Walker tightened the arm still thrown across Adam's shoulder. "Babies are tougher than they look and hell, yeah, you're supposed to be afraid. You can't make a decent parent unless you're scared spitless about ninety percent of the time. But you'll learn to handle the fear. You'll learn to put it on the back burner. Plus, you'll have Grace to share it with. That'll make it tolerable."
"You didn't have anyone, did you?" Adam asked.
Walker withdrew his hand from Adam's shoulder and shoved it into the pocket of his khaki pants. He had changed into clean clothes as Lindsey had awaited him in the living room of his house. He'd felt odd undressing with her there. It made no sense, but then again neither did much else in his surreal world.
"I did in the beginning," Walker said. "Your mom was there when you were a baby. By the time it was just you and me, you were too old for me to break."
"But still, it couldn't have been easy."
"No," Walker said, once more feeling an emotional weight shackle his ankle as he recalled the solitary years of rearing his son, "it wasn't easy. Raising a teenage boy alone isn't easy. Not when you've got to make a living, too."
"I didn't cut you much slack, either, did I?" Walker grinned. "You weren't supposed to. You were just a kid."
Adam looked back at the baby. "I, uh, I hope I can do as good a job as you did." The young man looked up at his father. "I mean that. You haven't made too bad a father."
A knot formed in Walker's throat, though he grinned to downplay the moment's emotional intensity. "You haven't made too bad a son. And you'll make a great father."
"I guess we'll see, won't we?" Adam said. He then added, "You, uh, you haven't asked what we named him."
"I thought you were going to name the baby Stephen if it was a boy."
"Yeah, we did. We named him Stephen—Stephen Walker Carr."
There had been few times in Walker's life when he'd been moved to speechlessness. Now was one such time. He honestly didn't know what to say and feared that he wouldn't have been able to say it even if he'd known the right words. The knot that had been in his throat before had doubled in size.
"I, uh, I don't know what to say," Walker finally managed to get out.
"You don't have to say anything."
But he did. Walker knew that he had to say something. Why was it so hard for men to verbally express their feelings? In the end, however, he said nothing. He simply reached for his son and unabashedly hugged him. Adam hugged him back. As comfortable as the men were with the exhibition of affection—hugs had been commonplace in the Carr household—enough sentimentality was enough. Especially in a public place.
"I'm glad you brought Lindsey with you," Adam said, as eager to lighten the mood as was his father. "It's good to see her again."
Walker mumbled some response. He refrained from saying that he'd actually had little choice in the matter, that Lindsey had invited herself along. Neither did he go into the fact that he both loved and hated being near her. More to the point, he felt like a man walking a very high tightrope when he was around her. He felt exhilarated and scared half out of his mind. But mostly, he just felt confused.
"She looks great, doesn't she?"
Walker groaned inwardly. If one other person asked his opinion of how Lindsey looked, he was going to scream. Loudly. The truth was that she looked sensational. Even better than sensational. Which he was trying real hard to ignore. Not that he was doing anywhere near that. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true.
"Yeah, she looks great," Walker mumbled, the memory of Lindsey coiled in the corner of the car swamping him. Her long legs, encased in the white slacks she'd arrived at the office in, had curled under her in a cozy kind of fashion that had emphasized their length and sleekness. The sweater, in pretty pink, had lovingly hugged her breasts, while her pink-tipped toes had teased his masculine senses.
"How's she taking the divorce?"
"About like you'd expect."
"Having your parents separate after all these years must be a real bummer."
"Yeah."
"Lindsey doesn't strike me as the type to sit around and do nothing," Adam said. He smiled. "Remember how she could never stand to see the kids fight? Remember how she always tried to act as mediator?"
Walker thought of the dinner Lindsey had tricked her parents into. He thought, too, of how Lindsey had always been a serious child, a sensitive child. Yes, she was capable of great caring. Maybe too capable. One had to learn when to care and when to save one's own soul, rather than give it away piece by piece.
