You're My Baby (11 page)

“Second, third and tenth.” Apparently sensing his discomfort, she laid a hand on his thigh. “And yet—”
she paused as if searching for the right words “—I'm feeling much more at home with you and Andy than I had thought possible.”

He wasn't prepared for the sense of well-being that washed over him, drowning out the doubts that had surfaced during the party. “It's not all bad, is it?”

“No. And maybe it will get easier. Perhaps, with time, the roles will seem almost natural.”

He eased into the driveway and shut off the ignition. Night sounds—katydids, a far-off barking, tinkling wind chimes—surrounded them. More than anything he wanted to pull her into his arms and convince her everything would be all right.

Just as he turned toward her to do exactly that, she took hold of the door handle. “The presents? I suppose we should carry them in.”

“Andy and I'll get them in the morning. You're beat. You and Barney need to get to bed.” He escorted her up the walk. Inside the house, one lone light was burning in the kitchen, casting the hallway in shadow. “Tonight you're sleeping in my bed. I'll take the den.”

“Grant, really—”

“I insist. You're exhausted, and no matter what else is happening, you need to take care of yourself. Go on. I'll get my stuff after you're asleep.”

She didn't argue, but headed for bed. He watched TV in the living room, the sound turned low. But he couldn't concentrate on the screen. Because, God help him, the picture in his mind was of a sleep-tousled Pam in that skimpy lace nightie, her full breasts straining the filmy material, her hips arched in desire. How in hell was he going to keep his fantasies in check for eleven more months?

Restless, he decided to check on Andy, not that he
would appreciate it. But Grant had a sudden, intense need to see his son, to stand quietly by his bedside and watch him sleep. To imagine what it would have been like if Andy had grown up with him. Would he have been so surly? So prickly? With a heavy sigh, Grant nudged open the door.

And felt his stomach rise to his throat.

The room was empty.

“A
NDY
?”
Grant stepped into his son's room, desperately scanning for some clue to his whereabouts. A paperback thriller lay facedown on the bed, several CDs were scattered randomly over the desk and a Jacksonville Jaguars' sweatshirt lay on the floor as if flung in the general direction of the closet.

Grant whirled from the room and raced downstairs. “Andy?” he whispered, unwilling yet to wake Pam by raising his voice. But when a search of the downstairs and backyard turned up nothing, he began to feel sick. Where could the kid have gone? He didn't seem to have any friends. Nor had he given them any indication before they left for the Campbells' that he had plans. Anger, hot and immediate, clutched at Grant's gut, followed just as swiftly by panic.

Standing helpless in the middle of the kitchen, he broke into a cold sweat. God, what if something terrible had happened to his son? He'd never forgive himself.

The hell of it was, he didn't even know where to begin to look for him. How could they have lived together for a month without his learning more about Andy?

He hated to alarm Pam, but he clung to the hope she'd know something he didn't. Without further thought, he strode into his bedroom. Under other circumstances, he'd have been struck speechless by the
sight of Pam curled up in his bed, her hair tumbling across her sleep-flushed cheek. But he didn't have that luxury tonight.

He turned the bedside lamp on the lowest setting. “Pam.” He touched her gently on the shoulder. “Pam, wake up.”

Slowly her lashes fluttered and she propped herself up on one elbow, brushing back her hair. “Huh?”

“Sorry to wake you. We've got a major problem.”

She sat up abruptly, her eyes wide-open. “What—”

“It's Andy. He's gone.”

“Gone?” She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “What do you mean, ‘gone'?”

“He's not in the house. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

She shook her head dazedly. “I can't believe it. Where would he go?”

“My point exactly.”

She stood up, slipping her feet into fuzzy slippers and grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed. “Give me a minute.” She scrubbed her face with her palms. “You don't think he's run away, do you?”

Run away?
He hadn't even thought of that possibility. But it made perfect sense. “I knew he was miserable, but I never imagined—”

“Don't jump to conclusions. Let's think.” Pam laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are his clothes still in his room?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And his music?”

“Yes.”

“Then there has to be some other explanation. Maybe he's made friends at school we don't know about.”

“That's possible, I guess. Still, he should have told us where he was going.” He had a sour taste in his mouth. “
If
he was going.”

Pam started toward the kitchen. “I have an idea. Come on.”

Grant trailed her through the house and out the back door. The yard light illuminated the empty patio, the basketball hoop, the detached garage.

“See if the bike is missing,” she suggested, standing to the side of the garage door.

