The Rebel's Return

“I’m perfectly sane,” she’d said. “As sane as any woman could be whose husband humiliated her in front of the whole world. The man promised to love and honor me, to be faithful to me until death. Whatever you do, Maddie, never trust any man. They’re all alike. They’ll break your heart.”

Snap out of it, Maddie told herself. If you let yourself, you could wallow so deeply in your mother’s self-pity that you might wind up drowning in it the way she has.

Twenty minutes later, Maddie parked in the garage in the basement of her condo. After college, her mother had insisted she move home with her, but Maddie had struck a blow for independence then and there. And she’d never regretted having moved into the condo and separating herself from her mother. If she hadn’t done that, she doubted she would have survived without psychiatric help of her own.

As she unlocked the door of her three-thousand-square-foot, two-story home, she heard music playing. That could mean only one thing. Thelma was here. Thelma Hewitt was her personal maid, a five-foot-tall ball of fire, with gray-streaked, short black hair and keen brown eyes that saw straight through most people and especially Maddie. Highly efficient, but a notorious busybody, Thelma had worked for Maddie for twelve years. Maddie hadn’t wanted a live-in maid, having grown up with a house full of servants. Being a daily maid had suited Thelma just fine. After all, she needed time for her husband, five children and fifteen grandchildren.

After tossing her handbag and keys on the velvet Louis XIV chair in the foyer, Maddie followed the sound of the country-western music, which led her into the kitchen. There stood Thelma, singing along with an old Eddy Arnold tune, peeling apples and dropping the slices directly into an uncooked pie shell.

“You look busy,” Maddie said.

Thelma gasped, dropped her knife and the half-peeled apple onto the granite countertop. “Good Lord, gal, you scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Sorry, I thought you heard me walk in.”

Thelma wiped her hands on her apron, reached over to turn off the radio, then looked Maddie up and down. “What are you doing home at three o’clock?”

Maddie eased up and onto a stool at the bar area that ran behind the work center. “I had to drive Mother home from the club.”

Thelma raised her eyebrows. “How is Nadine?”

“The same.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine.” Thelma was a mother-to-the-world type of woman and she’d been mothering Maddie since the first day she came to work for her. “I just wish there was something I could do for Mother, some way I could help her.”

“Nadine doesn’t want to be helped. She wants to be pitied. So you just go on pitying her and doing what you can. Can’t nobody help that woman but herself. You should be concentrating on your own life a bit more.”

“Is this the get-married-and-have-babies talk that we’ve had on numerous occasions?”

Thelma picked up the apple and the paring knife. “I know you modern girls think you don’t need a man to complete your life or kids of your own to give you a reason to live, but—”

“But you think I’m the kind of woman who needs to have a husband and children.” Maddie reached over and picked up an apple slice from inside the pie pan. “On that one subject, you and Mother agree totally.” Maddie popped the apple bite into her mouth.

“There’s a man out there waiting for you. You just haven’t found him yet.”

“There are dozens of men out there waiting for me,” Maddie said. “Probably hundreds, if not thousands. And they all want one thing—my money. You know the funny thing is that Mother wants me to get married and give her grandchildren, but at the same time she warns me to never trust any man. And you know what, Thelma? I don’t trust men. Not any of them.”

“Ah, but one of these days—”

“One of these days, what? Some daring man will sweep me off my feet, make mad, passionate love to me and not give a damn that I’m the richest woman in Texas?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“Dreams are free, Maddie, my girl. If we don’t have our dreams, we don’t have anything. So what’s wrong with your dreaming about being swept off your feet by some handsome man?”

“The last time I got swept off my feet, I wound up at the police station. It seems my Romeo had stolen a car to impress me.”

“You’re talking about that Bridges boy…Dylan Bridges. That youngun sure was a boil on his daddy’s backside. Did everything and anything to rile the judge. I wonder whatever happened to him. Last time I saw him was right before he got sent off to Amarillo to that reform school. Lord, he was a sight, with that long hair and that earring. Looked like a damn hippie.”

Maddie hopped off the stool, opened the refrigerator, removed a bottle of Perrier and headed for the door. “I think I’ll get some work done in my study. Say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

“Sure thing. And I’ll bring you a piece of this pie, just as soon as I take it out of the oven.”

Maddie smiled, then escaped to her study, a small, cozy retreat, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three sides and a wall of windows on the fourth. As she positioned herself in the oversized, navy-blue leather chair and placed her feet on the matching ottoman, she thought about Dylan Bridges. Over the years she’d thought of him from time to time, and always wondered what had happened to him. Rumors had abounded: he’d become everything from a mercenary to a priest. Which was highly unlikely because his family wasn’t Catholic.

