Falling For Nick (19 page)

When the conversation lagged, she did her best to get it going again. When they finished eating Clea suggested that John show Nick his room. Again, John gave a short, noncommittal reply, and the two of them left the table.

Clea cleaned the kitchen, listening to the sounds of her son with his father. Whether he knew it or not, Nick had given John a gift tonight, and it wasn't the model car, it was the gift of himself. He'd given John his true father.

*   *   *

Nick walked into his son's room, a room very different from the one he had shared with Billy. This room was clean, spacious, and cheerful. A quilted blue bedspread covered a bed shaped like a racecar. Colorful pictures lined the walls. A baseball bat coat rack held John's coats, and two hats.

Clea had done a fine job with John, providing for him, raising him. He envied the easy way she spoke to John. At times tonight, Nick's tongue had felt tied in knots. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this nervous, this afraid he would screw up. Parenting didn't come naturally for him, not like it did for Clea. Nick owed her more than he could ever repay. Seeing John's room made him want to take over, to be the one doing the providing for the people he loved. The room made him feel inadequate, like he'd failed as a father, and up to this point, he had. He had so much to make up to Clea and to John, and coming here tonight strengthened Nick's resolve to do just that.

"This is a nice room," Nick said. "You said you liked cars. Do you have a collection?"

"Yep." John dropped to his knees in front of a brown wooden chest. Opening the lid, he took out a large case. "Want to see it?"

"I'd love to." At last, common ground. Nick knew enough about cars to talk for hours. It was a safe subject they could share.

John crawled onto his bed, lugging the case with him. There were no chairs in the room.

"Okay if I sit on the bed?" Nick asked unsure of what to do.

"Sure." John unzipped the case. Row after row of small metal cars filled the case. The collection was impressive.

"You've got quite a collection." Nick removed a Mustang and held it out to John. "This one looks a little like The Boss."

"This one is better." John selected an exact replica of Nick's car. "See?"

"You're right. That's a '69 Boss. Even the colors are an exact match. You know your cars." Nick noticed a small, framed picture on the bedside table. He bent closer to get a better look. It was a photo of Clea and himself. Surprised, he picked it up. "Did your mom give you this?"

"Yes."

It was one of the pictures they'd had taken at the store when they were seventeen. Clea told him she hadn't kept those pictures. Nick smiled. Little liar. He vividly remembered the pictures being taken. They'd gone into the photo booth, wanting a memento of their day together. Five pictures for a buck. Four shots had been goofy, they'd been laughing and joking around, the fifth one, he'd been kissing Clea. He'd had that photo with him in prison. He knew every nuance of the picture by heart. It made him feel great to know that Clea had kept her photos, and even greater to know she'd shared the memory of the day they'd spent together with their son.

"It's the only picture Mom has of you, besides the big one." John squinted up at him. "Your hair was longer then."

"Yes, it was." He wondered what "big one" John talked about. Had Clea photographed him? He couldn't remember. She'd always had her camera with her in those days.

"It's still kinda long," John observed with a cock of his head.

"I guess I'm still a little wild." Nick grinned. "Does your mom have another picture of me?"

John nodded. "She doesn't like to look at it. It makes her sad." He leveled an accusing stare on Nick.

"I see." Clea had photographed him. The thought intrigued him, and he wanted to see the picture, but if he asked her would she show him?

"What was it like in jail?" John asked.

Nick's gut clenched, the question taking him by surprise. "Not very nice. I missed your mom, and I missed getting to know you."

"Were you scared there?" John dropped the car he held into the case, his attention focused on Nick now.

"Sometimes." He hadn't expected so many questions. It embarrassed him and he wished like hell that he could be the kind of father his son could be proud of. He glanced up to find Clea in the open doorway, her body leaning against the jam. She gave him a half smile of encouragement.

"What did you do all day?" John asked.

"Lots of things. I had a job working in a factory. I went to school. I read a lot. I studied a lot. Mostly I dreamed about the day I could leave." Nick made eye contact with John, trying to gauge the boy's reaction to his words, but John glanced away.

"I got hit in the nose," John said. He removed a '58 red Corvette from the case and ran the car over his bedspread.

"How come?" Nick asked, remembering he'd also been hit in the nose recently. Like father, like son? He hoped not in this case.

"A dumb kid told me you were out of prison. He called you a jailbird. I told him he was a liar and I hit him. Then he hit me in the nose."

Nick bit his tongue. He already knew this story, but hearing it from his son made the story so much worse. He wanted to swear. A protective anger surged through him. John had been hurt because of him. He didn't want John hurt. He was an innocent.

"I'm sorry, John." Never had he meant any words more. He didn't want his son to pay for his sins.

"It didn't hurt too much." John shrugged.

"It was my fault." Clea pushed away from the door and joined them on the bed, curling up near the headboard. She leaned back against the mound of pillows there. "I should have told John about you sooner."

