A Dad Of His Own

“Me?” The poor man’s voice squeaked like a rusty hinge. “I don’t know a surveillance cam from a zonal keypad. I’m only a lowly finance director. You’re the technology guru. Without you, there is no meeting.”

That was true. Nick had always been good with electronics, he had put himself through college installing alarm systems designed by others. Now he designed his own systems and had built a successful company from the ground up.

“Okay, fine. Cancel the meeting.”

“Cancel it? Have you lost your mind? What in hell could be more important that a half-milliondollar contract?”

“Soccer.”

The poor man sputtered as if he’d swallowed a peach pit, but Nick was distracted by voices upstairs, where Chessa was explaining that Bobby couldn’t stay up any later because it was a school night. The frustrated boy was pleading his case, quite eloquently at that, insisting it wasn’t every day a kid got to meet his very own father.

Nick’s chest tightened. He was suddenly impatient with Roger’s nattering on about meetings and money as if there was nothing more important on earth. A week ago Nick might have agreed with that. Today he knew better.

Today he was standing in a home filled with odd bric-a-brac, decorative crafts and unique furnishings that would have appeared garish in less-talented hands. Chessa clearly had a knack for creating character out of chaos. A giant cable spool had been turned into a telephone table from which huge, dried flowers bristled in an oddly appropriate wilderness bouquet. Coats by the front door dangled from the plywood antlers of a Bullwinkle cartoon character, five feet high and lacquered in primary colors bright enough to make the eyes bleed.

An olive-green sideboard stenciled with Dutch designs towered beside a brocade sofa spruced up with embroidered throw pillows and a draped afghan, studded by riotous cartoon characters. Every space on the wall was filled with twisted wreaths of dried twigs and flowers, puffy quilt miniatures trimmed with handmade lace, and peculiar garage-sale items like gigantic carved salad tongs, eighteenth-century bedwarmers and a rusted wagon wheel studded with spears of dried lavender and windflowers.

And of course there were photographs. Dozens of them, set proudly on the spool telephone table, the green sideboard, an iron plant stand that had been converted to a knickknack shelf, and dotting the walls—all lovingly framed with handmade lace or tucked into a nest of braided twigs.

Every photograph was of Bobby. Bobby as an infant, as a drooling toddler, as a grinning first-grader with no front teeth. Bobby in a football jersey. Bobby at the beach. Bobby throwing a snowball. School portraits, candid snapshots, year after year of his son’s life captured in pictures.

Nick had already missed all those years. He wouldn’t miss any more.

Closing the appointment book, he tucked it back into his pocket, interrupting Roger’s sniveled protest with a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ve agreed to assist my son’s soccer coach. The team practices on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll be unavailable on those afternoons for the duration of the season. As for the National Technologies meeting, you can either reschedule it, cancel it or handle it alone. You decide.”

“But—”

“I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss it then.”

The poor man sounded apoplectic. “But what about the fish?”

“Fish?”

“There’s a goldfish in the water cooler.”

“Oh, that fish.” Nick chuckled, having nearly forgotten what was bound to have been one of his most memorable pranks. “Is the fish in question causing any distress?”

“Er, well, Ms. Pipps from Accounting is quite troubled. She won’t drink the water, of course. No one will.”

That came as no surprise, although the cooler had been disabled lest an unobservant soul attempted to use the converted fish tank for its original purpose. “You’ll find several cases of imported spring water in the lunch room. Oh, and there’s a box of fish food on my desk.”

“Fish food?”

“Just a pinch, Roger. Mustn’t overfeed, you know.” With that, Nick thumbed the cell phone off, folded it into his jacket pocket, and focused his attention on the soft footsteps descending the stairs. He knew it was Chessa. There was a distinctive pattern to her movement, a delicate rhythm to her step.

Over the past few hours he’d studied everything about her, from the timid smile that she offered too rarely to the way her eyes widened when she was taken by surprise, as she had been when Bobby had insisted Nick stay for dinner. He’d recognized her anxiety and felt guilty about not having graciously extricated himself from the situation.

The truth was that he’d wanted to stay, had wanted to continue his study of this intriguing woman with the haunted eyes. Everything about her fascinated him, even her unique manner of wielding a dinner fork as if it were something regal. Nick had pieced every mannerism into his memory, searching for something, anything that would jog him into recalling details of their past together. The image remained elusive, a fleeting ghost from a past he’d escaped long ago and the memories he’d left behind.

