Frisco's Kid

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Frisco shook his head. He’d been there when Tasha was born, brought into the world, the offspring of an unknown father and an irresponsible mother. As much as Frisco loved his sister, he knew damn well that Sharon was irresponsible. She floated through life, drifting from job to job, from town to town, from man to man. Having a baby daughter hadn’t rooted Sharon in any one place.

  Five years ago, back when Natasha was born, back before his leg had damn near been blown off, Frisco had been an optimist. But even he hadn’t been able to imagine much happiness in the baby’s future. Unless Sharon owned up to the fact that she had a drinking problem, unless she got help, sought counseling and finally settled down, he’d known that little Natasha’s life would be filled with chaos and disruption and endless change.

  He’d been right about that.

  For the past five years, Frisco had sent his sister money every month, hoping to hell that she used it to pay her rent, hoping Natasha had a roof over her head and food to fill her stomach.

  Sharon had visited him only occasionally while he was in the VA hospital. She only came when she needed money, and she never brought Natasha with her—the one person in the world Frisco would truly have wanted to see.

  “This one’s a major favor,” Sharon said. Her voice broke. “Look, I’m a couple of blocks away. I’m gonna come over, okay? Meet me in the courtyard in about three minutes. I broke my foot, and I’m on crutches. I can’t handle the stairs.”

  She hung up before giving Frisco a chance to answer. Sharon broke her foot. Perfect. Why was it that people with hard luck just kept getting more and more of the same? Frisco rolled over, dropped the receiver back onto the phone, grabbed his cane and staggered into the bathroom.

  Three minutes. It wasn’t enough time to shower, but man, he needed a shower badly. Frisco turned on the cold water in the bathroom sink and then put his head under the faucet, both drinking and letting the water flow over his face.

  Damn, he hadn’t meant to kill that entire bottle of whiskey last night. During the more than five years he’d been in and out of the hospital and housed in rehabilitation centers, he’d never had more than an occasional drink or two. Even before his injury, he was careful not to drink too much. Some of the guys went out at night and slammed home quantities of beer and whiskey—enough to float a ship. But Frisco rarely did. He didn’t want to be like his father and his sister, and he knew enough about it to know that alcoholism could be hereditary.

  And last night? He’d meant to have one more drink. That was all. Just one more to round down the edges. One more to soften the harsh slap of his release from the therapy center. But one drink had turned into two.

  Then he’d started thinking about Mia Summerton, separated from him by only one very thin wall, and two had become three. He could hear the sound of her stereo. She was listening to Bonnie Raitt. Every so often, Mia would sing along, her voice a clear soprano over Bonnie’s smoky alto. And after three drinks, Frisco had lost count.

  He kept hearing Mia’s laughter, echoing in his head, the way she’d laughed at him right before she’d gone into her own condo. It had been laughter loaded with meaning. It had been “a cold day in hell” kind of laughter, as in, it would be a cold day in hell before she’d even deign to so much as think about him again.

  That was good. That was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

  Yes. Frisco splashed more water on his face, trying to convince himself that that was true. He didn’t want some neighbor lady hanging around, giving him those goddamned pitying looks as he hobbled up and down the stairs. He didn’t need suggestions about moving to a lousy ground-floor condo as if he were some kind of cripple. He didn’t need self-righteous soapbox speeches about how war is not healthy for children and other living things. If anyone should know that, he sure as hell should.

  He’d been in places where bombs were falling. And, yes, the bombs had military targets. But that didn’t mean if a bomb accidentally went off track, it would fail to explode. Even if it hit a house or a church or a school, it was gonna go off. Bombs had no conscience, no remorse. They fell. They exploded. They destroyed and killed. And no matter how hard the people who aimed those bombs tried, civilians ended up dead.

