle were a pet instead of just metal and rubber bumpers. “If this had died in the desert—”

  Malcolm stared at her in disbelief. Talk about being foolhardy. How could she have risked something like that? Only an idiot would have taken an old vehicle like this on an extended trip without checking it out first. “You took it to the desert?”

  He made it sound as if she’d committed a cardinal sin. “Only way to get here from Las Vegas unless you’re flying.” Her mouth quirked. “And it’s hard to pack all your possessions into the overhead luggage rack.” A rueful smile blossomed. “Although, I have to admit that I didn’t have all that much more to transport. Mostly Robin’s things.”

  She was giving him much more information than he wanted. And yet it sparked a desire for more.

  He squelched it.

  But it was hard to make idle conversation without asking some questions. Malcolm surrendered. “So you moved here recently?”

  Around them, crickets were engaged in a concert. The chirping sounded like a serenade. With the darkness enveloping them, the evening became warmly intimate. Malcolm tried to ignore that.

  She nodded. “Three weeks ago. I stayed with my father until I could find a place for us.” She turned to look at him. “I’m divorced.”

  She said it as if she were a veteran of a war. Turning from her, Malcolm scooped up the worn hoses he’d removed from her car and dumped them into his car. “I didn’t ask.”

  Christa followed him. “I know. I just like saying it.”

  Malcolm looked at her over his shoulder, waiting for an explanation. She didn’t hesitate in giving it.

  “Shows that even I know when I’ve made a mistake.” She tucked her thumbs through the belt loops of her shorts and rocked on the balls of her bare feet. “Tyler says I always hang on, no matter what, even when I’m wrong. But even I knew that I had made a mistake marrying Jim.”

  She had resisted admitting it to herself for a long time. It had taken her a while to realize that admitting that her marriage was a mistake didn’t necessarily mean that everything about it had been. If she hadn’t married Jim, she would have never had Robin. And Robin represented the best part of her life.

  “We all make mistakes,” he muttered, shutting his toolbox and snapping the lock into place. He wanted no part of her personal life. The less he knew, the more distant he could remain. “Yours was not getting this van serviced on a regular basis.”

  Her mouth curved again. This time, he noticed that the amusement didn’t reach her eyes. “I had what you might call a cash-flow problem. I earned the cash, and it would flow right through Jim’s hands.”

  “A gambler,” Malcolm guessed, putting two and two together.

  Christa raised her voice to be heard above the thud of his toolbox landing on the floorboards. “With a capital G.”

  Malcolm shut the door. He was getting ready to leave, she thought. She wanted him to remain at least for a little while. Though he was uncommunicative, there was something comforting about having him around. She liked talking to him.

  “That’s how I knew who you were,” she said.

  Malcolm raised his eyes to her face sharply.

  “Oh, not at first,” she explained quickly, “not even after your brilliant display of driving skills. Not even after I saw you,” she admitted. “It was your name.”

  “My name?” His success had earned him some notoriety, but nothing on a large scale.

  She nodded. “On the sign at your garage. Jim bet on you once. The big race at Laguna. You made him rich.” She remembered the excitement. Jim had been so sure his luck had finally changed. “For a week or so.”

  Malcolm recalled the race. It was the last one he entered. “He bet on me?”

  Christa laughed lightly at the surprise she detected in his voice. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he had known her husband.

  “Jim bet on everything and anything.” Her expression sobered slightly. “Except our marriage. That, he just gambled on. And lost.

  “Hungry?” she asked brightly, changing topics as sharply and cleanly as he changed lanes during practice.

  “No,” he lied.

  His belly was empty, but he had gotten accustomed to that sort of feeling. It was the other emptiness that he couldn’t find a way to deal with.

  Christa refused to believe him. “You have to be,” she insisted, brooking no argument. “And I’ve got a meal that can be eaten hot or cold.” She’d made fried chicken, prepared for all contingencies and any excuse. She raised her eyes hopefully to his face. “Please?”

  He should have said no, he thought as he followed her inside. He really should have.

  But the warm glow coming from the open door beckoned to him. It was too much to resist.

  Chapter Five

  It definitely wasn’t what he’d expected.

  If Malcolm had stopped to try to envision the type of house someone like Christa would live in, he would have placed her in one filled with knickknacks that were overflowing from strategically placed tables and shelves.

  Instead, the house was as barren as the site of a freshly perpetrated major burglary.

  There was not a sofa or recliner in the tiny living room. Rather, there were three lawn chairs, all mismatched. They were arranged around a coffee table that appeared to be listing to one side. The only thing that looked to be even mildly new was the small TV set, and it was actually standing on an orange crate.

  Christa glanced at Malcolm as she led the way to the kitchen, curious about his reaction. His expression was impassive, but there was a hint of surprise in his eyes—as well there should be, she mused. The furnishings were Spartan even by a monk’s standards.

