Taking Fire (20 page)

37

Bobby grabbed his keys from the counter and headed out the door. Uri and Miriam Levine's longtime home was a grand restored row house close to Georgetown University, where they were both tenured professors. He could cover the nine miles from his apartment in McLean to the Levines' doorstep in just under twenty minutes.

So far, he'd made the drive exactly twice. Once to deliver Talia and Meir to her parents after they'd arrived back in the States and once for a brief five minutes to check on the two of them.

The Levines had wanted him to stay for dinner that evening, but he'd begged off, saying he had to get back to Langley for a briefing. The truth was, he simply hadn't had it in him to stay.

Instead, he'd made good on the promise he'd made to himself. He'd driven to New York and visited his mother in the Bronx. He'd felt really good about that and had left with a promise to come back as soon as he could.

Tonight, however, he'd accepted the Levines' second invitation. They'd given him little choice.

“Talia has told us so much about you,” her mother had said when she'd called yesterday. “We owe you so much for bringing her and Meir home to us. And we very much want to get to know you. You'll be a big part of Meir's life now. I hope that means you'll be a part of our life, too.”

How did he say no to an invitation as generous and kind as that? That the Levines, Talia included, had no plans to keep him out of Meir's life was a gift. He'd been concerned that once the fog of fear had lifted and life started to return to some semblance of normal, Talia might have second thoughts. She might decide Meir was better off without him. Better off without the influence of a man who was still, for all practical purposes, the same man he'd been when she'd met him. So yeah. It had been a gift. Now he had to figure out how to accept it.

He slipped behind the wheel of his black GMC pickup and backed out of his garage, his mind seeing Meir. And Talia. Put him in the front line against a swarm of tangos, and he'd feel fear, hell yeah. Anyone worth his salt would. But it was a fear he was used to. One he could control. He hadn't yet gotten a handle on the fear that gripped him when he spent more than five minutes in a room with Meir and his mother.

Oman no longer seemed real. Oman had been a nightmare of tension and frayed emotions and danger. So frayed he'd made love to a woman who had betrayed him. He'd temporarily let go of an anger that had simmered for years.

But fatherhood—that was real. And it scared the hell out of him.

Most men got nine months of prep time to wrap their mind around their new normal of fatherhood, though. He'd gotten the equivalent of a short fuse on a megabomb.

He pulled into a strip mall and bought flowers and a bottle of wine.

When he pulled up in front of the house, he was nervous as all hell. He made himself take three deep breaths, then walked up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell.

He had it pretty much together—until Talia opened the door.

Holy, holy cow. She looked . . . amazing.

It was summer in Georgetown. Which meant it was hot. He'd left his collar open, but he started sweating in his white dress shirt and chinos, because she looked beyond beautiful in a long, lightweight teal slip dress. A dress that was a dead ringer for the one she'd worn in Kabul the night he'd taken her out to dinner. The delicate white shawl draped over her shoulders looked familiar, too. Both brought back the memory of that night, of how in love he'd been, and it was all he could do to keep from reaching for her.

“For your mother,” he managed, extending the flowers and the wine.

“How thoughtful. Come on in.”

As he followed her inside, there wasn't a question in his mind; she'd dressed that way for him. She'd known he would remember that night. It had been the first time he'd seen her in anything but her khakis. The first time they'd gone out in public together. The first time she'd worn her hair down for him other than in bed. They'd laughed and teased, and he'd kissed her in a lantern-lit alley.

Later she'd made love to him as if he was the one man on earth she wanted to be with.

Then, in the morning, she'd been gone.

Now she wanted to fix things between them. She wanted him back in her life. A part of him wanted that, too, but how did he get one hundred percent past her betrayal? How did he get past five years of not knowing his son?

Rhonda was right. Anger was a burdensome emotion to bear. But when a man carried it as long as he had, it became a part of him. He didn't know how to be without it.

“Robert.” Miriam Levine greeted him warmly as he followed Talia into the living room. “We're so glad you were able to make it.”

The house was very much like Miriam: understated, warm, sophisticated, and quite beautiful. It was easy to see who Talia favored.

“Taggart.” Uri stood and extended his hand. “Welcome back. Let's get right down to business. What can I pour you?”

Bobby returned Uri's smile. “Whatever you're drinking is fine by me, sir.”

“Whiskey it is.” Uri glanced back over his shoulder. “Neat or rocks?”

“Neat.”

“Open this lovely bottle of wine Robert brought, would you, dear?” Miriam said.

“I can get that for you, ma'am.” Bobby took the bottle from Talia, aware of the brush of their fingers during the exchange.

Miriam smiled. “Wonderful. Now, you three enjoy and relax. I'll just be a moment in the kitchen and be right back.”

“She's a wonderful cook,” Uri said, with a twinkle in his eye.

While he must be pushing retirement age, Talia's father was trim and fit and exuded energy and goodwill.

“I hope she didn't go to too much trouble.” Bobby glanced at Talia, at the way her long dress hugged her slim hips and moved against her while she made herself busy selecting wineglasses.

“Oh, she did, but she loves it,” Uri said, smiling.

“I'll go see if I can help,” Talia said.

“No, dear.” Uri handed Bobby his drink. “You stay here and entertain our guest. I'm much more familiar with your mother's kitchen than you are.” Whiskey in hand, he walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

Bobby was suddenly grateful that he'd brought the wine. He set down his whiskey and went to work getting the bottle open.

