A Father for Danny

by Janice Carter

“Papa Sullivan left a widow and she’s a resident at a nursing home in Seattle. It’s called Harbor House—in Magnolia. I’ll e-mail all this to you. Her name is Martha.”

  “Thanks, Skye. I really appreciate it.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end. “I hope it helps. So, say hi to Mom for me, okay?”

  “Sure. And I’m hoping you’ll help plan her sixtieth.”

  There was a brief silence. “I’m away at a conference tomorrow and things can get busy real fast here. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can about that.”

  Sam had heard that line before. Still, Skye had come quickly to her help regarding Danny’s father, and if she had to hassle her about the party, best to do it later. “Keep it in mind, though, okay?”

  When she spoke, her sister’s voice was decidedly cooler. “Sure. Talk to you soon.”

  The line was disconnected and Sam had the unsettling feeling that perhaps she ought to have taken the opportunity to have a real talk with her sister. But once again, she’d chickened out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HARBOR HOUSE must have been a private mansion in the days of the timber barons. An imposing Victorian-style house, it perched on a hilltop far above Elliott Bay, off Magnolia Boulevard. Sam guessed that a hundred years or so ago, when the house was new, it had had a spectacular view of the harbor. Now other modern palatial homes checkered the hillside, and the nursing home’s upper balconies looked down on rooftops and skyscrapers in the distance.

  Still, if a nursing home was in your future, this would be the one to choose. If you could afford it. A glimpse of the circular driveway leading to a portico surrounded by large terra-cotta pots of brightly colored annuals and groomed gardens beyond confirmed the place was well-funded. Of course, inside was what really counted.

  But five minutes later Sam realized she wasn’t going to see any more of the inside than the large foyer with its polished marble floor and the frowning, fiftysomething woman sitting behind an imposing oak desk.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman repeated, “but if your name isn’t on Mrs. Sullivan’s guest list, then you won’t be able to see her.”

  Guest list? Sam stared at the austere woman in her dark, tailored business suit and curbed an impulse to be flippant. “I don’t understand. I told Chase I’d be seeing his mother and I thought he’d take care of it.”

  The woman abruptly raised her head from the binder she’d been referring to. Sam caught the slight hesitation in her face and quickly added, “My parents are old family friends and I’m just in town for a few days. I left a voice message for Chase to say I’d meet him here, but perhaps he didn’t get it.”

  A narrowing of steel-gray eyes hinted that Sam may have made a mistake.

  “Mr. Sullivan’s regular visiting time is ten in the morning on Mondays, so he’s due here tomorrow. I’ll ask him if he’d like your name placed on the list.” Her quick smile indicated the matter was finished.

  Sam struck a thoughtful pose, extending it as long as possible. “I suppose I could arrange to stay another day. Thanks.” She started to leave, eyeing the elevator beyond the desk and wondering if she could reach it before the Dragon Lady could stop her.

  “What was the name again?”

  “Uh…Winston. Samantha Winston.”

  The woman wrote a Post-it and placed it on the cover of the binder. “I’ll make sure this comes to Mr. Sullivan’s attention when he arrives tomorrow.”

  Oh, it’ll come to his attention, all right. Sam smiled and walked out the etched-glass main door.

  ON MONDAY MORNING, Chase pulled into a space on the street. He never used the Harbor House visitor parking lot at the north end of the property because he suspected the sight of a battered pickup would draw complaints. The last thing he wanted was to have any negative attention directed at his mother. Not that she’d be aware of it, but it was the least he could do, considering. He grabbed the small box of peppermint patties—his mother’s favorite treat—and climbed out of the truck.

  It was a bright sunny day and he hoped to be back at his workshop in time to give the cabinet he was making a last coat of stain. The oak cabinet had been a rush order and he knew it wasn’t going to measure up to his personal standard, but as long as the customer was happy, that was all that mattered. The bonus for quick work was going to be a down payment on a new truck. As he walked through the gated entry to Harbor House, his attention was caught by a red Acura parked over the yellow line marking the start of the driveway.