  But if a team of SEALs was sent in before air strikes became necessary, those SEALs could conceivably achieve more with fewer casualties. A seven-man team of SEALs such as the Alpha Squad could go in and totally foul up the enemy’s communication system. Or they could kidnap the enemy’s military leader, ensuring chaos and possibly reopening negotiations and peace talks.

  But more often than not, because the top brass failed to realize the SEALs’ full potential, they weren’t utilized until it was too late.

  And then people died. Children died.

  Frisco brushed his teeth, then drank more water. He dried his face and limped back into his bedroom. He searched for his sunglasses to no avail, uncovered his checkbook, pulled on a clean T-shirt and, wincing at the bright sunlight, he headed outside.

  The woman in the courtyard burst into tears.

  Startled, Mia looked up from her garden. She’d seen this woman walk in—a battered, worn-out-looking blonde on crutches, awkwardly carrying a suitcase, followed by a very little, very frightened red-haired girl.

  Mia followed the weeping woman’s gaze and saw Lieutenant Francisco painfully making his way down the stairs. Wow, he looked awful. His skin had a grayish cast, and he was squinting as if the brilliant blue California sky and bright sunshine were the devil’s evil doing. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his face made him look as if he’d just been rolled from a park bench. His T-shirt looked clean, but his shorts were the same ones he’d had on last night. Clearly he’d slept in them.

  He’d obviously had “another” drink last night, and quite probably more than that afterward.

  Fabulous. Mia forced her attention back to the flowers she was weeding. She had been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lt. Alan Francisco was not the kind of man she even wanted to have for a friend. He was rude and unhappy and quite possibly dangerous. And now she knew that he drank way too much, too.

  No, she was going to ignore condo 2C from now on. She would pretend that the owner was still out of town.

  The blond woman dropped her crutches and wrapped her arms around Francisco’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying, “I’m sorry.”

  The SEAL led the blonde to the bench directly across from Mia’s garden plot. His voice carried clearly across the courtyard—she couldn’t help but overhear, even though she tried desperately to mind her own business.

  “Start at the beginning,” he said, holding the woman’s hands. “Sharon, tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

  “I totaled my car,” the blonde—Sharon—said, and began to cry again.

  “When?” Francisco asked patiently.

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “That was when you broke your foot?”

  She nodded. Yes.

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  Her voice shook. “The other driver is still in the hospital. If he dies, I’ll be up on charges of vehicular manslaughter.”

  Francisco swore. “Shar, if he dies, he’ll be dead. That’s a little bit worse than where you’ll be, don’t you think?”

  Blond head bowed, Sharon nodded.

  “You were DUI.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded again. DUI—driving under the influence. Driving drunk.

  A shadow fell across her flowers, and Mia looked up to see the little red-haired girl standing beside her.

  “Hi,” Mia said.

  The girl was around five. Kindergarten age. She had amazing strawberry blond hair that curled in a wild mass around her round face. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes were the same pure shade of dark blue as Alan Francisco’s.

  This had to be his daughter. Mia’s gaze traveled back to the blonde. That meant Sharon was his…wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriend?

  It didn’t matter.
What did she care if Alan Francisco had a dozen wives?

  The red-haired girl spoke. “I have a garden at home. Back in the old country.”

  “Which old country is that?” Mia asked with a smile. Kindergarten-age children were so wonderful.

  “Russia,” the little girl said, all seriousness. “My real father is a Russian prince.”

  Her real father, hmm? Mia couldn’t blame the little girl for making up a fictional family. With a mother up on DUI charges, and a father who was only a step or two behind…Mia could see the benefits of having a pretend world to escape to, filled with palaces and princes and beautiful gardens.

  “Do you want to help me weed?” Mia asked.

  The little girl glanced over at her mother.

  “The bottom line is that I have no more options,” Sharon was tearfully telling Alan Francisco. “If I voluntarily enter the detox program, I’ll win points with the judge who tries my case. But I need to find someplace for Natasha to stay.”

  “No way,” the Navy lieutenant said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. There’s no way in hell I can take her.”