This close together, Clea's seductive summer scent seeped through him, enticing him, making him remember her crazy watermelon-flavored lip-gloss. God, he'd loved to kiss that off her lips.

Clea sat at the head of the bed, Nick at the foot. Their eyes locked together over John's head. Is this what it felt like to be a family, to spend time together? An unfamiliar joy spread through him, and he knew he wanted more. He wanted Clea and John in his life every day, and not just for the next few weeks. He couldn't stop fighting for her and what they could have together.

The phone rang.

"Excuse me." Clea jumped from the bed.

He watched her walk to the door. Once in the next room, she said, "Hello." After that, she lowered her voice and he wondered if it were Boomer. The thought landed like a stone in his belly.

To get his attention off of Clea, Nick picked through John's case, examining the cars. There'd never been much money for toys when he'd been a kid, but at Christmases and on birthdays, the small cars made cheap gifts. He'd collected quite a few and he wondered if the cars were still in the apartment. His fingers closed around a custom orange T-Bird with a non-painted roof.

"I had one just like this," he said, holding the car out to John.

John snatched the car from Nick's fingers, put it in the case, and shut the lid.

Bewildered, Nick asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

John's lips clamped shut.

Something wasn't right here, but Nick wasn't sure what. John acted like he had something to hide.

"Why did you close the case, John?" Nick asked. "I liked looking at the cars."

"I can't tell you." John yanked the heavy case from the bed and it hit the floor with a thud. The lid popped open, the cars scattering across the carpet. John went down on his knees, frantically picking up the cars, shoving them back inside the case.

Nick joined him on the floor, wondering what he'd done.

"Don't," John said, when Nick tried to help. "You'll ruin everything."

"What do you mean?" Nick asked, more confused than ever.

John clamped his mouth shut.

Nick scanned the cars. Most were new, but some were old, probably picked up at garage sales. Then one caught his eye, a VW Beach Bomb. He'd had a car like this one, too. "Where did you get this?" Nick asked a terrible feeling of dread coursing through him.

"Don't know." John reached for the car, a wild look in his eyes.

Nick turned the car over, fearing what he knew would be there. Written in a child's hand the name
Nick L.
stared at him. For a moment he couldn't speak, couldn't think. How could John be in possession of his cars? Had his mother sold the collection? If so, why was John acting so strange?

"This belonged to me, didn't it?" Nick asked with a calm he didn't feel. "I'm glad you have it, but I'm wondering how you got it."

"I can't tell." John pursed his lips, as if trying to seal them.

Nick's stomach rebelled. What kind of secret was John keeping? Was Maude involved? "Why not?"

John ignored the question, picking up the last of the cars.

"I'll keep your secret," Nick said. "Did someone give you these cars?"

John nodded, but didn't look at him.

"Was it my mother? Did you know her?"

"It was a secret," John said, his voice a whisper. He lifted his eyes to Nick's.

Nick's fingers tightened around the car. Maude knew his son. How was it possible? Billy told him that Clea and John had no contact with the Lombards. Had Maude seen John on the side? Bile rose in the back of Nick's throat, threatening to choke him. He didn't want Maude anywhere near his son. What had she told him, said to him? Nick needed to know everything; he wanted to know nothing. Above all, he didn't want to scare John with the force of his anger. He had to be cautious, calm, and in control.

"Maude gave you my cars?" Nick asked.

"She gave me presents," John admitted. "She asked me if I knew who she was, and I said yes. Mom told me Mrs. Lombard was my grandma, only she wasn't like my other grandma. We didn't go over to her house or anything."

"I see."

"She said I looked just like you. One time she cried when she gave me a car."

She'd been drunk, no doubt. Nick glanced away, unable to squash the rush of emotion rolling through him. What the hell had Maude been thinking? Had she had a touch of remorse in her old age? Did she regret her neglect of her own children? Was she trying to right her wrongs by getting to know her grandson, by bribing him with gifts? It was sick and twisted. Or was it? How could he figure out John's relationship with Maude, when he couldn't even decide how he felt about her himself?

"Mrs. Lombard told me she was going to help you get out of jail," John said. "She promised me you'd be home soon. After that, I heard Robert tell Mom you were free. I knew Mrs. Lombard had kept her promise."

"You knew I was out of prison before your mother told you?" Nick asked.

John nodded.

Shit
. Had John expected him sooner? And Maude, what a liar. She hadn't gotten him out of prison. She'd made false promises to win her grandson's gratitude and love. Most likely without Clea's knowledge.

"Does your mother know about your relationship with my mother?" Nick asked.

Before John could answer, Clea came into the room.

"Time for bed," she said. "You have school tomorrow."

Nick dropped the car into the case, a thousand questions burning inside him. John closed the lid, and Nick had his answer. Clea didn't know about the cars.