"Yeah, well," Walker said, "I'm afraid she's setting herself up to be hurt this time." Before he even knew what he was saying, he heard himself ask, "Did she ever tell you why she called off the wedding?"
Adam shook his head. "No. But then she left for London so quickly that we didn't even have a chance to talk. I got a couple of cards from her. On one she just said that she was sorry for the pain she knew she'd caused Ken. That was all."
Disappointment filled Walker. He'd always wondered what had happened, but he seemed to be wondering more of late.
"It had to be something pretty serious," Adam continued. "She wouldn't have hurt Ken otherwise."
Walker agreed. He'd once seen her cry because she'd dropped a teddy bear. Lindsey, who couldn't have been more than five or six at the time, had explained that teddy bears had feelings, too, and that they cried when they were hurt, but that they didn't cry in front of just anyone. They cried only in front of special people. Walker hadn't had to ask if they cried in front of her. He'd known that they did.
Suddenly, with a certainty he in no way questioned, Walker sensed Lindsey's presence. He glanced up to see her walking down the hospital corridor. He felt her bright sun warm the cold lonely night that had become his heart. In that moment, he was glad that she'd come along. As confused as her presence made him, he was glad.
"Let me see the baby of all babies," she said, her face wreathed in a dazzling smile. "Oh, my," she whispered, looking through the glass at the sleeping infant.
For seconds, she said nothing. Her palms pressed against the glass, she just stared. Walker couldn't have taken his eyes off her under penalty of death. She was absolutely glowing as she watched the silent, still baby.
"Oh, Adam, he's beautiful," she said in a voice so soft that it sounded like the patter of snowflakes. "Look at his little hands. And look at his hair. He has your hair. And your nose. He has your nose."
Once more, Walker heard her enthusiasm building to a youthful level. He hoped, though, that she never outgrew that enthusiasm. It was what made her so special. It, and her sensitivity, was what made teddy bears cry in front of her.
"Do you ever wish you could start over? Do you ever wish you could have another child?"
Walker heard the question she'd once before asked him. He'd answered an unequivocal no. Yet as he watched the way she devoured the sight of the baby, he felt a strange tugging at his heart. It was obvious that Lindsey wanted a baby. It was equally obvious that she'd make a wonderful mother.
"Oh, Walker," she said, and the calling of his name sent a strange feeling down his spine, "you have a gorgeous grandson."
Grandson.
Grandfather.
Interestingly, the word grandfather ensnared his attention as the word grandson had not. Grandfather sounded so old. It conjured up images of stuffy men, crotchety men set in both their chairs and their ways. Hell, there was no denying it! He was old. His hair was turning gray, he couldn't read without his glasses and his knee ached with a vengeance unless he pampered it, in which case it ached with only half a vengeance. And that wasn't the worst of it. He thought old.
Except when he was around Lindsey.
She honestly made him want to run off to Timbuktu. She honestly made him feel less than old. Or, maybe she just made him feel that forty-seven wasn't quite as old as he thought it was. The truth was that she even made him think that maybe starting over with a baby wasn't all that ridiculous. He could see i
t now—diapers, feedings, sleepless nights—none of which would seem too intimidating if there was someone there to share it with. The someone began to take shape in his imagination. She had long blond hair, steel-blue eyes and a smile that melted away the loneliness he'd felt for so many years. The woman by his side was...
Lindsey.
The realization startled him. But it did more than that. It appalled him. Principally because it didn't appall him enough.
"Coffee?"
He glanced up, realizing belatedly that his son had spoken to him. Both Adam and Lindsey wore expectant looks.
"What?"
"You want to go down to the cafeteria for coffee?"
"Uh... no... I mean, ya'll go ahead. I'll visit with Grace."
"You want us to bring you back a cup?" Lindsey asked.
"No," Walker managed to say, thinking that what he needed was Scotch. Straight up and long. Real long. Like the length of a whole damned bottle!
