Born to Be Wild (33 page)

He was crying now. “I don't have my camera—a picture of this would make me a fortune.”

“Yeah, right, that's the way to think. Hang in there, Puker. Help's on the way.”

His eyes closed and a second later his head simply fell to the side. She pressed her palm hard against the wound. “Don't you die on me, you jerk!”

Jack shoved her away. He felt for the pulse in his throat for a very long time, raised his face to her, and shook his head. “You did what you had to, Mary Lisa. You saved yourself. I didn't get here in time. I'm proud of you. As for your gun, I'm going to bronze it and put in on the mantelpiece.”

BORN TO BE WILD

Sunday is sitting at a table at Dino's Italian Kitchen, one of her favorite restaurants, waiting for her father.

She takes a sip of her wine. She taps her fingers on the white tablecloth. Finally, she sees him striding toward her, dressed immaculately and quite expensively, looking elegant and handsome and smiling toward her. People do double takes as they recognize him, speak to each other in low voices.

When he reaches her, he leans down and kisses her cheek, lightly touches his fingertips to her hair. “You look beautiful.”

She grins up at him. “So do you, and everyone in this restaurant thinks so too.”

He allows the owner, Dino, to seat him himself, then accepts the wine list. “What are you drinking?”

“A lovely merlot Dino recommended.”

He nodded to the flamboyant Dino. “I'll have what my daughter is having, thank you.”

She doesn't pause. “What did you and my mother have to say to each other last night?”

“The fact is, I'm trying to make peace with her. No, not with your grandfather too, that would be impossible, but at least with your mother. She looks grand, doesn't she? I don't think she'll ever age.”

“What does making peace mean?”

He chuckles. “So you're pinning me down, are you?”

She picks up a piece of bread, crumbles it between her fingers, sets it on her plate. “I have to,” she says at last. “I've learned over the years that people slip and slide around, never coughing up the truth unless they have to, and even then they try not to.”

“Is this what you do?”

“Naturally. So, what peace?”

“I asked her flat-out if she would forgive me for leaving you and her.”

“But you told me you had no choice in the matter.”

“There are always choices, Sunday. The fact is, I wanted out. I wanted to accept my calling. I wanted to find the meaning and purpose of my life.”

“And by leaving us you found it?”

He accepts the wineglass a waiter brings him and clicks his glass to Sunday's. In his powerful deep voice, his eyes on her face, he says, “To possibilities.”

She smiles at him. “Yes, to possibilities.” She says again, “So, you're saying that by leaving us you found the meaning of life?”

He looks troubled, then slowly nods. “I suppose I have. Grief and loss, they help you focus on what's really important. They make you more aware of all the anguish and the sorrow in the world, make you face up to it, because otherwise they lurk inside you your whole life.”

“So you suffered as you pursued your goal. But all of us suffer. Sorrow and anguish are knit into the fabric of life itself. No one has the market on it. Did you find your goal, Father?”

His eyes light up. She's called him Father. He shrugs. “Does any man ever attain his goal? Don't goals always shift and change, become more difficult to pin down as you mature and gain wisdom?”

“You're very good,” Sunday says. “I think I'd like to order. I hope you like the food.”

There is silence for a moment while they peruse the menu. He says, without looking up at her, “Do you have a goal, Sunday?”

“Why yes, I believe I'll have the spaghetti Bolognese,” she says and gives him a false smile.

He sits forward, places his palm up on the table between them, clearly inviting her to take his hand, but she doesn't. “I'm your father. No matter what, that fact will never change. Don't shut me out. Don't make a mockery of what I am and what I do and what I strive so very hard to accomplish. I'm only a man, Sunday, but I'm here now and I want you to come to accept me. As your father.”

She's moved, she can't help it. She reaches out her hand to his. Then she looks up. A beautiful young woman is walking toward them, a woman who's very pregnant.

Sunday turns away from her, gives her father her hand. She whispers, “Father—”

“Hey, here you are!”

He freezes, then slowly turns to face the young woman, who says as she tosses her hair, “I got tired of waiting. I didn't think it would take this long.”

Sunday slowly pulls her hand back. She stares up at the woman, at the long blond hair, smooth and straight, the big breasts now bigger with her pregnancy, incredible pale blue eyes, sexy despite the big belly. Sunday arches a brow. “And you are…?”

The young woman laughs, pats her belly. “May I sit down?”

“No, you may not. Tell me who you are.”

The young woman frowns down at her. “That isn't very polite.”

“What isn't polite is interrupting two perfect strangers.”

“Oh, we're not all strangers. Phillip is my husband.” She caresses his cheek with her fingers. “I suppose I'm here to meet you.” She laughs. “Isn't this delicious? You're older than I am and you're my stepdaughter and soon you're going to have a little brother.”

Sunday stares at her father, devastated. Then her expression changes to one of cynical, weary amusement. She gives an elegant shrug of her shoulders. She holds it, holds it—

“Clear!”

There were some cheers.

Bernie yelled out, “Wow! What a way to end the week. You can bet every single viewer will tune in for sure on Monday. Well done, Norman, Mary Lisa, Stacy. Okay, kids, have a great weekend!”

“Let me get this damned pillow out,” Stacy said, laughing.

Mary Lisa patted the pillow. “I think it looks kind of cute,” she said.

Stacy Freeman glanced over to where Jack was standing, arms crossed over his chest, watching the action. “He's yours?”

“Yep, all mine.”

Jack looked up, smiled at her. “Yes,” she said again, “he's all mine.”