Halfway down the stairs, Chessa paused when she saw him, gripped the varnished oak banister so tightly that even from his vantage point in the living room, Nick could see her fingers whiten.

She moistened her lips, regarded him with thinly disguised disapproval. “Bobby would like to say good-night to you.” Avoiding his gaze, she descended the final steps and crossed the living room without so much as a glance in his direction. “Please leave his bedroom door open and turn the hall light on when you’re through. Bobby is afraid of the dark.”

With that she disappeared into the kitchen. Nick went to say good-night to his son.

Thirty minutes later Nick came downstairs just as Chessa emerged from the kitchen carrying a flat sheet of carved apples. Her eyes widened a moment, but she recovered quickly and swished past him as if unaffected by his presence. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten how to get downstairs.”

He stepped around the old steamer trunk that enhanced the eclectic decor by serving as a coffee table. “Bobby is a very verbal young man,” he said. There seemed no reason to explain that he’d spent the past half hour explaining why refusal to move into their guest room didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be a part of his life. Not that the idea didn’t hold a certain appeal, although it didn’t take a psychic to realize that Chessa would be less than amenable to the idea.

Stopping at a closed door behind the stairwell, she propped the flat pan against her hip, freed one hand and opened the door, disappearing inside before Nick could spring forward to assist her.

The hollow sound of footsteps on wooden stairs filtered from the open doorway, along with the occasional creak of old boards strained with age. A light sprayed from the opening, which Nick presumed led to a basement.

Acutely aware that he hadn’t been invited to follow, he clasped his hands behind his back, rocked impatiently on the balls of his feet. He glanced at his watch, then back toward the basement door. Sounds filtered up. A clunk, a thunk, a rustling scratch, as if something heavy had been dragged across metal.

It was a two-hour drive back to Marin County. If he left now, he’d make it before midnight.

More scraping from downstairs. Nick sidled toward the doorway, peered down the narrow basement stairs. A low ceiling obstructed his view, so he descended the first few steps. Fluorescent lights flooded the room with brilliant illumination. Two more steps, and he stopped in his tracks, stunned by what he saw.

The huge basement had been transformed into a large assembly bay, with supply bins and long counters heaped with fabric. Sheaths of dried weeds and flowers hung from the rafters, and one section was a mailing area, complete with stacks of boxes, tapes and labels. “Good grief,” he mumbled. “You’ve got quite an operation down here.”

Startled, Chessa leaped away from the large dehydrator into which she’d been arranging the carved apples, touched her throat, then sagged against the counter.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Continuing down the steps, Nick glanced around the room, noticing an old sewing machine on a counter heaped with bolts of cloth, and bins of what appeared to be tiny doll clothes. “You actually sell these things?”

“Yes.” Across the room, Chessa completed loading the apples without embellishment. She’d been quiet all day and apparently wasn’t feeling any more talkative now.

Nick sauntered past the mailing area, glancing at a few of the packed boxes, which had been neatly labeled to specialty stores around the country. “A nationwide clientele? I’m impressed.”

She closed the door, crossed her arms and regarded him warily. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Puffing his cheeks, Nick blew out a breath and jammed his hands in his slacks pockets. “I didn’t mean to intrude. You left the basement door open, so I presumed you didn’t mind if I joined you.”

“I always leave the door open so I can hear Bobby.” Her gaze skittered away, settled on a spot in thin air. “He sometimes wakes up during the night.”

“Nightmares?”

“No, not really. He just wants to make certain I’m here.”

Nick regarded a nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Has he ever awakened and not found you here?”

The nervous twitch hardened into a flat, angry line. “I have always been here for my son,” she snapped. “How dare you imply otherwise?”

He managed to stifle a groan of regret at having uttered such an asinine and insensitive comment. “I’m sorry. Of course you have. We both know that I’m the one who hasn’t been here. I can’t change the past. I’m here now, and I intend to be part of my son’s life from this day forward.”

Every trace of color drained from her face. She swayed slightly, and for a moment Nick feared her knees might buckle. As he reached out, she stiffened, held out a hand like a shield. Since she appeared ready to bolt, he dropped his hands to his side and stepped back, giving her space.

She took one deep breath, then another. When she finally met his gaze, her expression was steel hard and determined. “I realize you’ve been put in an untenable position, Mr. Purcell, and I deeply regret it. Please understand that none of this is your fault, but my son is my first and only priority. The longer this goes on, the more deeply he will be hurt. I don’t want you to be a part of his life. In fact, I don’t want you to see him again. Ever.”