  “Alan, please, you’ve got to help me out here!”

  His voice got louder. “What do I know about taking care of a kid?”

  “She’s quiet,” Sharon pleaded. “She won’t get in the way.”

  “I don’t want her.” Francisco had lowered his voice, but it still carried clearly over to Mia. And to the little girl—to Natasha.

  Mia’s heart broke for the child. What an awful thing to overhear: Her own father didn’t want her.

  “I’m a teacher,” Mia said to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t hear the rest of her parents’ tense conversation. “I teach older children—high school kids.”

  Natasha nodded, her face a picture of concentration as she imitated Mia and gently pulled weeds from the soft earth of the garden.

  “I’m supposed to go into detox in an hour,” Sharon said. “If you don’t take her, she’ll be a ward of the state—she’ll be put into foster care, Alan.”

  “There’s a man who works for my father the prince,” Natasha told Mia, as if she, too, were trying desperately not to listen to the other conversation, “who only plants flowers. That’s all he does all day. Red flowers like these. And yellow flowers.”

  On the other side of the courtyard, Mia could hear Alan Francisco cursing. His voice was low, and she couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was clear he was calling upon his full sailor’s salty vocabulary. He wasn’t angry at Sharon—his words weren’t directed at her, but rather at the cloudless California sky above them.

  “My very favorites are the blue flowers,” Mia told Natasha. “They’re called morning glories. You have to wake up very early in the morning to see them. They close up tightly during the day.”

  Natasha nodded, still so seriously. “Because the bright sun gives them a headache.”

  “Natasha!”

  The little girl looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Mia looked up, too—directly into Alan Francisco’s dark blue eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze, afraid he’d correctly read the accusations she knew were there. How could he ignore his own child? What kind of man could admit that he didn’t want his daughter around?

  “You’re going to be staying here, with Alan, for a while,” Sharon said, smiling tremulously at her daughter.

  He’d given in. The former special operations lieutenant had given in. Mia didn’t know whether to be glad for the little girl, or concerned. This child needed more than this man could give her. Mia risked another look up, and found his disturbingly blue eyes still watching her.

  “Won’t that be fun?” Sharon hopefully asked Natasha.

  The little girl considered the question thoughtfully. “No,” she finally said.

  Alan Francisco laughed. Mia hadn’t thought him capable, but he actually smiled and snorted with laughter, covering it quickly with a cough. When he looked up again, he wasn’t smiling, but she could swear she saw amusement in his eyes.

  “I want to go with you,” Natasha told her mother, a trace of panic in her voice. “Why can’t I go with you?”

  Sharon’s lip trembled, as if she were the child. “Because you can’t,” she said ineffectively. “Not this time.”

  The little girl’s gaze shifted to Alan and then quickly back to Sharon. “Do we know him?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sharon told her. “Of course we know him. He’s your uncle Alan. You remember Alan. He’s in the Navy…?”

  But the little girl shook her head.

  “I’m your mom’s brother,” Alan said to the little girl.

  Her brother. Alan was Sharon’s brother. Not her husband. Mia didn’t want to feel anything at that news. She refused to feel relieved. She refused to feel, period. She weeded her garden, pretending she couldn’t hear any of the words being spoken.

  Natasha gazed at her mother. “Will you come back?” she asked in a very small voice.

  Mia closed her eyes. But she did feel. She felt for this little girl; she felt her fear and pain. Her heart ached for the mother, too, God help her. And she felt for blue-eyed Alan Francisco. But what she felt for him, she couldn’t begin to define.

  “I always do,” Sharon said, dissolving once more into tears as she enveloped the little girl in a hug. “Don’t I?” But then she quickly set Natasha aside. “I’ve got to go. Be good. I love you.” She turned to Alan. “The address of the detox center is in the suitcase.”

  Alan nodded, and with a creak of her crutches, Sharon hurried away.