  The owner was going to get a ticket if the vehicle was left there for any length of time. He’d seen it happen many times while visiting. The management was very strict about things like that. It was one of the many reasons he’d chosen Harbor House for his mother. The rules were always taken seriously, which meant that security was never compromised. That was of utmost importance.

  Chase debated informing the receptionist but decided against it. When he pushed open the massive glass door, the woman behind the front desk looked up, smiling.

  “Morning, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said. “How’re you today?”

  “I’m great, Mr. Sullivan. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. How’s my mother?”

  “Doing well, I understand. She’s waiting for you in the conservatory.”

  Chase smiled at the phrase. As if his mother remembered his regular visiting days. Yet the routine seldom varied. All a part of the incredible pretense of the place, he thought. Forget this is a home for sick old people who don’t know their own children anymore. He forced aside the bitterness, wondering what had suddenly brought it on. He’d been doing this for almost two years and should be used to it.

  “Great. Thanks.” He started for the elevator when she stopped him.

  “Oh, Mr. Sullivan. There’s someone else here to see your mother.” She stood up, tilting her head slightly to the right.

  Chase noticed a woman sitting in a wing chair at the end of the hallway, a few feet beyond the elevator. On cue, the woman headed his way. As she emerged from the shadowy interior, Chase realized at once this was no one he knew.

  “Hello, Chase. It’s been a while. I can see you don’t recognize me.”

  Chase squinted, as if that might jog his memory. Her raven hair swayed slightly against a slender neck rising out of a crisp white shirt topped by a torso-hugging, sky-blue sweater. Her tight black jeans emphasized long, slim legs. She certainly had his attention.

  “Samantha Winston,” she said.

  He felt a sudden tightening in his chest and hoped he didn’t look as confused as he felt. “Uh…” He stammered, uncertain if this was just a big coincidence or something far worse.

  “Relative of Daniel Winston?”

  Chase stared blankly at the bright red lips curved in a knowing smile. No coincidence, but what exactly was her game?

  “I came to see your mother, but perhaps we could have a little chat first?”

  She glanced at Mrs. MacDonald, listening in from her desk.

  “Feel free to use the front parlor,” the receptionist said with a slight sniff.

  Chase couldn’t take his eyes off the woman standing in front of him, someone who had dredged up a name from the past and yet was a complete stranger. Finally he responded, “Thanks Mrs. MacDonald. Uh…I’ll pop in to see my mother in a few minutes.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll tell the nurse you’ll be arriving shortly.”

  Chase headed for the room to the left of the elevator. The parlor, designed as a small but comfortable living room in someone’s home, was one of several in the establishment for patient visits with family members and was usually full on the weekends. But on Mondays it was relatively empty, one of the reasons he chose to make his weekly visits then. As soon as he entered the room, he set the box of chocolates down on a table and closed the door behind her.

  “All right,” he said. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  She paid him the courtesy of dropping the coy act. In fact, he wa
s surprised to see her face redden.

  “Sorry for the ruse,” she said, “but I thought you might not want the receptionist to hear what I have to say.” She paused. “My real name is Samantha Sorrenti.”

  “Go on,” he said. Her unexpected nervousness calmed him. Whatever she was about to spring on him, he decided he could handle it.

  “Maybe we should sit.” She pointed to a grouping of furniture around the fireplace.

  Chase glanced at it, then back to her. A cozy chat wasn’t what he had in mind. “I’m fine.” He was almost enjoying her discomfort, but he knew not to let his guard down. She had, after all, used that name for a reason.

  “Contrary to what I told the receptionist, I haven’t come here to see your mother. Sorry about that. It was you I wanted to meet.”

  No kidding. He waited for her to continue.

  “Do you remember Emily Benson?”

  He hesitated. It wasn’t the question he was expecting.

