On the Steamy Side (32 page)

Please let this go smoothly, he found himself praying.

“Yeah. This is Tucker, my son. Tuck? Meet your granddad.”

When Tucker retreated into the stony silence he favored whenever life threw too many curve balls, Devon realized he should’ve expected it. The kid stared up at Phil Sparks without a flicker of expression.

Phil sent a wry smile in Devon’s direction. “Takes after you, huh?” Devon wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Um. How’s Mom? Did she come . . . ?” He craned his neck to search the room, but didn’t truly expect to see his shy, quiet homebody of a mother.

“No,” Phil confirmed. “It’s vestry week at St. Ignatius. You know how hard she works, putting together the charity auction and whatnot.”

Devon knew. And he also knew his dad would never let Angela Sparks miss a vestry committee meeting for something as trivial as their son’s big night. Heavens, no! People might talk.

Forcing down the bitter voice whispering that nothing had changed, Devon looked at his father, whose presence at Market was proof that there’d been at least a tiny shift in the murky waters of his family.

“So. How’s Connor? He’s back stateside, I hear.”

A familiar gleam of pride entered Phil’s eyes. “Your brother’s doing good, real good. He got out of the service about a year ago. Now he’s a cop.”

Devon had to laugh, even as fear for his brother clutched at his guts. Devon knew about the stint in Afghanistan—he’d actually bought body armor for Con’s whole unit, because the thought of his happy-go-lucky kid brother out there with nothing between him and death was unacceptable. The anonymous donation helped Devon sleep at night.

He and Connor had emailed occasionally once he’d finished his tour. It had been a while, though, and last Devon heard, Connor was just trying to settle back into civilian life. Figured that rather than taking a well-deserved break from risking his all for God and country, he’d go for one of the highest-risk jobs he could find.

First the army, then the Trenton PD? Little danger junkie. “One of the boys in blue, huh? Who would’ve guessed.”

Phil went stony. “Me, for one. I always knew he’d end up doing something important. He won’t ever be famous, but we’re damn proud of him.”

Here we go.

“I’m proud of him, too,” Devon said, gritting his teeth against the frustration simmering in his throat. “I get it. What I don’t get is how being proud of him means there’s nothing left over for anyone else. Like there’s a finite amount of pride in our family, and Connor gets all of it.”

“You saying you think what you’re doing here is more important than your brother, out there protecting us all . . .”

“No, Dad, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Devon interrupted before Phil burst that blood vessel in his forehead.

“My goodness,” Lilah said loudly, catching their attention—and the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius. “What a shame the whole family couldn’t be here! But I’m sure Tucker will get to meet his grandma and uncle sometime soon. In the meantime, Tuck, do you wanna go in the kitchen with me?

Say good night to the chefs?”

She held out her hand and Tucker took it gratefully. Devon sent her a look that was every bit as grateful. This. This ugliness, this resentment was exactly why he never told Phil about Tucker. Hell, it was why he’d never tried to be a dad himself. Devon hated who he became when he was around his family.

What kind of person begrudged his war hero brother the honest admiration he deserved? It wasn’t like Devon had any illusions about himself. He’d never make the choice to join the armed forces; he’d never want to face what Connor had faced overseas.

The hell of it was, Devon admired his little brother every bit as much as their father did. So why did it sting so badly to be compared to him, and come up short?

Lilah beamed a big, fake smile and pulled Tucker to her side, but Phil wasn’t about to let them out of his sight.

Eyes sharp, he said, “My son’s ‘friend,’ eh? I take that to mean you’re not the mother.”

“No, but . . .”

“So where is she?”

“Oh! She’s . . . well.” Lilah bit her lip.

Devon became aware of heads turning in their direction, whispers circulating around the still-crowded room. “Can we move this out of the public dining room to someplace more private?” Christ, this was going to be all over the place before he even managed to get his father back on the train to Trenton.

“That’s a joke—you worrying about what people think. You never cared when it was your mother and me who couldn’t hold our heads up on a Sunday morning when anyone at the church with the money for a Post could read about what you got up to on Saturday night.” Phil shook his head.

