Jenny tensed. She didn't want to answer him, but what was the point of lying? He would find out sooner or later. "Danny went to see his father."
"His father?"
"That's right."
Alan swallowed hard, biting back words that would surely have held criticism. She could see it in his eyes. "Did he see him?" Alan asked finally.
"I have no idea."
"Maybe one of us should talk to this guy."
"Why? He wasn't driving the car that hit Danny."
"You don't know that."
"Actually I do. I saw him standing in his living room about twenty minutes before I found Danny on the street."
Alan looked at her in amazement. "You went to his house? What did he say? What did you say?"
"I didn't speak to him."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't."
"Jennifer. What the hell is going on?"
His demand cut through her last remaining thread of control. "I'll tell you what's going on. My son is hurt. He might even be dying, and you're standing here shouting at me about Luke Sheridan. I don't give a damn about Luke. I don't want to see him. I don't want to talk to him. And right now I don't want to talk to you either."
"Jenny, wait. I'm sorry," Alan shouted, but Jenny didn't stop. She felt angry, out of control, and deep down inside absolutely terrified.
Alan slammed his fist against the wall. He wanted to hurt someone, make someone pay for the pain they were all experiencing, and damned if it wouldn't give him pleasure to knock Luke Sheridan's head against the wall.
Chapter Seven
Luke ran faster until his breath came in gasps, and his hair began to drip from the morning dew and his own sweat. The pavement beneath his feet was rocky, uneven, as he pushed himself up one hill, then down another.
The relentless pace prohibited him from thinking. If he could run fast enough, maybe he could escape his thoughts, his memories of Jenny, his hallucinations that made no sense.
The street in front of him turned and twisted. A dog came up on his heels, barking in delight.
Luke tried to shoo it away. The dog wouldn't leave him alone. Finally, completely out of breath, Luke slowed down and ended his run in front of the wrought-iron gates at the beginning of his driveway. The dog barked again.
Luke looked down at him, hoping for a collar. There was none. The dog looked like a mutt, a tiny little thing with crooked ears and a yapping voice. For some reason, it reminded him of Toto in the Wizard of Oz.
"Go away," Luke said.
The dog barked and ran between his legs. Luke stumbled over his small body.
"Come on, beat it."
The dog bit through his sock with sharp, pointed teeth. Luke yanked his foot away in irritation. The dog ran into the bushes next to the fence, drawing Luke's attention to a piece of ripped paper stuck on a branch.
Luke reached for it, instinctively sensing its importance.
"Daniel S." The name was written at the top, along with a grade marked in red pen, B-, and the comment that Danny could do better if he tried harder. The paper was the beginning of an essay on space travel in the twenty-first century. Luke read the unscientific, twelve-year-old philosophy with a deepening grin, disappointed when the paper ended in mid sentence.
He looked up, suddenly aware of the quiet. The dog had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. After a moment, Luke folded the paper carefully in his hand and walked into the house. He showered, dressed, and went back downstairs for breakfast.
When he got to the breakfast room, he picked up his glass of orange juice and drained it. He now felt awake, alert, in control of his body and his emotions. Yesterday had been an aberration in his highly organized life. Today, he would get back on track.
As soon as he finished breakfast, he would go to the office, bury himself in the details of his business and forget about the night before.
"Good morning, darling." Denise walked into the room, dressed in a Chanel linen suit with matching turquoise pumps. Her lips against his cheek were cool. Any thought he had of turning his mouth against hers disappeared as she moved quickly away. Luke realized in that instant that she was afraid of something, maybe his mood -- maybe something else.
He watched her slide into her chair and pour herself a cup of coffee. Denise didn't start the day without a shot of caffeine, usually more than one. After a few sips, her tension seemed to ease. He offered her a tentative smile.
"Better?"
"Better," she agreed, relaxing as he offered her a silent olive branch, which she gratefully accepted. "The party was a big success, don't you think?"
"It was all right."
"Your parents aren't up yet?"
"Are you kidding? My father's already on the golf course and my mother is having her hair done. She said something about not being able to find a decent salon in Carmel."
Denise set down her coffee cup, her mood turning serious. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
Luke tensed, not sure he wanted to hear what she was about to say.
"I'd like to make some changes around the house, but I don't want to upset your parents. After all, this was their home for thirty years."
Luke shrugged, feeling relieved that she hadn't brought up their discussion of the day before. "Do whatever you want, Denise. This is our home now. They have their own house to decorate."
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
There was a long silence that went on and on, moving from companionable to uncomfortable. It seemed as if he and Denise had little to say to each other anymore. Or maybe there were just too many subjects that were taboo between them.
"What are you going to do today?" Luke asked finally.
Denise took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down, leaving a perfect pink lipstick ring around the edge. "I thought I'd go shopping."
Shopping. How wonderful, Luke thought wryly. Another dent in his bank account. Not that there wasn't plenty to go around, but he would have thought his wife would have shopped herself to death by now.
"What are your plans?" Denise asked.
"Work."
Denise sighed at his curt tone. "You're not still angry ...