“How are you?” Talia asked, moving up beside him.

She smelled like flowers. Something fresh and light and summery. “Good. All healed up.”

“Even your head?” She was referring to the blow he'd taken at Ultramar when Amir's shot had knocked him to the floor.

“Barely a concussion.”

Although he felt a bit concussed right now. The scent of her, her nearness, the way her hair tumbled softly down her shoulders. It took him back to the bed in a Kabul hotel where they'd spent hours making each other feel amazing. Where she'd made him fall in love.

“It's fine,” he said, cuing back in to her question. “I'm fine. What about you?”

“I'm okay,” she said softly.

And that pretty much dead-ended the conversation. But not his memories. And on their heels, that familiar burst of anger. It didn't have to be this way. She could have told him. She could have figured something out. She didn't have to leave him. She didn't have to crush—

Damn. He felt like a hamster in a cage. Constantly spinning, spinning, never getting where he needed to be.

He didn't know what to say to her. Apparently, she didn't know what to say, either. So now what?

He popped the cork on the wine bottle. “Would you like some?”

She nodded. “Please.” And he filled her glass.

And the silence became another entity in the room.

“Meir should be down in a few minutes,” she said, breaking the quiet but adding to his tension. “I'd just gotten him out of the tub when you arrived, and he's getting dressed.”

“He takes care of that by himself?”

“Oh, yeah. He's very independent, insists he can get dried and dressed without any help.”

Because she smiled, he figured she approved. And yeah, independence was a good thing. Even for a five-year-old. “How's he doing?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that before he came down.”

“Something wrong?”

“No,” she said quickly, and sat at the end of an overstuffed sofa, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Things are actually quite good.”

He grabbed his drink and chose a chair directly opposite her. Not because he was afraid to get too close to her but . . . oh, hell. Yeah, that, he admitted to himself grudgingly.

“He had his first session with the child psychologist today. She was very pleased with his overall emotional health. She'd like to see him a couple more times, just in case there's some lingering trauma that hasn't surfaced yet, but she was quite astounded by his ability to analyze and compartmentalize and most of all to realize the danger was past and that he feels secure.”

“Good. That's really good to hear. He's one tough little guy.”

“I . . . I want to apologize,” she said, after a moment's hesitation. “I should have consulted you about the choice of psychologists. I'm so used to making all the decisions when it comes to Meir, I didn't stop to think.”

The concession caught him a little off guard. He
had
wished she'd consulted him, even though he would have deferred to her choice. So the fact that she'd apologized meant something. And while the next thought that tripped through his mind was
I could have helped you with those difficult decisions for five years if you'd let me
, he had difficulty mustering up the resentment. Mainly because she was no longer shutting him out. And she could have done so.

“It's all right,” he said. “Frankly, I was concerned you might not want me to be involved in his life, once things settled down.”

Her eyes grew misty. “I realize why you'd think that. I could tell you a hundred times—a thousand—how sorry I am that I didn't get in touch with you. And believe me, I am sorry. Now. But I believed the decisions I made back then were the right ones. Just as I now believe the only right decision regarding you and Meir is for you to be involved in his life. As his father.”

Would he have taken her to court if she tried to keep him away from Meir? He didn't know. But the thought had been there, in the back of his mind, in those moments when anger wove around uncertainty and his feelings turned negative. Hearing her say she wanted Meir to know him as a father eased a lot of tension. Gave him a lot of relief . . . which was quickly overrun by a familiar anxiety. What did he know about being a father?

“Do I take your silence as relief or dread?”

“Both,” he confessed. “A lot of relief, and I thank you for that. But I have to be honest. I don't know the first thing about kids.”

She smiled. “Well, you're going to learn.”

He smiled back. “Yeah. I guess I am.” After a moment, he asked, “When—or maybe the word is
how
—are we going to tell him?”

“I spoke to the therapist about that. She suggested the three of us might go on a few play dates?” she said apprehensively. “Maybe to the zoo. Or the Smithsonian? A picnic by the river? The idea is to let him get to know you as a person before we tell him you're his father.”

“That makes sense, I guess. How do you feel about it?”

“I like it,” she said simply. “And
I
like zoos, too.”

When she smiled, he found himself smiling again. But a question remained. “What
have
you told him—in the past, I mean—about his father?”

She looked at him, then away. “I told him his father loved him very much and that he wanted to be with us, but duty had taken him away.”

Her admission shocked him. “He doesn't think I'm dead?”

“I don't know what he thinks. I'm not sure how he interpreted it. He seemed to accept my answer and draw his own conclusions. And he's never asked again.”

Bobby heard child-sized footsteps bounding down the stairs. He jerked his head around. And there was his son.

Warmth flooded his chest as Meir jumped over the last step to land with a thump on the floor, grinning from ear to ear. His dark hair was slicked down and wet; a smudge of what looked like chocolate rode on the edge of his grin. He looked happy and loved and like an all-American child in worn jeans, lime-green tennies, and a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt.

“Hey, buddy.” His mother opened her arms when he scooted into the room. “Look. We've got company. Do you remember Mr. Taggart?”

Suddenly shy, the boy lowered his head and leaned against Talia's legs. “Hi,” he said to the floor.

“Hello, Meir.” Bobby couldn't take his eyes off the picture they made together. “You're a Cowboys fan, huh?”

That brought his head up. “Yeah,” he said, looking a little interested. “You like 'em?”