That Boy From Trash Town (18 page)

Chapter 12

"
W
hat are you thinking about so hard?" Dean asked.

Whitney raised her head off his chest and looked up at him. "Lloyd... Daddy. You don't know how often I've almost called him that. I was just thinking that if I had him—as a father rather than a friend—I would have everything I've ever wanted."

She ran her fingers in an absentminded caress over his bare thigh. "I know I've got to tell him soon, but every time I try, something always stops me. Something in him. But it's not just that blasted wall he puts up. Something—I don't know. It's a kind of darkness or a sadness that comes over him when he thinks about the past."

Dean settled her more closely against him. "From what the others say, he's opened up a lot since you came here. But I know what you're talking about. There's still a part of him that's sealed up tight.. .and whatever's in there isn't giving him an easy time."

She sighed. "It's like that story, The Lady or the Tiger! I don't know what's behind the closed door and it scares me. I'm afraid I'll hurt him or even lose him, simply because I don't know what I'm dealing with."

He smoothed the hair from her forehead. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to tell him." She smiled, then kissed his chest, his neck and his chin. "I didn't get where I am—in the arms of the sexiest, most adorable man in the country—without taking chances. I've never believed in 'if only.' There's no way I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting something I didn't do. So I'm going to do it, and if I screw up, I'll deal with that, too."

* * *

It was a good decision. She was sure of that. And during the next few days Whitney had plenty of opportunities to tell Lloyd that she was his daughter. On one occasion, the words were halfway out of her mouth before she changed her mind and coughed instead.

She had known that getting to the sticking point wouldn't be easy, but sometimes it seemed almost impossible.

On Saturday night several people from the toy factory gathered at her apartment to watch a rerun of The Magnificent Seven on cable. It was a noisy, entertaining evening, especially after the movie was over. All the men in the group pretended they were gunslingers—Whitney had people dying all over her livingroom floor—while the women huddled around the table and tried to talk over the noise.

They had all chipped in to have pizza delivered, but Whitney—with the help of a downtown bakery—provided dessert and coffee, and it was well after midnight before her guests, with the exception of Dean and Lloyd, finally said good-night and left.

Whitney made another pitcher of iced tea—the air-conditioning had gone out again—and the three of them sat around the kitchen table talking.

"I really admire the way you hint to your guests that it's time to leave, Mary," Lloyd said, his lips shaking as he tried to sound sincere. " 'Do you think this rash on my leg is contagious?' may not be subtle, but it was certainly effective. I've never seen a room clear so fast."

Dean chuckled. "Oh, she's always been inventive. Did I tell you about the time—"

Whitney groaned. "Please, Dean. Do you know how many times I've heard those stupid words in the past few weeks? The only reason Lloyd doesn't throw up when he hears them is he either has a strong stomach or he's brain-dead. Or maybe he's simply too much of a wuss to tell you to zip it."

"Zip it," Lloyd told her. "Go ahead, Dean. Tell your story."

"As I was saying," he said, giving Whitney a smug look,' 'she was in eighth grade— No, I think it was the seventh. Anyway she forgot to study for this really important history test. I think she was out messing around with her horse or something."'

"I wasn't 'messing around' with him," Whitney said, her voice indignant. "He had a cough. Ben was my very first horse. I couldn't study for a dumb test when Ben might have been coming down with pneumonia."

"It wasn't a cough. He just snorted funny."

She laughed. "I think he had enlarged adenoids," she admitted.

"What about the test?" Lloyd prompted.

"It was true-false. Since she hadn't studied, she didn't know any of the answers and figured she would fail it anyway, so she decided what she needed was a system."

Remembering, Whitney groaned again and stood up to walk to the sink where the party dishes were soaking. "You are evil and must be destroyed," she muttered under her breath as she dipped her hands into the soapy water.

"What kind of system?" Lloyd asked, his voice filled with anticipatory laughter.

"Well, at first she was going to mark True on all the questions—she figured she'd get at least half of them right that way—but she decided that was too dull, so she answered to the tune of the 'Blue Danube,' True... True ... True... True... True... False, false... False, false."

When the two men roared with laughter, Whitney threw a handful of suds at them, lifting a chin in haughty indignation. "I passed it, didn't I?"

"You're kidding," Lloyd said as he struggled to catch his breath.

Dean shook his head wryly. "Whitney has always had the hick of the devil, she..."

When the words faded away into silence, Whitney looked over her shoulder in curiosity. The two men sat at the table staring at each other. Dean's expression was pained and Lloyd had gone white.

"Whitney?" the older man whispered.

Dean switched his gaze to her. "I'm sorry. God, honey, I'm so sorry."

She was still staring at Lloyd, taking in the stunned look on his face. "No," she said softly, "don't be sorry. It had to happen sooner or later."

Lloyd slowly turned his head to look at her, taking in each detail of her face. "Who are you?" he rasped out.

She shrugged, tightening her lips to stop their trembling. "Whitney Daryn Grant," she said, her voice barely audible. "Your daughter?"

As father and daughter stared at each other, Dean rose to his feet and walked out of the kitchen.

Lloyd didn't seem to notice. Even when he rose to his feet, he never took his eyes from her face.

Whitney simply stood by the sink, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to take even one step toward her. But seconds later he turned and without a word, Walked out of the kitchen.

The move took her by surprise and a couple of seconds passed before she was able to move. She pushed away from the Formica counter that had been supporting her and ran, catching up with her father as he reached the front door.

"Don't!" she called out. "You can't— Don't you dare walk out on me again. Don't you dare."

For a moment Whitney thought he was going to ignore her shouted demand, but he paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back to her.