"No. What's the point?" He looked her straight in the eye and saw her flinch, but she drew her shoulders up and faced him proudly.
"You're right. There's no point in rehashing the past. Let's look to the future. We do have a bright future together, Luke. I can make you happy. You know I can."
Denise smiled seductively, but Luke felt nothing, the same nothingness he had felt the last few times they had made love. During the past year, sex had become more of a chore than a joy.
Instead of responding to Denise's smile, he picked up the newspaper. It was a cowardly way to respond, but all he was up to at the moment.
He skimmed through the articles, his mind wandering from topic to topic, nothing capturing his interest, until his gaze drifted down to the last column on the page. The title read Boy Hit, Left For Dead. The article went on to state that 12-year-old Danny St. Claire was crossing Tully Road in Half Moon Bay when he was struck by a hit-and-run driver. The boy was listed in critical condition. Witnesses were encouraged to contact the Half Moon Bay Police Department.
Luke caught his breath, rereading the words until they began to make sense. The name St. Claire stuck in his head, because it was Jenny's name. The fuzzy photograph of the boy, Danny, confirmed his worst fear. The boy on the step and the boy in his dream were one and the same, Danny St. Claire.
Jenny's son? His mind whirled with questions.
Of course, Jenny could have had a son in all these years, even a twelve-year-old son. He didn't remember the exact day they had parted. It was years ago. But even as Luke struggled with the implications, he remembered one word, one very important word -- Dad. The boy had called him Dad.
No. No. Luke shook his head. It was impossible. Jenny had had an abortion. She had taken his money. She had left him, pr
omising to take care of things.
"Is something wrong?" Denise asked.
He looked at her blankly, barely aware of her presence.
"Luke," she asked anxiously, "are you all right?"
Slowly he folded the newspaper, his hands shaking with the force of his emotions. A child. A son. It was entirely possible that he had a son.
A sense of joy flooded his body, immediately chased away by fear. Danny St. Claire had been hit by a car. Danny St. Claire was in critical condition. It was entirely possible that his son might die before he saw him.
Luke stood up abruptly. His chair fell over backward. Denise looked at him in shock. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, too filled with his own questions to even think of answering hers.
"Luke. You look like you've seen a ghost."
A ghost? He'd seen something all right. "I have to go. I'll see you later."
Luke grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter and sprinted through the door that led into the garage. He was in his black Mercedes, doing forty down Ralston Avenue when he realized that he had no idea where the hell he was going. A hospital obviously, but which one? Probably Peninsula, he decided.
Whatever -- he was going to hit every one until he found Danny. Luke had to know if he had a son.
Merrilee entered her son's bedroom and stared down at his sleeping form. William's hand was tucked up under his chin as he lay curled in a fetal position, the covers flung off his skinny body, goose bumps dotting the bare skin on his legs where his pajama bottoms had crept up to his knees.
With a tender hand, Merrilee pulled the comforter over William's body, catching her breath as he murmured something in his sleep, then drifted off again. He looked small, innocent. Only a year younger than Danny. She couldn't imagine what Jenny was going through right now, seeing her son in a hospital bed, knowing there was a chance that ...
No, she wouldn't think that way -- only positive thoughts.
Danny would be all right. He would recover. The family would get back to normal. Next week they'd share Thanksgiving turkey and thank God that Danny had survived. It would be another blessing to count.
"Merrilee?"
She turned to find her husband in the doorway.
"Yes?"
"I have to go to work," Richard said.
"It's Saturday."
"The Hardings are only here for the day. We're going to meet this morning, have lunch, sign the contract and put them on a plane by three. It's a big account for the agency. McAllister will have my head if I don't show."
Merrilee walked into the hall and shut the door to William's room. She stared at Richard in his finely cut charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, and red silk tie. His hair was a dark brown with edges of silver along his sideburns, his eyes a brilliant blue. He was the handsomest man she'd ever known. And he was her husband.
A sense of possessive pride filled her soul. He was hers. He belonged to her and William and Constance. No one else.
"I'll come to the hospital as soon as I can," Richard continued.
"All right."
Richard looked at her with concern and compassion, emotions that she hadn't seen in his eyes in a very long time.
"What have you told the kids?" he asked.
"Nothing yet."
"Nothing? You ran out of the house without a word?"
"I told them I needed to help Jenny. I gave them firm instructions to go to bed at nine. They were asleep when I got home." Merrilee reached out to straighten Richard's tie and fix his collar. Richard grabbed her wrist and stopped her, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.
"You have to tell them that Danny is hurt. You can't pretend this isn't happening."
"We don't know how badly he's hurt. He could be much better by now. In fact, I was just about to call the hospital." Merrilee tried to pull her arm away from Richard, but he held on tight. "What?" she murmured, confused by his intense attention.
"I'm sorry I wasn't home last night," he said slowly.
Merrilee averted her gaze. "I understand. Work comes first."
"I should have checked in with you."
"There was nothing you could do."
Richard let go of her hand, and Merrilee walked down to the end of the hall where an antique phone sat on her great-grandmother's writing table.
