by Roz Denny
"Thanks. That's a big load off my mind. I thought about calling a baby-sitting service, but I don't like leaving Mike with a stranger. Goodbye," she said as Harvey opened the door and stepped outside. "Enjoy your brunch."
No sooner had she closed it behind him, bemused by the way some problems seemed to work themselves out while others mushroomed, when Mike spoke in a loud voice. "Gabe's no stranger, Mom. What were you talkin' 'bout? I won't be stayin' with no stranger."
Sarah massaged her temples. "What are you doing out of bed, young man?" As she spun to face him, a sharp pain shot through her head. "Mike, I'm still not feeling a hundred percent. Could we discuss this later?"
"I feel okay," he insisted, with the beginning of a pout. "I don't wanna be sick. I want Gabe to hurry. There's nothin' to do here."
All her child-rearing books said it was wrong to be less than direct with children. They said avoiding issues was dishonest. A great concept, but hard to practice. Then it crossed her mind that if Harvey could clear the air, she should do no less.
"Mike, Harvey gave me next week off. You and I will draw, read and play board games. Won't that be fun? We hardly ever get to do stuff like that. Let's start now. I'll let you watch my TV."
"Don't wanna watch no more TV. Don't want you to stay home. I never do guy things. Fun stuff. I wanna watch surfin'. Gabe promised."
Sarah felt her temper rise. "Gabe is not your father, Mike. He doesn't pay your doctor bills. Nor does he pace the floor at night worrying when you're sick. I'm staying home next week, and that's final. No arguing. The doctor said you should rest." When Mike acted like this she was inclined to throw away her parenting books.
His face contorted and tears loomed. "Mrs. Cline said she thought Gabe was gonna be my new dad. But you won't let him, will you? You don't want us doin' cool stuff. It's all your fault."
"Mike. Honey." Sarah reached out a hand, but he drew back. "Children do not select their own fathers," she said, vexed at the meddling woman. "Mrs. Cline had no right suggesting any such thing."
His tears dripped. The sight of them tore at Sarah's heart. She went to hug him, but again he pulled away. "I know you don't understand, honey. Regular mothers and fathers start by loving each other first. They become parents second. It'll all make sense one day. Please, won't you go lie down?"
"Gabe loves me," he said stubbornly. "I bet he'd love you, too, if you didn't yell at him all the time—like you did last night."
Sarah squared her shoulders. She hadn't realized he'd been awake or that their argument had carried. This was the way Mike had acted before Gabe came on the scene. It was time to do what she should have done before signing up with Befriend an Island Child. Get firm.
"I'm only going to say this once, Mike. Gabe's and my differences have nothing to do with you. He may care a great deal for you, but his responsibilities for your welfare are not the same as mine. I'll give you until I count to three to choose a bed and get in it. Your own or mine. It's up to you."
He whirled and ran toward his room.
"Wait, Mike." Sarah hurried after him. "Don't run. The doctor said to be careful." By the time she reached his door, he'd slammed it, and she could hear him sobbing. She considered following, but how could she explain things any better? Her feelings for Gabe were complex. Sarah didn't fully understand them herself. She decided to let him calm down first. She sighed and checked her watch. Almost two-thirty. Mike had eaten a late breakfast. He'd probably cry himself to sleep and not want anything until dinner.
Surely by then Gabe would call. He wasn't unreasonable. In the cold light of day, he might have come to the same conclusion as she had. Together they'd work something out. Meanwhile she'd let Mike act out his anger and she'd fry chicken, fix potato salad and bake chocolate-chip cookies. His favorites.
Harvey referred to it as bribery, but the experts called it unconditional love. Sarah liked what the books said better. Next week would be special, too: Mike would see. She'd make it special.
While the chicken thawed, Sarah downed two cups of strong coffee. Although she felt infinitely better, dark circles still ringed her eyes, she noticed, when she went back to her bedroom to dress and brush her hair and saw her reflection in the mirror.
"Bah." She stuck out her tongue. "No more demon rum for you, lady," she chastened. "Next time, ask what's in those pretty red drinks." Even now, the thought of them puckered her lips. Recalling how uninhibited she'd been brought a flush to her cheeks.