Devon’s jaw was clenched hard enough to make his neck hurt. “Well, if you don’t want to make Page Six yourself, come down to the restaurant office with me and we can finish having this out.” Without another word, he turned and strode for the kitchen door. He didn’t check to see if Phil was following—with Devon’s luck, there was no way his dad would just give up and leave.

He banged through the kitchen door and headed straight for the relative privacy of the stairs down to the basement level.

The chefs, who were in the middle of clearing down their stations, froze in mid-clean. Impatient to be away from so many watchful eyes, he barked, “What are you all still doing here? Get finished cleaning and head to Chapel. Tell Christian the drinks are on me—and I’ll actually pay the tab this time.”

“You got it, Chef,” Frankie said, taking a break from scraping up the charred bits of meat from the wood-fired grill. “We’ll see you there later to celebrate, yeah?” Devon had never felt less like celebrating in his life, but he dragged up his empty Hollywood smile and said, “Sure. Just got one thing to take care of first. Dad?” Every head in the kitchen swiveled to Phil, who tightened his jaw and sent Devon an unreadable look.

Probably he didn’t appreciate being categorized as a chore, but Devon couldn’t make himself care. He just wanted this to be over.

Jerking his head toward the staircase, he said, “You coming?” Phil took the hint and disappeared down the stairs. Lilah stopped Devon from following with a hand on his arm.

“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to come with you?” Devon struggled for a moment, torn between humiliation at being coddled in front of his cooks and gratitude that she wanted to help him. “Sweet Lilah Jane,” he said. It came out sounding sarcastic, and she flinched back. Devon didn’t know how to smooth it over when he felt so jagged. He was all rough, raw edges tearing into everything around him, and he wasn’t sure how to stop it.

He looked down at Tucker, small fingers still clutched in Lilah’s hand, and took in the carefully blank look on his face.

He had to get them both away from him, before this ball of anger expanding in his chest exploded all over them.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” he told her. “I always am.”

Unsure if he was trying to convince her or himself, Devon ignored the stricken look in her pretty green eyes and headed for the stairs where his father waited.

They made it al the way down the narrow, dark stairs and into the office in a tense silence. But the moment the office door closed, Phil exploded.

“A child, Devon? Out of wedlock? And then to not even have the common decency to tell your mother and me that we were grandparents. We didn’t raise you like that.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” Devon fired back. “When you weren’t punishing me for being different from you, you were ignoring me. Yeah, you were a model father.”

“Oh, and you’re doing so much better with your kid, huh?”

The memory of Tucker’s withdrawn expression ripped into Devon. It was that same overly adult, emotionless façade he’d almost lost in the last two weeks. Devon knew what brought it back—all this loud, pointless shouting and angry talk.

Tucker was afraid of him again.

Shit, Devon thought, stomach clenching hard. Dad’s right. I’m completely screwing this up.

There wasn’t enough air in the cool, musty-smelling basement. Devon couldn’t get a good breath. If he could just breathe in, he could defend himself—except, no, there was nothing he could say.

He remembered that first night at Market—God, was it only two weeks ago?—when the police officer offered him a choice between taking custody of Tucker, and letting his son go into foster care.

And Devon had hesitated. What kind of man, what kind of father did that? So what if he’d been scared he might turn out to be like his old man.

There was that word again. Scared.

Devon had chosen his career over his family; it was the choice he’d been making every day since he graduated from high school.

Since the last day Phil told him he wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough. Since the last time his mother listened to him say it, her silence a tacit agreement despite the mute suffering on her face.

Devon had heard everything Phil was saying before. There was no reason it should cut so deeply now.

All he knew was that it did.

“Don’t worry about Tucker,” Devon forced himself to say. “I don’t have much time to inflict the Sparks family brand of parenting on him. His mother, my ex, she’s . . . away on a trip, but she’ll be back in a couple of weeks. He’s only with me until she comes home.”

It was nothing but the truth—well, the truth with a little editing—but the words slashed at Devon’s heart as unerringly as anything his father had said.

In another two weeks, this would all be over. Tucker would go back to Heather. Lilah wouldn’t have any reason to stay.

