Carly's Gift (23 page)

He never discussed the details of how a book was going with anyone. “How could you know that?”

“You hardly talk at breakfast, and when you do, it's like you're saying things you memorized especially for times like that. Victoria told me you get that way on every book and that I shouldn't worry about it. But it seems to me that if you were happy about the way things were going, you'd at least smile once in a while.”

His immediate reaction was to defend himself, to give her one of the stock answers he used during interviews about a writer's need to immerse himself in his work. It was all true, but she deserved more. “You're right, the book isn't going well, but it has nothing to do with you.”

“You're just saying that because you don't want me to feel bad. But I know that if I weren't here, you'd be at Hawthorne. Victoria says you always go there to write.”

“What else does Victoria say?”

She flushed in embarrassment as if she'd actually been caught talking about him behind his back. “That you get moody when you're working and really mad if she plans anything that you have to do with her.”

He couldn't deny either. “Then you should realize that your being here hasn't changed a thing.”

“I'm not sure what you mean. Are you trying to tell me you want me to stay here with you during Easter week and not go to Switzerland with the Armstrongs?”

He thought a minute. Then, before he could reconsider, he said, “What it means is that the two of us are going to spend our Easter together—in Baxter.”

She caught her breath. “But my dad—”

Screw your dad, he wanted to shout. “Ethan never intended for you to stay home—” His throat felt as if it were going to close on him and he stopped a second. “What I mean is that he wasn't telling you to stay with me Easter week. He simply wanted to be sure you didn't get your feelings hurt when you came home and Carly wasn't able to spend as much time with you as she'd like. Ethan is going to be just as excited to see you step off that plane as everyone else.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Do you really think so?”

“I've known him a lot longer than you have and I think I can read him a little better when it comes to something like this.”

She waited a long time before saying anything else, and then it was as if the words were being dragged from her. “If you're going to go home with me, you should probably know that my dad doesn't like you very much.”

It was all David could do to keep from laughing out loud. “That's all right. Considering the circumstances, I can't say I blame him.”

“I don't understand.”

His answer came from the heart, not the mind. “I would give anything to have the years he's had with you. He knows that and he doesn't want to share you any more than I do.”

She studied him. “Is that why you're going with me, to make sure I come back here?”

She'd caught him off guard. There was no way he could deny the accusation without making her feel she wasn't wanted by either of the men who claimed to be her father. “Would that bother you?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

Realizing the untenable position he'd put her in, he added, “I don't want to put any pressure on you, Andrea. If we get to Baxter and you decide that's where you want to stay, it will be all right with me.”

“I could still come back for visits, couldn't I?”

“As often and for as long as you want.”

She stood. “I guess I should call and say I'm coming after all.”

She was halfway to the door when David thought of something else. “Andrea?”

“Yes?”

“Did Ethan phone you from his office?”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

If he'd needed confirmation that the call had been made without Carly's knowledge or permission, he'd just gotten it. “It just occurred to me you might want to wait until he got home from work so you could check on Shawn at the same time.” He hesitated and then went on as if the idea had just struck him. “Better yet, why don't you just leave the message with your mom? That way, you can get to bed at a decent hour tonight.”

She smiled indulgently. “I don't have school tomorrow—today is Friday.”

He couldn't come up with another reason for her to call now without making it obvious he didn't want her to talk to Ethan.

“But that's a good idea,” she said. “Jeffery's taking me to the Hard Rock Café for a hamburger tonight and if I call now, I won't have to worry about when I get home.”

It took a second for the details of what she'd said to settle in. “You want to run that by me one more time?”

Andrea laughed. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to jump on that one.”

“Midnight, no later.”

She rolled her eyes and headed out the door. “Yes, David.”

When she was gone, he forced himself to shift her out of his conscious thoughts and get back to the computer. An hour later he realized he was no further along than he'd been when she'd come into the room, and decided to call it a night.

David turned the computer off, promising himself he'd get an earlier start in the morning and work later into the night.

But then he'd promised himself the same thing the day before and the day before that. Another day or two like the ones he'd just put in and he would run out of hours he could bargain away.

He reached the doorway and stopped for one last look before turning out the light. His gaze settled on the English Gothic desk he'd found in an antiques shop in Kensington only months after he'd arrived in England. It had taken up half the living room in the flat he'd rented and had stripped every last pound from his savings account, but owning it had made him feel like a real writer. Somehow, when he'd worked there, he'd known he would succeed.

Then he'd had an ancient computer—now it was a twenty-seven inch iMac; yet the clutter that invariably surrounded him when he was working was the same.

His gaze shifted to the bookshelves that lined three of the walls. Made of oak and hundreds of years old, they held the model ships he'd been collecting for the past ten years, each of them purchased in celebration of a book being published. The first had been a prisoner-of-war model, made out of soup bones by a French prisoner during the Napoleonic War. After that he'd concentrated on admiralty models dating from the seventeenth century. Together they represented more money than his father had earned in a lifetime.

