Marrying Daisy Bellamy (27 page)

They stood quietly together in the dark. He could see the others through the window. They were gathered around the kitchen table, laughing over their game of cards. Logan and his son looked so alike, grinning at each other.

Daisy had made a family for herself. He didn't blame her, didn't begrudge her the happiness she had found. He wished it didn't hurt so damn much. What hurt most of all was that, when he looked into her eyes, he could see something he probably shouldn't be seeing—love and longing, every bit as powerful as it had been the day he'd left her.

L
ogan was alone in the house on a Saturday, a rare state of affairs. Daisy had a bat mitzvah to shoot in Phoenicia and would be staying there overnight rather than driving home in the wee hours. Charlie had gone on a campout with his Tiger Cubs troop. For the first time in a long time, Logan was by himself.

He kind of liked it.

Sure, he had wanted to be a family with Charlie and Daisy, but the one thing he hadn't quite been prepared for was how…constant it was, having them around. Unrelenting. He was on call 24/7, no breaks allowed. Although he knew it was his destiny to be a family man, he didn't mind a day of downtime.

It didn't take long for him to realize downtime had a downside—he started thinking too much. Feeling restless, he did a bit of yard work, mainly to stay busy.

“Hey, neighbor. How's life treating you?” The guy next door, who had recently moved to the neighborhood, greeted him across the fence.

“Sending me too many weeds. How about yourself, Bart? You settling into your new place?”

“Yeah, it's great here. The wife ditched me for the weekend, though. She went antique-hunting with her ladies' club.” He grinned. “Women seem to have a club for everything.”

Logan chuckled, easing into camaraderie with his new neighbor. Bart and Sally Jericho seemed to be a fun, cheerful pair who wanted to make friends with Logan and Daisy.

“Hey, I've been ditched, too,” Logan said. “Daisy had a work thing, and my kid is on a campout.”

“And look at us, a couple of chumps doing yard work. We ought to be kicking back on the patio, guzzling cold ones and telling dirty jokes.”

Logan had an instant visceral reaction to the idea of guzzling a cold one. The craving still took hold like a seductive mistress. With no effort at all, he could hear the click and airy hiss of the bottle opening, could feel the cold bubbles alive and dancing on his tongue, slipping down his throat and spreading sweet oblivion to every cell in his body.

“No rest for the wicked,” he said to Bart with a laugh, and turned on his weed whacker.

Logan's folks were still amazed that he did things like yard work and household chores. He'd been raised differently, by people who mixed a shaker of martinis and called a contractor just to change a lightbulb.

Logan had made a different life for himself. His family didn't understand why he'd want to settle in a small town and set himself up in business. Sometimes even he didn't understand it. After he'd graduated from college and moved to Avalon, he had been focused on being a good dad. He thought that meant marrying
Charlie's mother. Not long after the impulse-driven move he'd made in Vegas, he'd found himself reexamining that decision. Even before the miraculous resurrection of Julian Gastineaux, Logan had realized something was missing for him and Daisy. He hadn't expected this feeling of ambivalence. As far as he could tell, neither had she.

They both acted as though everything was all right, but the distance between them kept widening. The strain was starting to wear on him.

He heaved a sigh and went to shower off the sweat and grass clippings of yard work. Afterward, he sat down at the computer to check his email. The computer was a Mac, with all the bells and whistles Daisy needed for her photography work. Logan found it to be a pain in the ass. He should have brought his laptop home from the office.

His email queue was short. He dispatched the work stuff, feeling a small tug of satisfaction as he dealt with clients. Business, for him, was a simple matter. Marriage, not so much.

There was a note from his mother—“How was Charlie's soccer game? When are you going to bring him to see us? Montauk is so beautiful this time of year…”

Montauk. The place where Charlie had been conceived by a pair of reckless teenagers on a weekend of drunken revelry.

He hit Reply and opened a picture file to insert an action shot of Charlie playing soccer. One great thing about Daisy being a world-class photographer was that she documented Charlie's life superbly. He found a picture of the kid leaping into the air after a soccer ball and sent it to his mother.