Pushing the memory aside, Sarah pulled on shorts and a sleeveless blouse—appropriate attire for working in a hot kitchen. As she slipped on her sandals, she wondered why it seemed so hard to forget Gabe.
On her way back to the kitchen, she stopped by Mike's door. All was quiet inside except for the garbled murmur of the TV. She tiptoed away, smiling. He would get over his pout, especially once he saw dinner.
Sarah hummed a catchy tune as she gathered ingredients. When she tossed the chocolate-chip bag into the trash and saw the remains of last night's pizza, she remembered Jenny Sue. Mortified, she stopped to call her young sitter's mother—to explain and make arrangements to pay the girl.
Minutes later, Sarah hung up, flustered and deeper in debt to Gabe Parker. Jenny Sue's mother had been all sympathy. Flu, she'd said. And Jenny had been generously paid.
Gabe had already covered all bases. No wonder he hadn't called today. He must think her as shallow as a birdbath.
Sarah glanced at the kitchen clock, then threw all her muscle into mixing the thick cookie dough. It was closing on three o'clock. If she hadn't heard from Gabe by six, she'd call him. Her heart leapt erratically, thinking about his voice with its rich cadence, the kind that tied knots in her stomach and sent shivers up her spine.
What if she invited him to dinner? After the times he'd cooked, she owed him. And two adults ought to be able to explain things to one small child.
Without soccer, Gabe's visits would naturally taper off. Sarah found the thought depressing. She hadn't realized how much she'd come to count on him—for Mike's sake. No, she mused, sliding the first pan of cookies into the oven, this was a day for honesty. Despite all their ups and downs, she'd come to count on him for herself. Therein lay the problem.
The clock ticked on as Sarah prepared potato salad and readied the chicken. Four o'clock came and went. She was a little surprised that the smell of cookies hadn't enticed Mike from his room. Except that recently he tended to stay upset longer—particularly when it involved Gabe.
However, she wouldn't let him sulk too long. If he didn't surface by the time the chicken was done, she'd go get him. The delicate part would be skirting her own feelings for Gabe. It would never do to let the child suspect how she felt. He'd have them married off for sure. The thought was appealing. Very appealing…
She smiled and snapped on the radio before dropping cornmeal-coated chicken parts into hot oil. She hummed along with a Beatles tune and was mildly surprised when the radio announcer broke into the middle of it. Sarah caught one word over the sizzle as she dropped the last piece of chicken into the pan. Tsunami. Tidal wave. It struck fear into her heart.
Urgently she reached to turn up the radio with her free hand. She shivered, remembering the one and only time she'd lived through a tidal wave—in this very house. She'd been fourteen. It was near the end of monsoon season. Her mother's cancer had taken a turn for the worse and the doctor had her heavily sedated. The woman who stayed during the day had gone, leaving Sarah in charge.
Sarah poked at the pieces of chicken, pulled out those that looked done and placed them on a rack. Friday there had apparently been a submarine quake somewhere off the coast of Mexico that had created a wall of water, which was now rushing toward Hawaii at four hundred miles an hour-growing bigger as it traveled across the sea.
Sweat popped out on Sarah's brow. Her palms grew damp. She rubbed them over her shorts. Last time, the seaquake had developed in the aftermath of an erupting Chilean volcano. Her father had called once from the
base to say he was responsible for the navy's aircraft. In his offhand way, he told Sarah she'd be just fine.
In the end, she was. But she would never forget the terror of the hours she'd spent. The sirens—terrifying whooping sounds—sounded unceasingly all night long. Radio and television programs were interrupted frequently, and news broadcasters gave reports in deathlike tones. When all her neighbors began fleeing their homes, suitcases in hand-leaving for higher ground, they said—she had tried unsuccessfully to rouse her mother.
Even now she remembered crying and having no one to hear. She'd vowed then never to marry a man who cared more for airplanes than he did his family. And she hadn't. Sarah smiled bitterly. Farrell Michaels didn't care about airplanes—with him everything came before family.
Sarah listened to the reports as she removed the rest of the chicken and turned off the stove. The wave was expected to hit the big island of Hawaii by seven tonight. If it split and didn't run itself out, by seven-thirty Oahu's coastal towns could be in grave danger.
