A Man of Honor

by Loree Lough

  It’s your M.O., he thought. But what good could come from admitting that now?

  “I don’t need your pity. I need you to step up. Do the right thing. Get to know your son before I croak. Because he’s going to need you once they plant me, and—”

  “For all that is good, Randi,” he said, wincing, “there’s a difference between beating around the bush and . . . and graphic.”

  “What? You want me to cry? Wring my hands? Stamp my feet and demand to know why God let this happen to me?” She dropped the French fry and sat back, arms crossed over her chest. “Been there, done that, sweetheart . . . got the T-shirt and outgrew it, long, long time ago. This is all brand-spankin’ new to you, but I’ve been dealing with it since Ethan was five.”

  “Why didn’t you call me then?” Why didn’t you call me when you knew you were pregnant? Had she spent a little time after the breakup, looking for comfort in all the wrong places? Places that made her think that maybe somebody else was Ethan’s father?

  She leaned both elbows on the table. “Look, I hate to be blunt, by I’m sure you understand why I’ve taught myself not to waste time in silly pleasantries. I didn’t call you because I didn’t have time for dilly-dallying. And that was your M.O., remember?”

  Dusty frowned. “Big difference in that and not wanting to decide which movie to see or whether we should eat Italian or Mexican.”

  Randi harrumphed. “That isn’t what I’m talking about, and I think in your heart of hearts, you know it.”

  “No,” he said, not caring any more if impatience was evident in his voice. “I really am that thickheaded. So why don’t you spell it out in easy-for-idiots-to-understand language?”

  “Okay. Fair enough. How’s this?” She leaned closer, lowered her voice, flattened her hands on the tabletop. “I figured you were the same old hard-drinking, skirt-chasing, bar-brawling boy you’d been when we were together. That’s why I didn’t tell you.” One glance at Ethan was enough to soften the hard edge of her ire. “But then I got sick, really sick, and it scared me to death, because . . . what would become of Ethan? Then I remembered how having him changed me. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was the ghost of a chance that something, someone had changed you, too. So I Googled you.” Randi laughed quietly. “And whoa. Was I one surprised skeptic! When you change, you go all-out, don’t you?”

  Ethan ran up to the table. “Need more quarters, Mom. That machine is gobbling them up like candy!”

  She dug around in her purse. “Sorry, sweet boy,” she said, grinning, “I’m tapped out.”

  Dusty took two dollars’ worth of quarters from his pocket. And after handing them over, he tousled Ethan’s hair.

  He could see the wheels spinning in the boy’s head as he tried to decide whether to call Dusty by his first or last name . . . or Dad.

  “Better get over there,” he said, sparing him the decision. “Looks like somebody’s eyeballin’ your machine.”

  “Reminds me of a cartoon character when he does that,” Randi said when he darted off. “He’s, like, poof gone in a blur.”

  “So how are you set for money?”

  “Well that was out of the blue!” She laughed. “Money isn’t a problem. Never has been. But now that I’ve stopped treatments—unless you count aromatherapy and acupuncture—I’m even more okay, financially.”

  Dusty had a hard time believing that, so he only shrugged.

  “Seriously, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I have all that moolah from my grandparents’ and parents’ estates, remember? Lucky for me, I had the good sense to put it in the hands of an investment counselor. Scary dude with Albert Einstein hair and Andy Rooney eyebrows.” She shuddered. “Never spent a dime because I was always too afraid to explain what I needed the money for!”

  He’d almost forgotten how funny she could be, how much fun they’d had together. Which reminded him of Grace . . . ten times the woman Randi had ever been, with a sweet sense of humor and a heart as big as her head.

  “So who’s the lucky lady?”

  He looked up so fast, he nearly upended his coffee mug.

  “Oh, come on. You can tell me. We’re old pals, right? Besides, it isn’t like you’re doing a very good job of hiding it. Let me tell you this, pal, if you’d ever looked at me that way,” she teased, “I might not have kicked you to the curb.”

  “Hmpf. The way I remember it, I left you.”

  “Revisionist history.”