Daisy was totally organized with her photos, labeling
them with dates, names and events. Logan scrolled through the Charlie file, a pictorial chronicle of his son's life. The shots of the two of them together made Logan smile. Through the years he'd been a good dad. He was confident of that. He felt sure of himself in this role.

He spotted another file labeled
Julian
. Still hanging around like a virus on the hard drive. Some propensity for self-torture made Logan look. There was Gastineaux in all his glory, from a dreadlocked punk to the day he'd left on his save-the-world mission. Logan forced himself to look past the obvious—the guy was cut like a bodybuilding ad—and imagine Daisy's state of mind when she took the photos. A good photographer could speak her heart through the pictures she took. And Daisy was a good photographer. What Logan detected in these pictures was a kind of passion unique to this guy, a passion that didn't exist for anyone else.

Not even her own husband.

“Yo, neighbor. You in there?” Bart Jericho called through the screen door at the back porch. He'd cleaned himself up, changed into a loud Hawaiian print shirt.

“Come on in,” Logan called, shutting down the computer and pushing back from the desk.

Bart looked around the big, sunny kitchen, with its archway open to the dining room, living room and study. “Nice place,” he said.

“Thanks. We remodeled the shit out of it.”

“It's a stunner. Nothing like an old house.”

“Thanks.” Logan and Daisy had both thrown themselves into sprucing up the place. Now the house looked exactly like the illusion their new neighbor was seeing—a beautiful home. The kind of place that sheltered a happy family.

“Say, listen, I had a great idea. Since we're both wifeless for the afternoon, let's go grab some burgers.”

Logan had planned on hitting the gym and then an AA meeting, but suddenly a burger with his new buddy sounded more appealing. “Cool. Did you have someplace in mind?”

“That's the other part of my great idea,” said Bart. “Our membership at the country club was just approved, and new members are entitled to a special discount. So it's my treat.”

Logan grinned, thinking about a juicy burger. “Even better.”

 

The Avalon Meadows Country Club was old-school, with a gated entry and a broad avenue sweeping up to the grand Edwardian-style clubhouse. Lush lawns and tennis courts, a swimming pool and golf course surrounded the place. The moment they drove onto the premises, Logan felt a warm pulse of familiarity. This was a world he knew. The Bellamys were longtime members here, but Daisy never wanted to come. She claimed she shot so many weddings here, it felt like a place of work rather than relaxation.

Not Logan. He appreciated the quiet elegance of the clubhouse, with its view of golfers and their caddies hiking in and out of the afternoon shadows. Even the sounds were familiar and soothing—the
thwock
of tennis ball volleys and the laughter of children splashing in the pool, the smooth, discreet waiters with trays of drinks, the murmur of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter, the clink of ice cubes against fine crystal. The whole scene on the sunny deck took him back to simpler times when he was a kid, and everything in the world was a possibility.

“This is the life, eh?” said Bart, settling back in a deck chair and surveying the scene.

Logan nodded. A burst of little-girl squeals came from the pool area below. One of them appeared to be having a birthday party down there.

Bart studied the tent card on the table. “Hey, there's a drink called the Bellamy Hammer, didja know that? Isn't your wife a Bellamy?”

“Yep, that's right.”

“Any relation to the Bellamy Hammer?” asked Bart with a chuckle.

“Some days I think she
is
the Bellamy Hammer.” It just slipped out.

“Oh. Trouble in paradise?”

Logan shrugged. “The drink was named after some old uncle of hers, a geezer named George Bellamy who passed away. Having a drink named after him was one of those do-before-you-die things.” He pushed the tent card away.

The waiter came for their drink order. He presented each of them with a printed card. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Today's drink special is a rare single barrel bourbon. Highly recommended.”

“I can't say I know exactly what that is,” said Bart, “but count me in.”

“I know exactly what it is,” Logan began, “however—”

“Then count my buddy in, too,” Bart said expansively. “Make them doubles, too. It'll save you a trip.”

Logan took a breath. Opened his mouth to retract the order, but the waiter was quicker, heading off to the bar. Within moments, he'd returned with the drinks. The amber liquid looked beautiful in the sparkling crystal highball glasses. A silver bucket of ice and a carafe of water were set in the middle of the table.