And if it was? Or, worse, if it wasn't? Slowly he raised the door. “It's gone,” he said. “Now what?”

“What time is it?”

“A little after eleven.”

“Let's give him a half hour or so.”

“Before we call the police?”

She took him by the arm and walked him toward the house. “We won't have much choice.”

As they sat in the living room eyeing the clock, Pam didn't try to make small talk, but rather sat quietly stroking Viola. He couldn't have said why, but having her here worrying with him somehow made the waiting bearable.

At eleven-thirty, he ran a hand through his hair and, feeling as if the bottom had fallen out of his world, he picked up the telephone. Something—a noise—stopped him before he could begin dialing. He hurried into the kitchen and peered out the window. There, under the yard light his son emerged from the garage, then paused to pull down the door before trudging toward the house, eyes downcast.

Grant threw open the back door. “Where have you been, young man?” His bellow caused Sebastian to seek refuge under the kitchen table.

“Grant, go easy.” Pam materialized by his side. “Listen to his story.”

“I guess I'm busted, huh?” Andy said as he slithered past his father.

Grant took a shuddering breath. “Busted? Do you have any idea how worried we've been?”

“I'm back. You don't need to make a big deal out of it.”

“I'm glad you're safely back. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you left the house without telling us you had plans or when you'd be back.” Grant was controlling himself only because he felt Pam's hand in the small of his back.

“Something came up.”

“What, for Lord's sake?”

“A buncha guys I know,” Andy mumbled.

“Who are you talking about?” Pam asked, her voice amazingly calm.

“Just some guys.”

“Andy, give your dad a break. It's late, you're in a strange town, and we don't know your friends. Any caring parent would be worried sick.”

Andy shifted uncomfortably before looking past Grant to Pam. “Some kids from the neighborhood came by. We went to the park and just hung out. I didn't think you'd be home yet. Nobody needs to get in an uproar.”

Grant shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from pounding the table. “Son, this is unacceptable behavior. We need to know where you're going, who you're with. Imagine how we felt coming home from the party to find you missing.”

“So what're you gonna do? Vote me out of the family?”

Grant cursed silently. He wasn't making a dent in Andy's so-what attitude. “Certainly not. But there are going to be consequences.”

“It's not like you could ground me. I already feel like I'm under house arrest.”

Before Grant could react to that remark, Pam stepped forward. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Andy. You know, lots of the kids at school have been inviting you to do things, trying to make friends with you.”

“So?”

“Why are you making it so difficult on yourself? The only one truly holding you back is you. What have you got to lose?”

Grant began to breathe again. Andy was studying Pam, not antagonistically, and maybe even a bit thoughtfully.

“You wouldn't understand,” Andy said in a low voice.

“I'd like to try,” Pam replied.

“So would I,” Grant added.

Andy merely shrugged. “So what's my punishment?”

Grant wanted desperately to make everything all right for his son. But he knew he couldn't shield Andy. Whatever he was going to learn, he had to figure out for himself. “Let's get the ground rules straight. From now on, when Pam and I go out at night, we need to know your plans. If something comes up unexpectedly, we expect you to check in with us or leave a note. Understood?”

Andy nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.

“And you're right. Grounding is no solution. Instead, I expect you to spend the next several days preparing a flower bed. Then Pam will give you some bulbs to
plant. A little spade work ought to help remind you we're a family.”

“Some family,” Andy mumbled before slipping off upstairs.

Grant started after him, but Pam restrained him. “Enough,” she said softly. “He's gotten the message. Don't do anything you'll regret.”

Grant raked a hand through his hair. “I don't get it. He's my own son and he's driving me nuts. Jeez, you're probably wondering what in hell you signed up for here.”

“You're upset. But remember he's just a kid, a displaced, angry adolescent.” She nudged him toward the bedroom. “Come on. Things'll look better in the morning. Let's get some sleep.”

A half hour later Grant lay with his knees practically grazing his chin on the painfully short daybed. Wide-awake. What if Pam hadn't been here tonight to temper his anger? He was supposed to be the adult, the expert on teenage boys, the responsible parent.

Yet he'd never felt so totally out of control.

 

A
NDY FLUNG
one tennis shoe, then the other against the wall. He stepped out of his baggy shorts, wadded them into a ball and rifled them toward the dark maw of his closet. Damn!

He threw himself down on his bed, with his hands under his head, staring out the window at the coldly luminescent moon. He wasn't a baby. And he sure as hell hadn't done anything wrong. Not really. It wasn't like he was bashing mailboxes, smoking pot or humping some girl. For the love of Mike—all he'd been doing was shooting hoops with Andre, James and the guys.