  He chuckled as she coughed into a paper napkin. She’d tried to be discreet, but he’d seen the bright splotch on the napkin.

  “So what’s the prognosis?”

  “No need to pussyfoot. This is me you’re talking to. Tough. Hard as nails. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. . . .”

  “Okay. Have it your way. How long do you have?”

  That sobered her up, fast. “Six months. Eight. A year at best.”

  “Sheesh. . . .”

  “Yeah. Tell me about it.” She took a sip of water. “Now you see why I’m kinda desperate, here. Can’t leave Ethan with my friend. She already has four kids, which was great for Ethan when he had to stay with her, but she’s pregnant. Again.” Randi rolled her eyes. “I swear, the girl must have rabbit somewhere in her ancestry. But I digress. Not only is she adding another bunny to her herd . . . her oldest son was just diagnosed with leukemia.” She sighed. “Adds a lot more brine to the pickle water I’m in: she can’t handle the extra stress, and it isn’t fair to let Ethan get lost in the shuffle.”

  Randi hadn’t been exaggerating, Dusty thought, when she’d said “desperate.” “So what’s this about you seeing a Hopkins specialist?”

  She waved the question away. “Oh. That. I had to tell him something. He’s every bit as smart and astute as his dad. I needed some valid excuse to come all the way down here.”

  Smart and astute as his dad. . . . It would sound good. Real good. If it wasn’t so scary.

  “Look, there’s no reason to break a sweat, here. Ethan’s a good kid. Easy going. Honest. Works hard in school. Empathetic . . . way, way easier to deal with, I’d guess, than those hoodlums you’ve been working with for years.”

  “They aren’t anything of the kind. Abandoned, neglected, abused. . . . Do they come to Last Chance with problems? Are they furious? You bet. And they have every right to be. But it doesn’t take long, in most cases, before they figure out they weren’t responsible for the crazy things their parents did. I could list dozens of success stories.”

  “I’m not worried about those,” she said quietly. “It’s the failures that terrify me. Because if Ethan moves in with you, he’ll move in with them, too.”

  If? Better question was, why had her “if” stirred so much disappointment in him? She still hadn’t shown him any real proof that Ethan was his. . . .

  Randi exhaled a hoarse sigh. “So I guess there’s only one way to ease your mind. We’ll go to a clinic. Tomorrow. For a blood test. DNA comparisons. I’ll tell Ethan it has something to do with one of my treatments. He won’t give it another thought.”

  “It takes weeks to run tests like that.”

  She stared him down. “And your point is?”

  The point, he thought, was that every day spent waiting for some fool test results to come back was a day wasted. And she didn’t have a day to waste. Neither did Ethan. He’d need every moment between now and the ugly end to adjust to life without his mom. And Randi had been right about something else, too: Ethan needed to get to know Dusty, now, so that when that awful day came, he’d have a loving father to lean on.

  “Look. This is a lot to absorb. I realize that,” she said. “I know you’re a Christian now. A preacher of all things . . . never would have predicted that! Believe it or not, so am I. Came to a whole new way of thinking and living the minute I found out I was pregnant. And I’ve been straight ever since.”

  Seemed more than unfair, Dusty thought, that after everything she’d done to upright her upside-down life, she faced a deat
h sentence.

  “What I’m trying to say—and not doing a very good job of it—is that I figure you need time to sort things out. To think and pray. Decide how you’re going to break the news to your sweetie pie.”

  Grace. Dusty took a huge breath. He’d have to tell her. Everything. The sooner, the better. But first, Randi had been right: if he hoped to make the right decision, here, the one God wanted him to make, he’d better hit his knees, first chance he got, and stay there until things made sense. Or as much sense as they could make, considering. . . .