"The baby's beautiful," Lindsey said minutes later. Cups of coffee sat before her and Adam, sending up slender spirals of steam. Around them rose the muted chatter of cafeteria conversation.
"Yeah, he is, isn't he?" the proud new father said without a trace of apology.
Lindsey smiled, causing slight dimples to form. "You bet he is. And Grace looks wonderful. She looks more as though she's been on vacation than in the delivery room. She's radiant, she's gorgeous, she's... beautiful."
"Yeah, she is, but then so are you. You look wonderful. Even Dad said so."
Lindsey's heart went pitter-pat. "Did he?" she asked, nonchalantly uncapping her dispenser of cream and dribbling a few drops into her coffee.
"He did. And you are. It would take a blind man not to see it. You've... I don't know... you've grown up. Not that you weren't grown-up before—you were—but now... wow!"
Lindsey laughed. "You're good for my ego, Adam Carr."
"And it's good to see you," Adam said. "God, it's good to see you," he said, suddenly turning serious. He reached for Lindsey's hand and squeezed.
She squeezed back. "It's good to see you, too. I've missed you."
"I've missed you. Dammit, Lin, you left without even a word to me."
Lindsey could hear the hurt in Adam's voice. Under the same circumstances, should their roles have been reversed, she would have been hurt if he'd left without giving her some clue as to why he was going. They were— had always been—best friends. Best friends shared. But how could she have shared what was in her heart a year and a half ago? How could she have told Adam that she was calling off her wedding because she'd discovered that she was feeling something for his father? Even now, what would Adam's reaction be? Approval? Disapproval? Disgust?
Lindsey pulled her hand from Adam's and encircled her cup. The heat felt comforting, reassuring. "I know I left without a word," she said. "I just had to get away. I had some feelings that I had to sort through."
"You couldn't have told me about them? I couldn't have helped you sort through them?"
Lindsey smiled faintly. "I didn't know what I was feeling. How could I have made you understand what I didn't understand myself?"
"I could have listened."
"Not this time, Adam. This time I had to go it alone. This time I had to find my own answers."
"And did you?"
"Yes," Lindsey said emphatically.
She'd come home knowing that she was in love with Walker. Every act, every word since had only confirmed that fact. And unless she were really losing her mind, she'd seen a spark of interest in Walker. Something had happened on the dance floor. He'd been aware of her as a woman. Not as a child, not as his godchild, but as a woman.
"I, uh, I realized that I wasn't in love with Ken," Lindsey said, feeling that she owed some explanation to Adam. Moreover, she now wanted to share with him. At least up to a point. "Let me rephrase that. I loved him, but not the way I should have. Not the way a woman should love the man she's about to marry." She glanced down at the coffee, then up at her friend. "The truth is that I was, am, in love with someone else."
Lindsey could tell that the news took Adam completely by surprise, though, to his credit, he recovered quickly. "I had no idea that there was even anyone else in contention. You'd gone with Ken for so long. I just assumed that there'd been no opportunity for anyone else." He shrugged. "I know you weren't dating anyone else. At least, I assumed you weren't. I mean, I know you weren't. You wouldn't have dated someone else while you were going with Ken. I mean... Ah, hell, you know what I'm trying to say!"
Lindsey took Adam's hand. "I know. The truth is that I didn't know there was anyone else in contention, either. I've known this man for a long time. My feelings for him just sort of slipped up on me."
"And?"
"And what?"
"That was eighteen months ago. What's happened since?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Doesn't this guy have any sense? Why aren't you two married?"
Lindsey's heart skipped at the very thought of being married to Walker. "There's, uh, there's a complication."
Adam's face fell. "He's married?"
Lindsey couldn't help but laugh. "No, silly, he isn't married."
"Then what?"
Lindsey hesitated. Was she saying too much? Maybe, and yet she did need to talk to someone. "He's older than I am."
"So?"
"Considerably older. As in twenty-some years older."