Who would have thought his dad and Pam would be
home so early? Not him. Shit, no. He was used to Mom and Harry, or whoever, straggling home blitzed and all lovey-dovey long after the late, late show was history.

He couldn't get over his dad pulling the big “Son, I'm the parent, let me show you the error of your ways” stunt. Flower beds. Jeez, Louise. What did he know about gardening?

If it hadn't been for Pam, he might've told his dad just what he was thinking. Like where do you get off telling me what to do after all these years? Like how come you never parted with the bucks to let me come spend summers with you? Like why do you care more about the guys on your team than you do about me? But what good would that have done?

Now his mother was gallivanting all over the Middle East with a guy practically old enough to be her father. Sure, she called once a week. But so what? All she could talk about was Harry this, Harry that.

And his dad? It was like he didn't even know how to talk to his own son. He'd asked Andy again about trying out for the basketball team. Why couldn't the guy understand? It wasn't brain surgery. If you couldn't get along with the man as a father, why would you give him power over you as a coach? No way.

Crazy as it sounded, Pam was about the only thing keeping him from walking out. She didn't give him a hard time the way everybody else did. But she didn't let him off the hook either. She'd asked him a hard question tonight.

Was
he being a dork by treating the kids at Keystone like pond scum? He hadn't liked moving to Florida, either. But guys like Brady Showalter had been kinda fun to goof off with. Every day at school Chip Kennedy, the question guy, kept hanging around. He wasn't so
bad, really. Andy flopped over on his stomach. The truth was, he wasn't giving Keystone a chance. He didn't want to give his father the satisfaction. After all, he'd be gone in a year. Out of Texas, back to…wherever. And then what?

A cold lump, like mucilage, rose in his throat. Crap. He hadn't cried in years. He sure as hell wasn't going to start now.

 

P
AM PUNCHED HER PILLOW
, then cradled the extra one against her abdomen. It was as if the thirty minutes' sleep she'd managed before Grant had awakened her had been it for the night. She'd been exhausted even before the party, but the surprises of the evening had left her feeling edgy, wired.

The house held a taut silence, as if its occupants were breathlessly awaiting certain doom. She tossed restlessly. Poor Andy. He was one of the unhappiest kids she'd ever seen. And Grant, so full of love for his son, so hopeful that things could be worked out with him, had overreacted.

Somehow she needed to find a way to help Andy spit out the source of his resentment. Nothing could be solved until father and son opened up and shared their emotions honestly. In the dark, she managed a wry smile. Right, like males were so good at expressing feelings.

If Andy was hurting, so was Grant. The fear and anguish in his eyes tonight, when Andy had gone missing, had been heartbreaking. The man loved his son. It had taken guts for him to lay the gardening chore on Andy, knowing he'd resent the exercise of paternal authority.

Would she have such courage when it came to her own child? Right now, it was hard to imagine anything
other than a helpless infant cooing in her arms. But one day would that lovable baby be replaced by a teenager arching his or her brows and uttering a scathing “Mo-ther, you're so old-fashioned”? Grant must be in a world of pain.

She stilled her breathing and strained her ears. No sound. Was Grant lying awake rehashing their handling of Andy, too?

On an impulse too sudden and potent to ignore, she left her bed and tiptoed into the den. She had the strongest urge to comfort him, to tell him everything would be all right. Grant lay on his back, one arm flung off the cushion, a tangled sheet covering the lower half of his body. In the faint moonlight, she sucked in her breath. His broad naked chest, lightly dusted with tight dark curls, tapered to his trim waist. Although the sheet prevented further examination, her imagination wasn't so hampered. A wave of desire crested inside her. Pregnant women weren't supposed to…or were they? This was a bad idea. She needed to go back to bed.

“Pam?”

The whisper caught her off guard. She'd thought he was asleep. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?” He took hold of her hand and drew her down to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I—I couldn't sleep.” Her bare arms prickled with gooseflesh.

“There's a lot of that going around.” Tentatively he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Cold?”

“A little.” She should move, leave. Why was she still here, lost in the sensation of his fingers lightly tracing her skin?

“Here.” He settled an arm around her and nestled her against his warm body.

She was tinglingly aware of the feel of his flesh, of his fingers still stroking her arm.

“We don't want you catching cold,” he said, but the tone of his voice was more sultry than therapeutic.