Logan was flooded with longing. The daily battle that was his recovery was forgotten, entirely. Nothing existed except that perfect, beautiful glass of whiskey. Vaguely, he became aware of the guy across the table—his new friend, who didn't know Logan was damaged, one drink away from spinning out of control.

Bullshit, he thought, picking up the heavy cut-crystal glass. It was all bullshit. He wasn't a stupid kid anymore. He could have this one drink with Bart, and that would be the end of it.

“Cheers, neighbor,” said Bart, clinking glasses with him. “Down the hatch.”

The gorgeous, piney scent of the fine bourbon wafted on the country-club breeze, nearly bringing tears to Logan's eyes. On the pool deck, childish shrieks of excitement filled the air, mingling with grown-up laughter and conversation. He touched the glass to his bottom lip. Then, with a casual tip of his wrist, he took his first, glorious sip.

As the fire raced through him, he felt a dark, defiant glee.

 

Julian wasn't quite sure what to get his four-year-old niece for her birthday, and he was running late for her party at the country club, so he got her one of everything. Okay, that was overstating it. A local toy store, Queen Guinevere's Castle, was crammed floor to ceiling with stuff. He found a corner where everything was pink and filled his arms with everything a little girl would like—a stuffed poodle, a magic wand, a talking mirror, a pop-up book of princesses…

“Whoa, slow down there,” said an amused voice. “You're not much for browsing, are you?”

He turned to see the shopgirl regarding him with a
slightly teasing grin. She was cute, in her twenties, probably, like him. A black girl, something not so common in Avalon. “I'm in a hurry,” he said. “On my way to a birthday party.”

She eyed the armload of toys. “For how many kids?”

“Just my niece.”

“Okay, big guy.” The shopgirl methodically took back and reshelved each toy. “Tell me about your niece, and I'll help you pick out the perfect gift.”

“Thanks. Her name is Zoe.”

“And what does she call you?”

“Sometimes Unkie,” he said, cringing a little. “Sometimes Julian. Does it matter?”

The girl's eyes seemed to shine even brighter. “It does to me. I wanted to find out your name.”

That made him laugh a little. “Julian Gastineaux,” he said. “That's me. And you are?”

“Guinevere Johnson.”

“So is this your store?”

“No, I was named after the store. My mom has owned the place since before I was born. Is it weird, do you think, that it's named after a known adulteress?”

“Most people probably don't think of that,” he said.

“All right, then. Let's talk about Zoe. Does she like to dress up or is she more of a tomboy?”

“Dress up, for sure. The kid's room looks like a burlesque dressing room, with feather boas and…those crown things.”

“Tiaras.”

“Yeah, that's, like, her basic gear. Her birthday's at the country club. A swimming party.”

“And does she prefer playing sports or playing with dolls?”

“Dolls, I guess. This sounds like a compatibility test.”

“Just doing my due diligence.”

Eventually they settled on the idea of a baby doll with several clothing changes. Guinevere reached for a dark-skinned baby, but he stopped her. “I think she'd go for a white doll. Zoe's lily-white.”

“Really.”

“I have a very diverse family.”

“Cool.” She insisted on gift-wrapping it for him. She seemed to take her time, chatting away as she worked. “So do you live here in Avalon?”

“For the time being. I'm on an extended leave from the air force.”

“Really? I've never met anyone in the air force. What's that like?”

“It's…interesting. I put in for pilot training. Waiting to hear back on that.”

“Well, that's very impressive. I'd love to hear more about it.” Their hands touched as she gave him back his credit card.

By then there was no question—she was flirting with him. This cute, funny girl was flirting, and he'd be an idiot to ignore her. He
was
an idiot. Everything about this girl was completely appealing, but loving Daisy wasn't something he could shed or have his psychiatrist explain away. Loving her was part of his blood and bone. Scary thought. Had she ruined him for all other women?

 

As Julian turned and passed through the wrought-iron gates of the country club, past the plaster jockeys holding their lamps, he reflected that there had been a time—not all that long ago—when a guy who looked
like him would be arriving via the service entry, rather than through the main entrance as an invited guest.

Change was good, he reminded himself. It was good to be in a world where every possibility was open to him.