  “She used to waitress at a diner in the northwest part of the city. I think it was called Baywicks.”

  “Yes, I remember the diner. And Emily.” He had a sudden image of her. Pale, almost too thin. She was a chain-smoker and always running out to the sidewalk on her breaks. But she’d been a friendly face in a turbulent time for him. And a good listener. God, how many times he must have bored her with his incessant philosophizing. In those days he’d still had something to be idealistic about—before his indulged life came crashing down around him.

  “How is Emily?”

  “Not good.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “She’s dying. Lung cancer.” She cleared her throat and looked down at the Persian carpet.

  It was a moment before the words registered. The Emily he remembered had been a hardworking young woman whose lack of formal education had restricted her opportunities. Yet she’d had spirit and was always positive about her future.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he murmured at last. Their eyes connected suddenly—Emily linking two strangers. Chase turned away and closed his. He was in Emily’s apartment, taking in the Salvation Army furnishings and the quirky decor. He even remembered what she’d said: It’s not much, but it’s all mine. Poverty hadn’t diminished her pride. He’d liked that about her. No apologies. And now she was dying of cancer.

  “Is…uh…someone looking after her?” He dearly hoped so. “She’s in the palliative-care ward at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.”

  She hadn’t really answered his question. “I meant…does she have someone? A family member?”

  When she didn’t answer, he met her gaze. There was a peculiar expression in her face. “Emily once told me she had no family,” he clarified. “That’s why I’m asking. Does she have a partner?” He thought he saw tears in the woman’s eyes and for the first time, wondered if she was related to Emily.

  “No. She’s a single mom.”

  “Oh?”

  “She has a twelve-year-old son. His name is Danny. For his father.”

  His eyes were fixed on her face, but all he saw was the wall shifting behind her. The framed paintings seemed to project outward and the floor moved beneath his feet. Not an earthquake, he told himself as he backed into a wing chair and sat. Just your past rumbling toward you.

  She was talking, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying over the buzzing in his head. You have a son. Emily’s dying of cancer. A son. When he could focus again, she was standing in front of him, her eyes narrowed.

  “I’m sorry if this is a shock,” she was saying.

  A shock? That was rich. “Who are you?” His voice sounded hollow, disbelieving to his own ears.

  “Samantha Sorrenti.”

  He shook his head. “No, I mean, what’s your connection to Emily Benson?”

  “Well, I have this business. Kind of an agency. I look for—”

  He jumped to his feet. “You’re a private investigator? Who are you working for?” He was starting to put it together now. Of course. It made sense. He pointed a finger at her. “Who sent you here? What do you want from me?”

  She stepped back.

  “Is everything all right?”

  They both looked toward the receptionist holding open the door. “Mr. Sullivan?”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. MacDonald,” he replied.

  “All right.” She looked from Chase to Samantha and hesitated, as if reluctant to leave.

  “If you don’t mind…” he prompted, turning his attention to Samantha.

  “Of course.” She closed the door quietly behind her.

  Chase stared at the woman standing mere inches away. Up close, he noticed her gray eyes were flecked with green and their appraisal of him was unflinching. That was good, he thought, because nothing unnerved him more than a tearful woman, and there was no way he was going to be deterred from finding out what the hell was going on. “Sit,” he said, pointing to the love seat behind her.

  She hesitated, as if she didn’t like his tone, but did as he asked. “Look—” she began.

  “No, you look,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ve no idea what you have to do with Emily Benson, but—”

  “If you’ll give me a chance,” she said, her voice rising, “I’ll be happy to explain.”

  He sat on the edge of the wing chair opposite her, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Go ahead.”

