by Casey Hagen
She was probably right, but damn it, it’s not like Abby lied about her real hair color, income level, or debt. She’d neglected to mention a whole human being. A human being she’d created and had to parent for years to come. A little boy he missed just as much as he missed her.
She’d done this to him. If he knew from day one, he would have put the brakes on, walked away, and protected his heart.
Which is exactly what she said would have happened if she’d told him the truth.
Shit.
He couldn’t stay home. Not tonight. If he did, he’d drink and be three sheets by nine p.m. He’d go to the Tallulah Grill. He’d use it as a last hurrah before he checked into the hospital on Friday for the procedure to take his bone marrow for Sophie.
Not that he had a whole hell of a lot of restriction. Like any surgery, he just couldn’t eat or drink after midnight the night before. All in all, he’d be out for an hour, two at most, while they took the marrow, and then he’d rest for the weekend.
So, he’d indulge in an artery-clogging burger and mile-high diner pie. With no shared memories of his time with Abby to interfere.
When he arrived home, drinking. Lots of drinking. Enough drinking that he’d fall into bed with no thoughts at all.
He pushed through the door, the bell ringing overhead grating on his frayed nerves. Agitation and dissatisfaction kept close company, like a second skin. Sitting at the counter, he kept his head down, hopefully inviting no conversation.
The scent of fries hung in the air, and old fifties tunes cranked through the jukebox speakers. On her way to top off someone’s coffee, the waitress slid a menu under his nose. On her way back through, he ordered the first burger listed and her biggest piece of banana cream pie.
“Coming right up,” she said.
Ben closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, the misery of the past week beginning a slow pound in his head.
“Ben, my boy! Looks like we’ll get that meal together sooner than I thought,” George said, sliding onto the stool next to him and patting him on the back.
Christ. “Hey, George. How’re you doing?” Ben reached out a hand.
George took it while staring at him with eyes that saw too much. “I’m doing just fine; you, on the other hand, resemble an angry young man I used to know. Not sure what to make of that.”
Ben drummed his fingers on the counter. “Rough week.”
“Is that all you got?”
“Well, hi there, George! You hiding out from Lorraine while you get your fix?” the waitress said as she loaded a piece of chocolate cream pie onto a plate before sliding it to the man.
“Don’t you know it, and I appreciate you keeping my chocolate cream pie addiction a secret.”
She flipped a mug upright in front of him and filled it. “And your caffeine addiction.” She smiled. “A little indulgence never hurt anyone. I’ll overlook a once-a-week sin.” She winked and moved off to grab Ben’s plate out of the window.
“Here you go, handsome. Maybe a good burger can take the sting out of whatever has you wound up.”
Waitress or witch? Ben wondered. She had a keen instinct for people that bordered on spooky.
“I guess it’s that obvious that even complete strangers see it,” Ben muttered.
“Son, you wear your anger the way most men wear suits. Only, your suit is ill-fitting, torn in places, and covered in pig shit.”
Ouch. Leave it to George to call it as he saw it.
“That means one thing. Woman trouble. What’d you do, son?” George said before taking a big bite of his pie.
“What makes you think it was me?”
George snorted. “It’s always us.”
“Not this time.”
“Really? Try me,” George said.
Ben gave him the whole sordid story between bites of a burger he barely tasted. He glazed over the graphic parts.
George nodded in understanding the whole time, in between bites of his pie and sips of his coffee.
“So, that’s about all of it. And now it’s over,” Ben said, finishing up the last of his burger.
“Just as I suspected, it was you,” George said on a rough laugh.
“How can you say that?”
“She did what a mother is supposed to do: she protected her son first. And you condemned her for it. Seems to me, with your history, you, more than anyone, should understand what she did.”
“She knew how I felt and should have told me from the beginning,” Ben growled.
George leaned in, giving him a hard look. “Careful there, son. You’re starting to resemble that little prick I met thirty years ago. Just like then, I won’t take your shit.”
In his twilight years, George Mitchell had no problem going toe to toe; something about his demeanor and hardness still told Ben that George would be all too happy to kick his ass if he didn’t knock off this shit.
“Fine, let’s assume she’s right. What the hell was I supposed to do with all of it? Was I just supposed to move on as if she hadn’t betrayed me?”
George leaned back on his stool and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, son, you were. You were supposed to put on your big boy britches and work it out. You’re just pissed off that you didn’t call the shots on this one. I suspect that’s also why you have this ridiculous no-kid policy. You want to control everything. After all, if you do, nothing can ever hurt, right? How’s that working for you? It’s three decades later, and although you’ve figured out how to be successful, you’re still hurt. It’s not Abby’s fault that you’re holding on to old shit.”
George tossed a fifty onto the counter. “I’ve got this covered,” he said with a nod at the waitress.
“I know you’re not going to take my word for it just yet. You’re going to go home and rail against my advice. When you sober up tomorrow, think about it. She wanted you, and her only shot was to leave her son out of it at first. Even you can’t deny that. You hate it, but you can’t deny it.”