Fortunately her home lay inland. Probably far enough to be safe. Sarah almost had herself convinced and was feeling somewhat better when the announcer mentioned the crazy surfers who were out there trying to catch the swelling waves. The chief of police came on with a stern warning.
Her knees buckled. Gabe's place was right on the beach. Surely he'd had the sense to evacuate. Sarah's heart skipped a beat. Imagine, if she'd given in last night, Mike might well be in danger this very minute!
Suddenly she needed to look in on him.
She hurried down the hall and whisked open his door, expecting to see him asleep or watching TV. His bed was rumpled but empty, the TV blank.
He must have gone to the bathroom. The radio was up too high for her to hear him. Lord, what if he'd fallen?
But no, the bathroom was vacant. Uneasiness sent a surge of acid spiraling into her stomach. Of course! She'd offered him her television, which he preferred over his smaller set.
"Mike," she called, opening the door to her room. But her bed was as she'd left it. Sarah gazed around with growing puzzlement. Where could he be? Panic rose, but she fought it down. When he was younger, he often hid from her if he was angry. Although he hadn't pulled that trick in some time, he might have done it now.
But where was he? At least her house was small, although it had always been her dream to add on to it someday. Sarah was glad now there were only so many places a boy could hide. He simply must be here someplace.
His walk-in closet was dark. Sarah chewed at the inside of her mouth. What next? All at once, as she scanned the room, she realized the stacks of clothes were no longer on his bed. The clothes and Bear-Bear were gone.
She ran back to the closet and yanked open the door. His carryall—the one he used when he spent late evenings at Mitzi's mom's—wasn't there.
"Lord, no!" Sarah covered her mouth with her hand. He couldn't have… He wouldn't leave the house, would he? If he did, where would he go?
She sat down hard on his bed and gathered his pillow to her chest. A piece of paper floated to the floor. Sarah snatched it up with shaking hands. The message, a childish scrawl, had been written in purple crayon. Most of the words were spelled phonetically. It took a moment for her to decipher: "Gon to see serfin. Dont wury. Gab will tak gud car of me. Luv, Mike."
Tears coursed down Sarah's cheeks and fell in wet blotches on the paper. She jumped up and stuffed the note into a pocket of her shorts. How long had he been gone? Had he called Gabe first?
No. Gabe would never have taken him without telling her. That much she did know. She pulled out the drawer of the nightstand, searching frantically for the phone numbers she knew Gabe had given him. Falling that, she rifled through his treasures. No list. And hers was at the office.
Then she noticed—his piggy bank no longer sat on the chest of drawers. How much money did he have? Was he smart enough to call a cab? Did he know the direction to Sunset Beach? Sarah grabbed her purse and raced for the car. Her fingers shook so much she could barely get the key in the ignition.
How serious was his spleen injury? What would happen if he didn't do exactly as Dr. Manolo said? She turned off the engine and hurried back inside to call the police.
Sergeant Hanna was sympathetic. He also explained they couldn't do much at the moment. Hadn't she heard about the tsunami? Every available officer was working to clear the beaches. He suggested she check with the boy's friends. Nine out of ten children who ran away were found within a block of their own home, he said. Sounding harried, he promised to get on it himself if Mike didn't turn up within the hour.
Only minimally relieved, Sarah hung up. Out she went to cruise the neighborhood. It was five past five. It wouldn't be dark for a while. At each corner, she expected to see him trudging down the sidewalk lugging his carryall. She had her speech prepared. One that wouldn't injure his pride.
After fifteen minutes of driving and suffering disappointment at the homes of his three closest friends, Sarah switched on the radio to chase away the morbidity of her thoughts. At the next stoplight she shut it off again. Reports of the pending tidal wave scared her witless.
The closer she got to the beach highway, the heavier the traffic. Most cars, though, were heading toward town. The absence of tourists on the palm-lined streets was almost eerie. Occasionally a cat or dog streaked out, causing her to brake anxiously, but outside of that sidewalks were vacant.
Would Mike really have tried to go to Sunset Beach?
Yes. The answer hammered in Sarah's now throbbing temples. From experience, she knew there was no way to get Gabe's telephone number. Going to her office would only waste time. She'd ask someone for directions to his beach house.