  Ethan ran back to the table, put his hands on the arm of Dusty’s chair and smiled up at him. The nanosecond passed with the lightning speed of flashback scenes used by movie directors:

  The dimple. The gap in his teeth. The lone freckle in the middle of his left cheek. Eyes that sparked blue, lavender, even gray, depending on the light . . . colors he’d seen only in the mirror . . . until now. Those lashes? Randi hadn’t been the only woman to wonder why she needed mascara to get the look Dusty was born with. And what about Ethan’s tendency to nod while talking, as if to underscore certain words, and the way his left brow rose when someone else was talking. . . . Coincidence? Dusty didn’t think so. A strange, sweet warmth churned in his heart, and made him believe—

  “Hate to be a pest, Dad, but. . . .”

  Dad. . . .

  The warmth swirled in his head now, too . . . with a bit of regret mixed in. Dusty had known the boy less than an hour, and already, he’d let him down. Then he was keenly aware of all the years that had passed, and wondered what Randi had told Ethan, to explain why he didn’t have a father.

  “. . . but did you get those quarters?”

  Dusty took a deep breath and fished around in his other pocket, came up with three quarters, and, holding the small hand in his own, pressed the coins into Ethan’s palm. “Will that do for now?”

  Ethan looked at the money, at Dusty, at Randi. “You’re right, Mom,” he said, grinning. “He really is a decent guy!” Then he patted Dusty’s forearm. “I hope you’re keeping track of what I owe you. Mom says only losers and deadbeats borrow money and don’t pay it back.”

  “It’s good advice, and if you take it, I guess we can be pretty sure you won’t grow up to be a deadbeat or a loser.” Dusty put an arm across Ethan’s shoulders. It seemed such a normal, natural thing that he wondered why he’d waited so long to do it. “But how about if we call it a gift. Then neither one of us has to keep track.”

  “Whoa. Cool. Thanks, Dad!” And then he ran off to drop the quarters into the nearest coin slot.

  “He’s a great kid. You deserve a lot of credit, doing that all by yourself.”

  “Well, he gets most of the credit, for being a ‘do the right kind of thing’ kid.” She paused long enough to take another sip of water. “You get some of the credit, too, y’know.”

  “Me? No way! I didn’t even know about him, so—”

  “A lot of who he is was built in, thanks to DNA.”

  Dusty didn’t know what to say to that, so he shook his head. It was a lot to wrap his mind around: Deception. Lies. Secrets. Fatherhood.

  But he’d sort through all of that later. Right now, he heard a giant imaginary clock, ticking off the moments left in her life. “If it’s okay with you, maybe I can take him for a spin on the Harley tomorrow, buy him a hot dog someplace, give you a chance to take a nap or something.”

  Her eyes widened and she smiled, really smiled, for the first time since they’d reconnected. Because she believed he’d do the right thing.

  And why wouldn’t he?

  Ethan was his son.

  His son!

  33

  I don’t mind admitting . . . never thought I’d see the day when you’d be a dad.”

  Dusty frowned. “Okay. That settles it. You’re buying the coffee today.”

  “No. Wait,” Austin said. “That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean it that way. Exactly. But seriously?” He shook his head. “Pretty amazing, is all I’m sayin’.”

  Dusty more or less understood why Randi had made the decision to keep her pregnancy a secret. He hadn’t exactly walked the straight and narrow during the many months they were together. But Austin? Best buddy and long-time confidant, who’d questioned his sanity when he made the decision to trade temptation of every shape and size to work with a bunch of troubled boys? Dusty flattened a palm against his chest. “I’m hurt. Deeply.”

  Austin laughed. “Save it for some guy gullible enough to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. This is me you’re talking to.”

  Randi had said something similar, when he’d tried to avoid providing details about Grace.

  “So what does Grace have to say about all this?”

  He grimaced. “Haven’t told her yet.”

  “Mistake. Big mistake. Women have been known to be understanding—it’s rare, I know,” he said, laughing—“but only if you can convince them they were in on things from the ground floor.”

  “Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet since I found out.”

  “Then you should’ve told her twenty-three and one-half hours ago.” Austin whistled. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you spring this on her.” He bobbed his head and tried his best to impersonate Grace. “You’ve known all this time,” he said, his voice a reedy falsetto, “and you’re just now getting around to telling me? I’m hurt, Dusty. Hurt!”

  “She isn’t like that,” Dusty said, laughing.