Ben nodded but said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. He watched George leave and couldn’t help but remember when they had done this so many years ago… and George had been right then.
“I’ll take that pie to go, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he said.
“No trouble at all. You’d do good to listen to George. He’s a smart man. Fair.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ben nodded.
Ben took his pie and headed home. He’d think about what George said… tomorrow.
Maybe after the procedure Friday.
Or, it would plague his mind now.
Fuck.
He battled the urge to turn his truck around and…what?
Six long days.
It’s not like he knew where she lived.
The gnawing in his gut ramped up a bit. If he changed his mind…he’d have to call her, and he’d given her no reason to be nice to him, or even answer the phone after the way he had treated her.
You know, if he planned to call her.
Which he didn’t.
He pulled into his drive and up to the garage, surprised to see an unfamiliar blue Lexus there.
Hmmm.
A man climbed out and came to a reluctant stop when his eyes met Ben’s.
His aquamarine eyes.
“Are you Ben Davenport?” he said, his voice deep, familiar.
Maybe because it sounded a bit like his own.
“I’m Ben.” He didn’t dare move.
The guy took a few steps toward him and reached out a hand. “I’m Chris. I guess—um, well, I’m your son.”
Unable to speak, his throat thick, he nodded, shook his son’s hand, and pulled him into a hard hug. The paper bag holding the banana cream pie crunched against Chris’ back.
His son.
For the first time in thirty-one years, he was finally holding his son again. He pulled away and searched him over as well as he could in the faint light. “God, you’re just perfect.” He hugged him again, making Chr
is laugh.
His son laughed.
His first laugh.
Well, not really his first laugh, but his first laugh for Ben.
Christ, if he had a baby book for him, he’d write it down.
He’d start one.
Nothing weird about that at all.
Someone in the history of the world must have thought of it by now. Hell, that woman, the one who’d spent those years in jail, what’s her name, Mary, Margaret, no—Martha! Yes, Martha Stewart, hell, she probably had a whole baby book line for when biological parents met the kids they gave up. A sharp woman, she would have thought of that.
Ben let Chris go, finally. “Did you want to come in, have a drink maybe?”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
“Okay, good, good.” Stop saying good, you blithering idiot.
Ben unlocked the door and clicked on the lights with the remote. He dropped the pie onto the counter. “What can I get for you? I’ve got water, soda, beer, whiskey…”
“You know, whiskey sounds good. It’s been a rough day,” Chris said.
“I know the feeling. Whiskey it is.” Chris looked just like him. There was no denying it in the light; Chris had turned into a spitting image of Ben. The same hair and hairline, eyes, build, height. Christ, it was like looking at himself at thirty-one.
“Want to tell me about your rough day?” Ben said. He had no right, but just in case.
“Sophie has a cold so we have to postpone the surgery. Every day that passes puts her more at risk.”
The bottom of the bottle clanked against the counter as it slipped from Ben’s grip with the news. “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit is about right.”
Ben poured two glasses and led Chris to the living room. Unable to relax, keyed up, still upset from earlier and terrified he’d screw up the ensuing conversation, he perched on the edge of the sofa cushion and drank deeply from his glass.
Chris sat across from him on the other sofa. “I hope you don’t mind that I just showed up. Alan gave me your address a while back. I didn’t know if I wanted to use it. A lot going on.” Chris’ hand shook as he took a few big gulps of his whiskey.
“No, I’m glad you did. I’ve always wondered…”
“Have you?” Chris said with a hard edge to his voice.
So, there it was. The anger and resentment. And who the hell could blame the boy? Ben had earned it, and he’d take it. “Not a day has gone by that I didn’t think about you or wonder if I did the right thing.”
Chris nodded, seeming to accept that. “Sorry… I didn’t know how I would handle this. A part of me has been bitter since I found out I was adopted.”
“I'd expect you to be angry,” Ben said, scratching the back of his head.
Chris scratched his head the same way, but Ben kept his mouth shut thinking Chris might not appreciate the observation. “It’s stupid. I’m a grown man. I just, I feel like I missed out.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Ben said quietly, taking a gulp of the spicy liquor.
Chris glanced up at him. “I guess you would.”
“I wanted you. Your mother wanted you. We wanted you so much that neither of us was willing to risk ruining your life. It was that simple.”
“My mother is gone,” Chris said.
“Yeah, Alan told me.”
Chris ground his fingers into his eyes. “So, um, do I have any brothers and sisters?”
Ben stared into his glass. “No, no brothers or sisters.”
“Really?” Chris said, eyes wide.
“Really.”
“That’s too bad; would have been nice for Sophie to finally have aunts and uncles. I was an only child.”
What? “You would have been okay if you had come here and found out I had other kids?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I?” Chris asked, a look of confusion flitting across his face.
“Because I gave you up, but went on to have a bunch of kids I kept,” Ben choked out.
“Well, I would imagine having a kid at seventeen is different than choosing to have one later.”
His kid was smarter than him. He made it sound so simple, driving home every point George had made earlier. “True.”