  He could feel her looking at him and knew she was probably waiting for him to comment.

  “Eclectic,” he murmured.

  Well, at least he was polite. It touched her.

  “Borrowed,” she corrected.

  The kitchen had a far sturdier table, freshly removed from her father’s garage, where it had previously been used to accommodate old newspapers. The four chairs surrounding it were of the folding variety, compliments of her other brother, Ethan. Weekly poker games at his house had been temporarily adjourned to another location.

  She gestured Malcolm to one of the chairs as she opened the small refrigerator.

  “There wasn’t exactly money to burn when I left Jim,” she said, answering the silent question she was certain was crossing his mind. “We lived in a furnished apartment. He didn’t want to ‘waste money’ on anything he couldn’t hock.” And she had gone along with that, at least for a while. It still amazed her what a person could overlook in the name of love.

  “The dining room—” she nodded at the tiny alcove they’d passed “
—doesn’t have a table yet. We’ll eat here,” she added needlessly. Taking out the platter of fried chicken she’d prepared earlier, she placed it in the middle of the table. Her mouth quirked in the slightly slanted smile he was beginning to anticipate as she took put two plates, one for each of them. “At least this table doesn’t take a bow every time you put something on it.” Taking a seat opposite Malcolm, she nodded toward the living room. “Ethan’s old coffee table does tricks.”

  It had collapsed under the weight of the TV Guide yesterday. Wood glue and a folded playing card under one of the legs temporarily remedied the situation. Christa couldn’t wait to buy real furniture again. But that might not be anytime soon.

  “Ethan?”

  She moved a napkin beside the plates. “My other brother. He’s a cop, too.” Ethan had been the last to join the force, following his heart rather than his now-ex-wife’s protests. A motorcycle policeman with the highway patrol, he claimed his work made him happier than his ex-wife had. “Like my dad was before him.”

  Malcolm wondered how a gambler had managed to infiltrate a house full of policemen long enough to whisk her away, and then told himself he wasn’t interested. Not his business what she did or why. It occurred to him that it wasn’t the first time he had thought that, and each time, his conviction had slipped a half notch.

  The pause in conversation felt uncomfortable. Malcolm nodded vaguely at the information she offered. “Must make you feel safe.”

  She laughed. She’d never really thought about it, except perhaps in terms of rebellion. She’d had three authority figures to pit herself against instead of just one. Her mother, bless her, had always been on her side, even when, Christa suspected, the older woman had known she was wrong.

  “Still didn’t keep me from making mistakes,” Christa mused out loud.

  Their eyes met for a moment. He was getting in too close again. Malcolm placed his hands against the table, ready to push himself away. He felt no resistance and decided that perhaps pushing the table wouldn’t be the wisest thing.

  Neither was coming inside the condo.

  “It’s late. I really should be going.”

  There was something in his manner that told her he didn’t want to leave, even if he said so. Without thinking, she laid her hand over his.

  “At least let me repay one kindness with another.” Laughter entered her eyes.

  Funny how easily and frequently that seemed to happen, he thought, especially under the circumstances.

  “Although,” she continued, “you might not think so after you have some of my chicken.” She’d never developed her mother’s knack for cooking. Or her father’s, for .that matter. “You probably fix cars a lot better than I can cook.”

  Another woman would have snowed him with her culinary abilities to make him stay. Christa won him over with her honesty. Relenting, Malcolm reached for a piece of chicken.

  “You don’t exactly build a winning argument for yourself, do you?”

  A small feeling of triumph budded within her. “Oh, I don’t know. Now you feel bound to stay and sample, just to make me feel better.”

  Malcolm shook his head before bothering to take a bite. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  She cocked her head, looking, he thought, incredibly like her daughter had just before she’d patted his face. There was something innocently captivating about both of them.

  “About what?”

  “About you being calculating.” He took a bite and then another.

  The single approving nod made satisfaction flower and spread within her.

  She raised her hands in surrender. “Ah, well, you found me out. After living with a gambler for five years, figuring out odds and angles just becomes second nature to you.”

  As did unfounded hope, she added silently. Except hers was always centered around people, not on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel.

  The fried chicken legs were small. He reached for another, their tangy flavor wrapping around his taste buds and urging him on. He’d had only a fast-food hamburger for lunch. And enough coffee to float a battleship.

  His thoughts reverted to the woman sitting opposite him. “Did you gamble, too?”

  She shook her head adamantly. Watching Jim destroy himself had been lesson enough for her, not that she had ever been inclined to pit herself against Lady Luck. “Not even at Monopoly.”

  He raised his eyes to her face. Her mouth was curved, but she was deadly serious. Must have been burned bad, he decided.

  She didn’t want to talk about the negative part of her life. She wanted to learn something about him.