How the hell had he allowed himself to forget and start playing house? He thought he’d laid the happy family fantasy to rest long ago. The humiliating moment of hope when he first caught sight of Phil tonight told Devon he hadn’t buried those ludicrous feelings as deeply as he thought.

“And let me guess. You won’t have time in the next few weeks to bring the kid out to the neighborhood to visit your mother.”

“Good guess,” Devon said. “Come on, Dad. Look what happens when we’re around each other for five minutes. Part of the reason I never told you about Tucker before was that I didn’t want him exposed to our particular family dynamic. I mean, shit. Just because we’re completely fucked up is no reason he has to be.”

Phil’s mouth tightened ominously. “I know you’re a big shot now, lots of money, fancy apartment, fast car—and I know you look down on the life your mother and I live, but we did our best for you and your brother.”

“Your best. Right.” Bitterness boiled up in Devon’s throat, sour and hot. “What whitewashed version of my childhood are you remembering? Never mind. This conversation is going in circles. Just . . . tell Mom I hope the St. Iggy’s charity thing goes okay. If she wants me to donate something to be auctioned off, she knows how to reach me.”

“She won’t,” Phil growled, ramming his arms into the sleeves of his worn navy jacket. “We don’t need your piles of cash, Devon. And don’t think you can buy yourself a clean conscience, either.”

“Hey, my conscience is fresh as a daisy,” Devon lied. “How’s yours?” Phil wrenched open the office door. “Don’t bother walking me out; I’m not sure I can stand the sight of you right now.”

Devon shoved away his stupid hurt feelings and covered them with a sneer. “Give them my best down at the union hall.”

Phil paused in the doorway. Devon tried not to notice how old and tired he looked, with his stooped shoulders and ruthlessly combed gray hair.

“I can only thank God your mother didn’t come here with me tonight; the shock of all this would’ve been too much for her. I wish I could say I can’t believe you’d keep our flesh and blood a secret from us, but unfortunately, that’s exactly the kind of selfish behavior I expect from you.” The dig sliced into Devon like a knife, filleting the flesh from his bones. He stared at his father, a little amazed that the old man’s mouth wasn’t filling up with blood, cut to ribbons by the sharp words.

And the worst of it was, Phil didn’t even stick around after his parting shot to watch Devon bleed out, messy emotion and stupid, pointless hopes all over the floor.

Pacing really wasn’t a very effective tool for managing stress. On her seventeenth pass by the basement stairs, Lilah realized she wasn’t actually going to be able to force Phil Sparks to leave the restaurant using the power of her will alone.

“I’m going down there,” she announced.

“No, you’re not,” Grant countered, the way he had the first five times she’d tried to leave. “I know it goes against your nature, but stay out of it, Lolly.”

Lilah wondered if he might be right. It wasn’t like her meddling had gone very well recently.

Which reminded her that this entire Phil Sparks calamity was her fault. “It’s my mess, I should help clean it up,” she argued.

Grant was inflexible. “Leave it alone.”

Lilah fretted. Glancing over at the grill, where Frankie was attempting to get Tucker interested in how to clean and season the cast-iron slats, she had to wonder how much of her frustration was due to the fact that while she wasn’t helping Devon with his father, she was equally useless here in the kitchen.

Tucker had withdrawn into himself again. Nothing she said appeared to make a dent in his stony façade. Even his favorite restaurant person, Frankie, hadn’t succeeded in getting so much as a grin out of him.

It was just like that first night, only worse, because now Lilah knew what Tuck’s face looked like all lit up with laughter. She could recall in perfect detail the way his blue eyes got shifty when he was up to some mischief. This robotic child who, even as she watched, pulled away from Frankie’s attempt to ruffle his hair, was a stranger.

Without a word, Tucker retrieved his ever-present backpack from the pastry table and wedged himself into the back corner of the kitchen, near the alley door. Lilah watched him root through his pack and decided to go sit with him.

Even if he gave her the cold shoulder, at least she’d be doing something. Besides, she told herself, he’s only a little boy. He might not want company right now, but he doesn’t know what he needs.