"God, how do you do it?" Richard asked.
"Do what?"
"Stay so goddamned calm about everything," he said with annoyance. "You're acting like Danny scraped his knee, but from what you said last night, the kid is in critical condition."
Merrilee felt a lump rise in her throat. She didn't want Richard to remind her that Danny's injuries were serious. There was no point dwelling on negatives.
"He'll be all right."
"You don't know that."
"I'll find out." She reached for the phone.
Richard leaned against the wall, watching and waiting.
Merrilee dialed the number for the hospital. "I'm calling about Daniel St. Claire," she said. "He was brought in last night; pediatric ICU. Yes, I'll hold." Merrilee tapped her fingers restlessly against the address book lying by the phone. Finally, the impersonal voice returned. The words were crisp, unemotional. It made the news easier to hear. "I see, thank you."
Richard looked at her expectantly. Merrilee shook her head. "He hasn't regained consciousness."
"Jenny must be going out of her mind. How the hell did this happen?"
"It wouldn't have happened if Jenny had done what I told her to do twelve years ago."
Richard rolled his eyes. "I hope you didn't tell her that."
"Of course not. But if she had told Danny his father was dead, he wouldn't have gone looking for him now would he?"
"You're right, Merrilee, but then you usually are. It must be nice to be perfect."
"I'm not going to fight with you."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
A door opened in the middle of the hall, and Constance walked out in a long, white Bart Simpson T-shirt that drifted down to mid thigh. She rubbed one hand against her sleepy eyes then looked from Merrilee to Richard. "What's wrong?" she murmured.
"Nothing, honey," Merrilee said. "What would you like for breakfast? A waffle, French toast, eggs? Some hot oatmeal? It's important to have a good breakfast."
"Mother, what's wrong? You're acting weird, even for you."
"Why don't you just tell her?" Richard said. "She'll find out eventually."
"Find out what? You're not -- you're not splitting up?" Constance's voice filled with panic.
"No," Merrilee said vehemently. "No. Goodness, why on earth would you say that?"
"Then what is it?"
"It's Danny," Richard said. "He was in an automobile accident last night. He's hurt pretty bad."
Constance stared at them with big, round eyes. "Is he going to be okay?"
Richard shrugged. "We don't know yet."
"Of course, he'll be all right," Merrilee interjected. "Danny is a strong, healthy boy. He'll come through this just fine."
Constance turned to her mother. "You went to the hospital last night?"
Merrilee nodded, hating the look of pain in her daughter's eyes. She wanted to protect her children from everything, but as they got older, it became more difficult to do.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
"That's just great. Everyone in the family knows but me." Constance put her hand on her hips. "When are you going to stop treating me like a baby?"
"This isn't about you, Connie. It's about your cousin," Richard said.
"That's right, and William doesn't know yet either. I'd appreciate it if you would let me tell him," Merrilee added. "Now, what will you have for breakfast?"
"Nothing, I'm not hungry." Constance stormed down the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Merrilee sighed. "Shall I fix you some eggs, Richard?"
"No, I'm not hungry either. Have you sp
oken to Matt?"
"He hasn't returned my calls."
"Matt and Danny were so tight."
"Don't talk about him like he's already dead. Danny is very much alive."
"He's unconscious."
"He'll wake up," Merrilee said desperately.
"I hope so. Try Matt again -- maybe he can help Jenny."
"I can help Jenny. I don't need Matt."
"Maybe you don't need Matt, but I think Jenny does."
Merrilee put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "What are you saying? That I can't take care of my sister? Because I've been taking care of Jenny since my mother died."
"Sometimes you rub Jenny the wrong way," Richard said carefully. "You criticize her instead of supporting her."
"Don't be ridiculous. I always do what's best for Jenny. Always."
"Fine. Fine." Richard held up his hand in surrender. "Call Matt anyway."
Merrilee watched her husband walk down the stairs. Call Matt -- as if she hadn't already called him every ten minutes for the last twelve hours. He obviously wasn't home, or else he was in no condition to answer the phone. Either way, Matt wouldn't be much use to Jenny.
Still, he was their brother. She supposed she could give him one more try.
Matt grumbled in his sleep as the phone rang and rang, forcing him out of happy oblivion and back into the real world. Groggily, he tried to open his eyes, but the pain was blinding like a hundred needles poking into each nerve. Gradually, he pried his lids open and found himself staring into a white pillow case as the phone stopped ringing.
A voice came out of nowhere. His answering machine, he realized after a moment.
"Matt, where are you? Call me right away. I need to talk to you."
Matt groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, enjoying the coolness of the sheet below. Merrilee. Not a woman he wanted to wake up to. She was probably on the rag again, ready to give him hell for ditching his last job interview, the one she had set up with her boring accountant friend. He would call her later, much later.
First, he would close his eyes and dream awhile. Life was so much better when he was asleep.
The phone rang again, and he swore. Three more rings, then the machine picked up. Matt rolled over on his back, prepared for Merrilee's grating voice once again. The husky baritone did not belong to his sister.
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