  HIS VOICE WAS LOWER, calmer. He had the upper hand now, Sam thought, and he knew it. She was embarrassed at how badly she’d blown the whole thing. What had possessed her to use that Winston name? There’d been no point, other than putting him on the defensive right away. Maybe the recent memory of Danny’s pinched and anxious face had compelled her to take the offensive—just in case Chase Sullivan proved to be one of those deadbeat dads. Yet the sudden blanching in his face when she’d told him suggested otherwise. Plus, he hadn’t rushed to deny the possibility of paternity. And, he’d seemed just as shocked and upset that she might be a private investigator.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  Samantha took a deep breath. No more games. All she had to do now was give him the facts and leave the rest to him. Oh. And one more thing. Try to get a commitment from him to see Danny so she could report back immediately. She had a feeling that might take longer than a few minutes in the parlor of a nursing home.

  Sam moistened her lips, wondering why she felt so nervous. He certainly didn’t look as scary as her mental picture of him from Danny’s description. The long hair was shorter, scraping the collar of his polo-style shirt and he was clean shaven. Her glance drifted to his right arm, encased in the sleeve of his worn tweed sports jacket. Tattoo tucked away.

  He was taller than she’d expected and heavier. But then, she only had Emily’s description, and that was from thirteen years ago. But from the way the shirt stretched across what she could see of his chest, the weight was mostly muscle. He kept in shape. His eyes caught hers and she realized right away he knew she’d been checking him out.

  “Confirming I’m the right man?” he asked.

  The tone was not amused. Neither was the glint in his eye.

  “Who are you working for?” he asked again.

  “Emily and Danny…your son.” She thought she saw him flinch when she added that. “And I need to clarify something. I’m not a private investigator.”

  “You said you had an agency. Looking for…?”

  “Things. Items people might want to buy.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  She sighed. “Rare books. Art objects. Coins. Whatever.”

  “And how long have you known Emily?”

  He’d skipped the Danny connection, she noticed. Maybe still processing that. “I just met her a couple of days ago. I—”

  “So how come you’re working for her?”

  “If you’ll let me explain—”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to do that,” he said testily.

  “Then why do you keep interrupting?�
��

  He didn’t respond, but Sam thought she saw a trace of satisfaction in his face. Angrily, she said, “Danny found my agency on the Internet. Unfortunately he overlooked the fact that I search for objects, not people. Anyway, he persuaded me to meet his mother and later…after…well, I agreed to help him out even though this is not what I do.” She had to stop to calm herself, his unblinking gaze unnerving.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Time is running out for Emily.” She cleared her throat and waited a moment. “They’re desperate.” She paused, thinking he might interject. He sat so still she wondered if he’d heard her. Then she noticed one of his fingers tapping silently on his knee. A metronome keeping time with his heartbeat?

  “They have no other family,” she went on. “When Emily…goes…Danny will have to be placed in foster care. That’s why he decided to look for you.”

  He got up and moved to the large bay window in the center of the room. It looked onto an enclosed garden patio, and for the first time Sam realized there were some people sitting outside, bundled up against the fresh spring air. She wondered if his mother was one of those people and had a sudden pang of conscience. Had she spoiled her day, as well as her son’s? Too late for guilt now, she told herself.

  “Okay,” he said, without turning around. After a long moment, he added, “You can go, then.”

  “Pardon?”

  He pivoted on his heel. His face was set in stone. “Your job is finished now, right? You’ve done your bit.”

  “Well I…I suppose…I guess…”

  “So you can go.”

  Reluctantly, she got up from the love seat. “What about Danny?”

  “Danny’s my business now.” His expression was so intimidating she turned meekly toward the door and pulled it open.

  His voice stopped her. “Unless you feel you’re owed something more.”

  Frowning, she looked back at him. “What?”

  “Maybe you think you ought to be paid more money. In that case…” He paused to dig into the inner pocket of his sport jacket and pulled out a small billfold.

  “For your information,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “I haven’t been paid a cent and don’t expect to be. I came here for Danny and Emily because I wanted to help them. They don’t have some wealthy, blue-blood family to fall back on like you do.” She spun around and walked out, slamming the door behind her.