Turning sharply, she took a shortcut that zigzagged through pineapple fields. Anything to save precious time.
Like it or not, she should listen to the radio. Each update started a new shiver of fear in the pit of her stomach. "Oh, Mike," she cried, as she hit the beach highway. "Be safe, please. Be with Gabe." Never had she prayed so hard for anything in her life.
Dusk was falling when she approached of the first road block.
"What do you think you're doing, lady?" A weary-looking policeman ran up to her car. "You can't go to the beach. We're securing the area. Turn this car around. If you had a lick of sense, you'd find higher ground."
She stared at the lights of the oncoming traffic. "I have to reach Sunset Beach. My son, he's only eight—he's run away." She dug into her pocket and pulled out Mike's note. "Look! I think he's gone there to find a friend who's got a place near where they're holding the surfing trials."
The policeman took the note and studied it. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. I hope they linked up. But I still can't let you through. At last report the wave was five hundred miles off the Big Island. See there—" he pointed "—she's even sucking water from the irrigation ditches out to sea. She won't be stopped at Hawaii, I'm afraid."
As if on cue, the sirens began to howl. Sarah's heart leapt as the noise reverberated in her ears. "You can't stop me," she said between clenched teeth. "What would you do if it was your son?"
His eyes darkened for a moment, but then with a determined look, he stepped in front of her car and physically blocked her path.
Sarah jumped out. "Then I'll walk," she declared, although a mean wind had suddenly sprung up to snatch away her words and her breath.
The young officer grabbed her wrist and fumbled with a set of handcuffs. "I can't let you do that, ma'am. If you won't cooperate, I'll have to detain you by force. Can't you see it's dangerous?"
Sarah had never known such despair. Cars laden with surfboards rode bumper to bumper heading toward town. And Mike was just one small insignificant child.
Gabe! her heart cried, or maybe she called his name aloud. It was now six-fifteen and a tidal wave could kill them all before she had a chance to set things right.
"Mike, oh, Mike, where are you?"
Tw
isting, Sarah resisted the policeman with every bit of strength she had. Failing to break free, she slumped against the car and buried her face in her hands.
CHAPTER TEN
Gabe nosed his way into the line of traffic heading toward town from Sunset Beach. He should have gone earlier, right after securing the house. He wanted to leave around three, when Grady Cooper, his general manager at the marina, called to say he'd sent the staff home and was double anchoring the boats. He would have left then if some of those screwball surfers from the mainland hadn't decided it'd be fun to stay and ride the big one. Fools, every damn one.
He enjoyed surfing and the thrill of a good ride. But today Sarah's words had left a big impression. Maybe he was ready to roost. She'd been on his mind the entire time he helped clear beaches. Was she worried that he hadn't called? He'd tried once at eleven and her phone had been busy.
Gabe heard the sirens kick in. Damn. It must mean the wave hadn't died at sea. Brother, he hated that incessant shriek. But it could've been worse—like if he'd gone with his first inclination after leaving Sarah and killed that half-bottle of scotch his brother had left at the beach house.
Good thing he'd decided he didn't want the man-size hangover that went with such a juvenile action. He didn't need the guilt, either. He shouldn't have let her get to his ego so easily. What if she or Mike had needed him during the night? Well, he'd know soon.
Gabe glanced at his watch. Holy smoke! How did it get to be so late? Ten past six. Grady would chew his butt for sure. It didn't matter a lick which of them was boss. That old man tended to treat the boat-works as if Grandpa were still alive and he himself still a full partner. Most of the time Gabe didn't object. Those two guys had taught him all they knew about boats. And what they didn't know wasn't worth learning.
At last—the roadblock up ahead in the ocean-bound lane. Not far beyond, the road fanned out into four lanes where traffic moved faster. Drawing close to the blockade, Gabe could see that an officer had a car stopped. The way the fellow was waving his arms it looked like he was having trouble convincing someone to detour. A woman, Gabe noted when he moved another car length. With nice legs, he thought, measuring her shorts with a practiced eye in spite of the gathering dusk. Obviously, though, her elevator didn't run to the top floor. Only a nut would insist on going to the beach with a tsunami on the way.