  “You believe that?”

  “Sure.”

  Austin shook his head. “Okay. Whatever. But like I said . . . fly on the wall, brother. Fly on the wall. . . .”

  “I’m going to tell her. Today. Just wanted to take a breath. Make some sense of it. I mean, how does a guy tell the woman he’s gonna marry that he fathered a kid, way back in—”

  “Whoa. What’s this? You popped the question, and she said yes?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, friend. Remind me why you’re my friend?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I thought she was great from the minute you introduced us at Tuck’s funeral. But you’ve got yourself all wrapped up with those kids. And she’s. . . .” He made a rolling motion with his hand, as if that would stir up the word he was looking for.

  “Footloose and fancy-free?” Remembering the day Grace had said those very words to him, Dusty smiled.

  “Give me a little credit,” Austin said, feigning shock. “Given time, I could have come up with something a whole lot less . . . sissified.” And then he laughed. Loud enough to draw the attention of the two elderly women at the next table.

  “Keep it down, goofball, before one of ’em pulls out a ruler and smacks the back of our hands.”

  Austin tipped an imaginary hat at them. “Sorry, ladies. Got a little carried away when my buddy, here, told me that he asked his best girl to marry him.”

  Amid the gushing congratulations, Dusty felt the heat of a blush creeping up the back of his neck. When it ended, he zeroed in on Austin. “I was about to ask you to be my best man. But now I’m thinking . . . maybe not.”

  “You can’t kid a kidder.” Then, “So have you two set a date yet?”

  “Haven’t even bought her a ring yet. She said something about December.” The comment reminded him of the way Grace had teased him, about wearing a velvet tux with tails. At least, he hoped she’d been teasing. . . .

  “Speaking of dates and rings and such,” Austin said, “did you hear about Matt and Honor?”

  “I did.” He nodded approvingly. “ ’Bout time, I’d say.”

  Austin nodded, too. “Here’s an idea . . . if you talk Grace into saying the I Do’s sooner, maybe I can get double duty out of my rented monkey suit.”

  “Nice to know who’s first in your book.”

  “Hey. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks! I’m a married man now, with a gorgeous little mouth to feed.”

  “How is Katie?”

  “Terrific. Perfect. Best thing ever happe
ned to me, if you want to know the truth.”

  Dusty wondered if the day would come when he felt that way about Ethan.

  Austin got to his feet. “Well, better get to work,” he said. “Call me after you’ve spilled the beans, Humpty. I’m told I’m pretty good at putting the pieces back together again.”

  “You’re all heart, you know that?”

  Austin tapped his temple. “Heart, and brains . . . smart enough to know you’d better hotfoot it over to Angel Acres and bring Grace up to speed.”

  He tossed a fiver on the table and headed for the door. “Seriously. Call me.”

  The next thing he heard was the tiny bell above the café door, signaling Austin’s exit. Funny, he thought, climbing onto the Harley, that bells alerted people to telephone calls, visitors at the door, the last line typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. They even got special mention in that old movie: “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.” But they indicated the start and end of every boxing round, too.

  He buckled his helmet’s chinstrap, frowning at that analogy: would hearing his news hit Grace like a TKO?

  Turned out it was Dusty who felt as if he’d been sucker punched. If he’d known that, maybe he would have had the good sense to feed it to her a little at a time, over the course of a few days, instead of spitting it all out at once that way.

  She hadn’t said a word, not even to ask questions as he spelled it out, detail by detail. And when it was all out there in the open, he waited. Say something, he thought. Even a cold slap would be easier to take than her stoic silence. Finally, blessedly, she took a deep breath, and on the exhale, said, “I hate to ask this, because I’m sure hearing from Randi has been really hard on you, but would you mind very much going back to Last Chance, just for a little while? Mitch and the boys can stay—no need to disrupt their lives while I sort through this—but I need. . . .”

  He watched as her brow furrowed, as she bit her lower lip, swallowed and shook her head. Clearly, Grace was having a tough time with this. And who could blame her?

  “. . . I just need a little time.”