  Natasha stared expressionlessly after her mother, watching until the woman disappeared from view. Then, with only a very slight tightening of her lips, she turned to look at Alan.

  Mia looked at him, too, but this time his gaze never left the little girl. All of the amusement was gone from his eyes, leaving only sadness and compassion.

  All of his anger had vanished. All of the rage that seemed to burn endlessly within him was temporarily doused. His blue eyes were no longer icy—instead they seemed almost warm. His chiseled features looked softer, too, as he tried to smile at Natasha. He may not have wanted her—he’d said as much—but now that she was here, it seemed as if he were going to do his best to make things easier for her.

  Mia looked up to see that the little girl’s eyes had filled with tears. She was trying awfully hard not to cry, but one tear finally escaped, rolling down her face. She wiped at it fiercely, fighting the flood.

  “I know you don’t remember me,” Alan said to Natasha, his voice impossibly gentle. “But we met five years ago. On January 4.”

  Natasha all but stopped breathing. “That’s my birthday,” she said, gazing across the courtyard at him.

  Alan’s forced smile became genuine. “I know,” he said. “I was driving your mom to the hospital and…” He broke off, looking closely at her. “You want a hug?” he asked. “Because I could really use a hug right now, and I’d sure appreciate it if you could give me one.”

  Natasha considered his words, then nodded. She slowly crossed to him.

  “You better hold your breath, though,” Alan told her ruefully. “I think I smell bad.”

  She nodded again, then carefully climbed onto his lap. Mia tried not to watch, but it was nearly impossible not to look at the big man, with his arms wrapped so tentatively around the little girl, as if he were afraid she might break. But when Natasha’s arms went up and locked securely around his neck, Alan closed his eyes, holding the little girl more tightly.

  Mia had thought his request for a hug had been purely for Natasha’s sake, but now she had to wonder. With all of his anger and his bitterness over his injured leg, it was possible Alan Francisco hadn’t let anyone close enough to give him the warmth and comfort of a hug in quite some time. And everyone needed warmth and comfort—even big, tough professional soldiers.

  Mia looked away, trying to concentrate on weeding her last row of flowers. But she couldn’t help but overhear Natasha say, “Y
ou don’t smell bad. You smell like Mommy—when she wakes up.”

  Alan didn’t look happy with that comparison. “Terrific,” he murmured.

  “She’s grouchy in the morning,” Natasha said. “Are you grouchy in the morning, too?”

  “These days I’m afraid I’m grouchy all the time,” he admitted.

  Natasha was quiet for a moment, considering that. “Then I’ll keep the TV turned down really quiet so it doesn’t bother you.”

  Alan laughed again, just a brief exhale of air. Still, it drew Mia’s eyes to his face. When he smiled, he transformed. When he smiled, despite the pallor of his skin and his heavy stubble and his uncombed hair, he became breathtakingly handsome.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” he said.

  Natasha didn’t get off his lap. “I don’t remember meeting you before,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t,” Alan said. He shifted painfully. Even Natasha’s slight weight was too much for his injured knee, and he moved her so that she was sitting on his good leg. “When we first met, you were still inside your mom’s belly. You decided that you wanted to be born, and you didn’t want to wait. You decided you wanted to come into the world in the front seat of my truck.”

  “Really?” Natasha was fascinated.

  Alan nodded. “Really. You came out before the ambulance could get there. You were in such a hurry, I had to catch you and hold on to you to keep you from running a lap around the block.”

  “Babies can’t run,” the little girl scoffed.

  “Maybe not regular babies,” Alan said. “But you came out doing the tango, smoking a cigar and hollering at everybody. Oh, baby, were you loud.”

  Natasha giggled. “Really?”

  “Really,” Alan said. “Not the tango and the cigar, but the loud. Come on,” he added, lifting her off his lap. “Grab your suitcase and I’ll give you the nickel tour of my condo. You can do…something…while I take a shower. Man, do I need a shower.”