  “Enough about me.” Toying with the remainder of the chicken breast on her own plate, Christa looked at him. Her curiosity was almost tangible. “Let’s talk about you.”

  His eyes remained on his plate as he slowly wiped his fingers. “Let’s not.”

  It was a softly issued order, but she blatantly ignored it as if it had never been uttered. “You were a racer,” she began.

  They had already established that. “Yes.”

  She knew next to nothing about the world of sports, except that it had afforded Jim yet another avenue in which to lose his money. “Were you any good at it? Besides the Laguna race, I mean?”

  The simplicity of her question amused him. It was obvious that she had never followed the sport, which was just as well. The last thing he needed was a nostalgic groupie. He had shaken off more than his share during the ten years he’d raced.

  He shrugged. “A fair amount of success.” It had been a hell of a lot more than that, but he didn’t see the need or the purpose to mention it. It had never been in his nature to brag, and besides, it was all old ground now. As far behind him as if it had never happened.

  She didn’t understand. Doing something for a living that you loved and were good at was the ultimate dream come true. “If you were good at it, why did you stop?”

  He avoided her eyes. He definitely wasn’t going to go .into that. “Reflexes got slow.”

  He was lying to her. There was another reason. She crossed the line of polite hostess and entered dangerous ground as she probed. “Not the way Tyler told me you were driving today. You obviously love cars—”

  “And you obviously love asking questions,” he said, cutting her off, the smile on his lips cold, without feeling.

  She conceded the point easily. “Yes, I do. It’s the only way to learn about people.”

  He pushed back his plate, his eyes challenging her, warning her that it was dangerous to continue. “What if they don’t want to be learned about? What if they want things to be kept private?”

  She knew what he was saying. But something deep within her told her that he was lonely. That he needed a friend as much as she had needed one once. Maybe more.

  “I don’t gossip, if that’s what you mean,” she told him quietly. Christa leaned forward, her eyes kind, intense. “I’d like to be friends.”

  Malcolm leaned away from her, away from the hand she was figuratively offering him. “I have enough friends. You are a customer.”

  The rebuff was almost physical. It took her a moment to recover.

  Christa blew out a long breath as she shook her head to clear it. “Well, that certainly puts me in my place, doesn’t it?”

  It was a quip, but there was hurt in her eyes. Something akin to guilt burrowed through him, pushing its way forward. It was her own fault, damn it. “I didn’t mean—”

  Her smile was quick, bathing him in redemption. He realized that he didn’t begin to understand her.

  “Yes, you did, but that’s okay. Fortunately for you, I have a hide like a rhino.” Avoiding his eyes, she urged another piece of chicken onto his plate. Her own remained bare, save for the bones of the one breast. “That’s a prerequisite to having lived the kind of life I’ve lived. Reflexes aren’t necessary, tough skin is.” Her smile was a little tight, but she worked on it.

  Christa rose. “Can I offer you something to drink?” Sh
e reached for two glasses in the cupboard before he answered.

  Tough skin or not, he’d hurt her feelings and he hadn’t really meant to. He had just wanted her to back off. He didn’t talk about himself or what had made him forever turn his back on racing. Not with any of the people he had once called friends and certainly not with a stranger. Even an appealing one who had a tendency to ramble.

  Still, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. From what she had told him, it sounded as if she’d gone through enough as it was.

  “A cola if you have it. Water if you don’t.”

  “As luck would have it, I have a couple of cans of diet cola left.”

  She bent over, searching for one of them in the refrigerator. He allowed himself a moment to admire the view before she straightened. Legs like that didn’t happen except in a man’s fantasy, he thought.

  Their eyes met again. There was amusement in hers.

  Malcolm looked for something to say. “What made you come back here?”

  That was an easy one. “My family was here. We’d all grown up in Bedford—my brothers and I,” she clarified. “I can remember when this was a three-traffic-light city and the main thoroughfare was a two-lane road.” Nostalgia flitted over her face. “It was the happiest time of my life.”

  And she wished she could go back. Her father had run a strict household, but there was never any question that they were all loved, all secure. She’d never known about insecurity until she had married Jim. Then nothing was secure except insecurity.

  Popping the tab on the can of soda, she placed it in front of him. “You?”

  He thought of the conscious choice he’d made after a great deal of looking around and reading. He’d become satisfied that Bedford was the best place to raise Sally, a good, clean city where crime meant carelessly dropping a gum wrapper on the street and the school system was one of the best in the country.

  “Just someplace I drifted to.”

  He didn’t strike her as the type to drift. Unless there was a reason to make him.

  “After your wife died?” The sharp look in his eyes simultaneously warned her off and told her she had guessed right.

  It was simpler to lie. “Yes.” He was talking too much, ‘he admonished himself. Saying things he had no intention of saying or sharing.