Chris gulped, his face drained of color and his eyes glossed over. “I’m terrified I’m going to lose her,” Chris said. His voice sounded as if he’d swallowed glass.
Ben nodded. “You’re a good dad.”
“Because of you,” Chris said.
Ben laughed. “Uh, no…that goes to your parents.”
“Parents I wouldn’t have had if it weren’t for you,” Chris said quietly.
And just like that, life gave him a swift kick in his stubborn, misguided ass. His son walked into his life and pointed out with a handful of words that he had been a moron of mass proportions. The years he’d given up, the relationships he’d avoided.
Abby and Blake.
Just knowing his son would be fine with him moving on and starting a family lifted every fear he’d ever carried.
Now he just had to deal with the fact that he’d been stupid, stubborn, and—he winced when he thought back to the day—mean.
He’d been so fucking mean. God, George had been spot-on and should have kicked his ass right there at the Tallulah Grill.
“I’m an idiot,” Ben muttered.
Chris laughed. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Anything I can help you with?”
Ben smiled at Chris. “You already have. How do you feel about banana cream pie?”
“It’s my favorite,” Chris said.
“Mine, too. Let’s dig in.” Ben came back with the pie and two forks. “Hey, you have pictures of this granddaughter of mine?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT DAY BEN DROVE to Tallulah Cove Dental with a bouquet of orchids from Carriage Blooms. He’d been assured that they were the perfect flowers for him to grovel his way out of the doghouse.
Chris had alleviated every fear he’d held inside for the past thirty-one years. He’d also highlighted what an ass Ben had been. With that, he’d freed Ben to go after what he wanted.
He pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine.
Time to see how much magic he had bought with his hundred bucks.
He pushed open the door and stepped up to the front counter. “I’m here to see Abby Ames.”
The receptionist—her nametag read ‘Barbara’—stood. “Oh, she’s not here today. Can I take a message for her?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find her, would you, Barbara?”
The middle-aged woman pursed her lips. “We don’t hand out personal information on our employees.”
Ben leaned on the counter and laid the flowers next to his arm. “I wouldn’t ordinarily ask, but…” he glanced around. He didn’t want to advertise his business to everyone in the waiting room. “I owe her a massive apology for being a man. I’m hoping to find her and deliver that apology with these flowers that are just as beautiful as she is.”
Barbara’s eyes softened, and Ben knew he had her.
“Look, I can’t go giving you addresses, but she took a personal day to spend on the beach with that boy of hers. I don’t know where, so don’t ask me. I suspect if you want to see her badly enough, you’ll find her.”
He knew right where she was, and it was perfect. Ben braced his hands on the counter and hopped up enough to give Barbara a smacking kiss on her cheek. “I owe you big time, Barbara.”
“You pay me back by putting a smile back in her eyes. I suspect you’re the reason it disappeared?”
He nodded. “That would be me, but I’m going to fix that. I think. I hope.”
“You do that. Good luck!”
“Thanks,” he said with a wink, grabbing the flowers.
He stopped at home and changed into board shorts and a loose cotton shirt, hoping that if things worked out, he’d get some much-needed time with his sand castle buddy.
He parked closer
to where he usually ran into Kate and Blake and headed in that direction. With temps in the upper seventies, more families had set up on the sand.
Scanning the horizon, he searched for a head of dark curls and two brunettes. What he saw was a bunch of families of varying types, all having fun.
All smiling and playing.
All loving each other.
He’d pushed that away. He loved Abby, he loved Blake, and he had pushed it away.
Idiot didn’t cover it.
He kept walking and came across a suspiciously familiar sand castle standing alone, partially dried-out as though it had been sitting for a while. If he had to guess, he’d put his money on it belonging to Blake. He’d taught him how to build two-stories with turrets.
This castle had an addition, and a wall around it for fortification. Ben dropped to the sand next to the castle and stared out at the horizon. He rested his elbows on his bent knees, the orchids dangling from his hands in between.
He’d mucked this one up good.
Maybe he should just go to her work in a few days. He’d run out of time before going into the hospital. He could do what he needed to do for that beautiful blonde granddaughter of his and try again after.
He heard a piercing squeal and turned.
“My Ben!” Blake screamed as he broke free from his mother’s hand and ran full-tilt right for Ben.
Ben fought a surge of emotion, tears threatening at the sight. Almost to him, Blake leapt into the air, right into Ben’s arms, and took them both down to the sand.
Blake’s skinny little arms locked around him and squeezed tight. Holding the boy to his chest, he sat up and closed his eyes, just relieved to have the boy right there with him.
He had to do whatever possible to not lose him, or his mother, again.
He opened his eyes to find Abby watching them from about ten feet away. She hadn’t been sleeping well, if the dark circles around her eyes were any indication.
He had done that. He had heaped sorrow onto her already-burdened soul. Shame filled him. How could he have done this to her? To them?
He disentangled Blake’s arms from his neck. “Buddy, I need to talk to your mom.”