Where was Dylan now? And what was he doing? He’d been one boy who hadn’t given a damn that her daddy was Jock Delarue. He’d liked her. Wanted her. She’d known that fact as surely as she’d ever known anything. If only Dylan had come into her life later, when she’d been more mature—when they’d both been adults.

If she met a guy like Dylan Bridges now, would she have the guts to reach out and grab him? Or would she let her doubts and insecurities about love, marriage and men in general stop her from taking a chance?

Maddie shrugged. What difference did it make what she might or might not do? She was about as likely to meet a man like Dylan Bridges as she was to sprout wings and fly.

Two

For just a split second Dylan felt as if he’d stepped back in time. Seventeen years. The old home looked the same, there on the big, level lot in the middle of town, only a few blocks from the courthouse. Did his father still walk to work every morning and then home again in the evenings? Probably. Carl Bridges was a creature of habit. If other things had changed about him, that probably hadn’t.

His father had inherited this 1920s Craftsman style house from his uncle, who’d died a bachelor. Like many of the homes of its day, the Bridges house possessed two stories, a sloping roof line, a large square front porch with a swing and a detached two-car garage. The white picket fence around the property boasted a fresh coat of paint, as did the house. Dylan wondered if his great-uncle’s old Packard was still parked inside the garage. As a teenager, he had longed to get behind the wheel of that antique gem, but his father had refused to let him even sit inside the car.

A large American flag, waving slightly in the wind, hung over the porch. His father, a Vietnam veteran, had been, in the best of times, a patriotic citizen, and no doubt he was now more so than ever. Looking back to his boyhood, Dylan could recall many reasons to have been proud of his dad. Why couldn’t he have realized it at the time?

As he stepped away from the cab and onto the walkway that led up to the front porch, Dylan experienced a moment of uncertainty. Standing at the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. Maybe he should have telephoned first to tell his father he was coming. Why the hell had he wanted his arrival to be a surprise?

Reminding himself that his father had been the one to call him, to extend the olive branch, to ask forgiveness, he punched the doorbell. Within seconds he heard footsteps inside the house, then the front door opened and there stood a broad-shouldered, stern-faced man of sixty, with a stock of neatly trimmed white hair and the same watery-blue eyes that Dylan remembered so well.

A sudden smile flashed across Carl Bridges’ face as he reached out to grab Dylan’s arm. “Come on in, son. Come on in.” Carl draped one arm around Dylan’s shoulders and escorted him into the house.

Dylan wasn’t sure what he had expected. A cordial handshake at most. But certainly not this warm, enthusiastic welcome. His father had never been an overly emotional man, and never one for displays of affection. The only hugs and kisses Dylan had gotten as a boy had come from his gentle, loving mother.

“I had no idea you would come home so soon,” Carl said as he led Dylan into living room. “I’d hoped you would want to see me as much I wanted to see you, but…” Carl cleared his throat.

Dylan stared at his dad, startled by the fact that the old man was almost in tears. This wasn’t the Carl Bridges he remembered. And this softer side of his father unnerved him. He had been prepared for both of them to feel and act a bit awkward, but it had never entered his mind that his father might have mellowed with age.

“Have you had supper?” Carl asked. “I could make us some sandwiches here at the house. Or if you’d like we could run over to the Mission Creek Café for some barbecue. Whatever you’d like.”

“Sandwiches here are fine with me, Dad.” Odd how easily he could say that word. Dad. And even more strange was how comfortable he felt in this house. The place had never felt more like home than it did at this very minute.

Dylan glanced around the living room and found fresh tan paint on the walls and a new sofa and chair. The same simple wood paneling around the fireplace and the sturdy coffee and end tables remained, but wooden shutters had replaced the heavy curtains and window shades.

“Come on back into the kitchen with me, son, and let’s talk.” Carl nodded the direction. “I’ll fix ham and cheese. That used to be your favorite.”

His dad actually remembered what his favorite sandwich had been. He would have sworn that his father hadn’t known a thing about him back then, certainly nothing as personal as his preferences in food. Guess it just went to show how wrong he’d probably been about other things, too.

“Yeah, it’s still my favorite.” Dylan followed his dad into the kitchen, a room that had changed even less than the living room. A new refrigerator seemed to be the only major difference. And the walls were now beige instead of the sunny yellow his mom had painted them.

“Sit down. Sit down.” Carl opened the fridge and began removing items, laying ham and various condiments on the table. “Tell me about yourself, Dylan. I know you live in Dallas and that you’re a stockbroker. That private detective I hired to find you told me that much.”