"So?" Adam repeated. "Is he in love with you?"
Lindsey's heart went pitter-pat again. "Who knows what he's feeling? I'm not even sure he knows."
Adam gave a suspicious frown. "Does he know you're in love with him?"
"No," Lindsey said, "I haven't had the courage to tell him."
Adam's answer was soft and sage. "You've never been a coward, Lin. Why start now?"
Adam's words whispered in Lindsey's ear as she and Walker began the drive back to Galveston. Adam was right, she concluded. She wasn't a coward. Now was the time to play her hand. Now was the time to find out if she was holding aces or jokers. But what if she ruined everything? What if she destroyed the beautiful relationship that she and Walker had? What if she had only imagined his reaction to her?
Fear swept through her—a cold, gnawing beast eating at her hurting heart.
What would she do with the rest of her life if he rebuffed her? One thing she was certain of. There would be no going back to what they'd had. Once she revealed her feelings, she was taking a step that could never be retraced. But then, there was one other thing of which she was certain. Things couldn't go on as they were, either. Not if she were to remain sane. Besides, wasn't it true that if one were to succeed, one had to be willing to fail?
She willed the cold, gnawing beast back into chains.
Twisting her head, she peered through the darkness. Walker, his wrist nonchalantly maneuvering the steering wheel, sat silently staring ahead. He'd said little since leaving the hospital, and then only when she'd spoken to him.
"If you'll stop, I'll buy us dinner."
At the sound of Lindsey's soft-spoken voice, Walker angled his head toward her. She sat in the corner of the car, her long legs stretched before her, her blond hair, a mass of defiant curls, fluffed about her. It was all he could do to look at her after the thoughts he'd had back at the hospital. He didn't deserve to look at her. That taken into consideration, it was all he could do to keep from pulling to the side of the road and... And what? The answer was simple. Touching her.
Dammit, he wanted to touch her!
In some way.
In any way.
Instead, he answered in a tone that surprised even him in its normalcy, "You hungry?"
Lindsey smiled. "Famished. And I know you must be."
Yeah, he thought, he was hungry. For all the wrong things.
"Is Mexican food okay?" he asked, more gruffly than the question demanded.
"Fine," she answered. She'd heard the roughness in his voice and wondered at its motivation.
She'd give anything to know what was going on in his head. More important, she'd give anything to know what was going on in his heart.
"I'm buying, though," Walker said, adding, "and I don't want any argument about it."
She didn't argue.
Within minutes, just on the outskirts of Houston, Walker spotted the restaurant he was looking for. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled the car into the parking lot and brought it to a stop in a slot in the second row. Silently, he opened his door, got out and crossed around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door. He did not reach out his hand to her. Did he usually do so? Yes. No. She couldn't remember, and she was heartily annoyed with herself for looking for telling signs in every breath, in every word, in every movement he made.
Twisting around, she levered her feet onto the gravel. It crossed her mind that gravel and sandals didn't mix. In particular, gravel, sandals and a fresh pedicure didn't mix, because one didn't chip the polish one had just paid good money for. That in mind, she cautiously picked her way toward the restaurant.
One step here.
Another there.
And then an unsteady step on a large rock.
Her ankle gave up the struggle to remain upright.
Crying out, Lindsey reached for anything to balance herself. The something she found was Walker. Or rather, he found her. Though he wasn't touching her—he wouldn't allow himself to—he was attuned to her every step. When he sensed her falling, he reacted instinctively. With one hand, he grabbed her upper arm. With the other, he reached for her waist, encircling it with his arm. Both her hands splayed wide against his chest.
It all happened in seconds. She was looking up at him. He was looking down at her. She was aware of one of her legs alongside one of his. He was aware of the slenderness of her waist. She felt the buckle of his belt pressing into her stomach. He felt the roundness of one breast nestled against his arm. He also felt the beating of her heart. Just as she felt the beating of his—the battered beating of his.
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