The books that filled the rest of the shelves were an eclectic assortment, ranging from a Charles Dickens first edition to the copies of his own books that Victoria had had printed on acid-free paper, edged in gold, and bound in dark red leather. She'd given him the obscenely expensive gift for Christmas the previous year with a note telling him what little favors she expected in return. He'd been neither surprised nor disappointed. Victoria was Victoria; to expect anything else was not only foolish, it was self-defeating.

There were times he wondered if he was keeping up his end of their relationship, but then the thought would pass. She didn't want or expect much from him, just a marriage that appeared solid and loving to the outside world.

The saddest part was not that his was a loveless marriage, but how little he cared.

Twenty

The closer she
got to home, the faster Andrea's heart raced. She was glad David had talked her into letting him rent a car rather than having someone come to the airport and pick them up. This way she could get used to the idea of being home again without anyone watching her.

She gazed at the passing countryside that was struggling to move into spring. She kept looking for changes even knowing it was silly to do so. She'd only been gone four months, not four years. Still, she didn't like thinking the snow had come and nearly gone without her seeing it or that she hadn't knocked the icicles off the porch, or competed with her mother to see who could spot the first flock of migrating geese.

And now here she was less than five minutes from the house she'd lived in since she was five years old and she was scared to death of what she would find when she got there. What if all the changes she'd been looking for on the way there had actually taken place inside her own home? She realized her thoughts were reflected on her face when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw David looking at her, his eyes narrowed in concern.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“No.” She met his gaze. “Yes,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I don't blame you. I would be, too.”

“Is this how you felt when you came back?”

“Last fall or when I went away to school?”

“Last fall.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I had a lot of other things on my mind back then.”

She had a habit of forgetting she wasn't the reason he'd returned to Baxter. “Your dad?”

“That and seeing your mother again.”

She brushed the bangs from her forehead then gathered her hair and twisted it into a single curl that she draped over her shoulder. “It seems like that happened such a long time ago.”

“This has been a rough six months for you.”

“I just thought of something. Your father would have been my grandfather.”

He smiled. “You're right.”

“In a sad kind of way, he's the one responsible for us getting together.”

“He wouldn't have minded,” he said, thinking about the number of times his father had made pointed comments about wanting grandchildren. “What would have bothered him, though, is knowing he missed out on the opportunity to spoil his granddaughter.”

She settled more comfortably into the seat, bringing one leg up and tucking it under the other. “Tell me about him.”

David's voice changed, becoming soft and thoughtful. “He was a quiet man who liked to read and loved to fish. When I was in high school and he finally accepted that I was serious about becoming a writer, he told me not to listen to anyone who said I should learn a trade to get me through the hard times. He said that if I had another way to get by or something to fall back on, I'd never make it through the rejection that every writer faced at one time or another.”

“Was he right?”

David smiled. “It's one of those things you can never know for sure. I've met people who have been writing for half their lives and had nothing but rejection and yet they continue to go at it with an amazing enthusiasm. But I don't think I was cut from that cloth. I need the feedback, the give-and-take that comes from having a book published and out there on the stands.” He chuckled. “Having the money coming in isn't bad, either.”

Andrea had never known another adult who talked to her the way David did, like a friend instead of this impressionable sponge that was supposed to absorb wonderful and profound thoughts and ideas. He shared who he was with her, and he never judged or lectured or criticized when she shared back. “What was Grandma like?”

“My memories of her aren't as strong.” He hesitated. “No, that's not right—it isn't that I don't remember her as well, it's that everything about her is clouded by the last four years she was alive—that was how long it took her to die.” He hesitated again, as if struggling with dormant, painful memories. “There are times when I'm sure I can remember her laughing and horsing around with me and my father, but then I can't put those memories in context with anything else. It's like the spots you see dancing in your eyes when you close them against a bright summer day. When you're watching them, you'd swear they were real, that you could touch them if you could only figure out how, but then you open your eyes and they're gone.”

Andrea leaned her head back against the seat. “I like to listen to you.”

He smiled. “What you like is me keeping your mind on something besides what's waiting for you at the end of this ride.” He made a left turn. They had less than a quarter mile to go.

“Nay, kind sir,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “You do yourself an injustice.”

He laughed. “So a little bit of England has rubbed off on you after all.”

She was taken aback by the statement and took some time to think about it before answering him. “More than a little,” she said. She could have told him that she was convinced the four months she'd been in England had made her a different person, had changed who she was forever, but things like that always came out sounding stupid.

“I'm glad. For me, showing you London was like seeing it for the first time all over again. You made me realize how much I'd begun to take the place for granted.”

“Do you think you'll ever come back to the States to live?” She'd tried to make the question sound casual, but could tell by his reaction she hadn't succeeded.

“Can you imagine Victoria living anywhere but England?”