She drew in a deep breath and pushed the hair from her forehead. "You don't owe me love," she said, her voice low and shaken. "Or loyalty. You don't have to care... you don't even have to like me. But damn it, you owe me some kind of explanation. I want you to tell me why you left. I want to hear why you never even once got in touch with me. Why, for God's sake, did you let me spend my whole life thinking my father was dead?"

As she stood staring at his stiff back, a violent shudder shook through him. "Your mother wanted it that way," he said finally, the words flat, almost indifferent.

Moving forward, Whitney leaned her shoulder against the wall beside the door, trying to see his face, needing to know if his features matched his impassive voice. But his head was bowed, his expression hidden.

"And you just said, 'Gee, that sounds like a great idea. Let's tell the kid I died'?"

He shook his head. "You don't understand. I was in no position to make demands. It had to be her way." He drew in an unsteady breath. "I put her through hell. I—I had to do what I could to make it up to her. She said you would both be better off, and— I wasn't feeling too good about myself at the time, so I could see her point."

"What happened?" she whispered in desperation. "Tell me, Daddy. Why did you think we would be better off if you were dead?"

He raised his head slowly, turning it slightly in her direction, then winced as though the sight of her face hurt him. Shifting his position, he leaned against the door and closed his eyes.

"I don't suppose you remember," he said slowly, "but in Winnetka, I had a decent job. Not a great job, but a decent one. I was one of a dozen bookkeepers who worked for a big company. A profitable company." He opened his eyes and met hers squarely. "Anne gave up so much to marry me. She gave up everything, Mary.. .Whitney."

He paused, swallowing with difficulty. "We went to San Antonio once after we were married. Just once. But once was enough. I guess you know better than anyone how she was raised. She had everything money could buy. I could see how it hurt her, struggling to make ends meet, never having enough money for the luxuries she was used to. It was wearing her down...and seeing that was killing me. I—I just wanted to give her some of the things she deserved."

He shook his head. "I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did. I just want you to understand why I did it."

"You took money?"

He nodded, exhaling a slow, shuddering breath. "I embezzled almost fifty thousand dollars. When the loss was discovered... when they came to the house and arrested me— It was on a Saturday. You were upstairs sleeping. You know, even now, after all these years, when I close my eyes, I'm there again, living it over again. And the look in her eyes tears at me just like it did the first time. It just about destroyed her, Whitney. She couldn't take the shame. She was terrified that the people back home in San Antonio would find out that her husband was a criminal. She— She stayed until I was sentenced, then she was gone."

He shrugged, the movement weary. "I think she told her brother, but everyone else thought I was dead. I had been in prison for almost a year when she wrote and told me what she had done. She explained why she thought it was best if I didn't try to see you when I got out.

"It wasn't an easy thing for me to accept. It— It ate at me. God, I almost came after you dozens of times. Once I even got all the way to San Antonio. I had convinced myself that no one had the right to keep us apart, not even your mother. You were my daughter, and I had a right to at least see you, to make sure you were all right, to make sure you were happy." He drew in a slow breath. "But I couldn't do it. When it came to the sticking point, I just couldn't do it. I thought about the way people reacted when they found out I'd been in prison... And sooner or later, they always find out. You don't know, you can't imagine what it's like, a particular look in their eyes, a certain something in their tone. And I knew it would be much worse for you. You would find yourself torn between loyalty and resentment. I couldn't do that to you... You see that, don't you, baby? I couldn't let my sins ruin your life. I had to accept that what Anne said was the truth. I gave up all rights to you the day I decided to take money that didn't belong to me."

When Whitney began to shake her head in violent rejection of the idea, he touched her face. "Your mother did it for you. Don't you understand? There was no stigma attached to a father who had died in a boating accident. But a father who was serving five to seven in a correctional institution? People can be so cruel. She was simply trying to protect you."

"She had no right," she whispered tightly. "She had no right. I grieved for you every day of my life. She knew that. She knew how I cried for you. Dear God, Daddy, she knew I would rather have you than all the Harcourts in the world. Mother knew that."

"Hush, baby." He reached out and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "If you have to blame someone, blame me. I was stupid and weak."

"Everyone makes mistakes," she rasped out. "You don't throw people away like trash... no matter what they've done. She should have been stronger. Together, the three of us could have stood up to anything. She should have—"

"You can't get away from the way you're made," he interrupted. "Your mother has a tremendous amount of pride. I've always loved that about her. Oh yes," he added when her head jerked up in surprise, "I still love her. I never stopped. And I think, in her own way, she still loves me. But we can never be together. One moment of weakness in me and a world full of pride in her make it impossible." "It's false pride. Harcourt pride." "To you and me maybe, but to Anne if s everything. If s the way she was raised. If you're a Harcourt, you're somebody. They have a set of standards that are too rigid to live up to, but they spend their lives trying."

"They spend their lives pretending," she said, spitting out the words with contempt. "And they hurt people who get in the way of that stupid-pretense. They always— They hold on to the counterfeit and toss away the real thing."

He put his arms around her, and she cried softly against him, thinking what a terrible waste it all was. Such a sad, foolish waste of love.

A moment later she clutched his arm tightly. "You won't leave me again? You'll let me be a part of your life. You'll be a part of mine. I—I used to talk to you in my daydreams, you see. I built all kinds of wild fantasies around a phantom father. But I can't make do with fantasies anymore. I need the real thing. I need a real live father in my life. And we— We're friends, aren't we?" She tried to smile, but it was a pitiful effort "You can't ever have too many friends."

"Maid Mary," he murmured. "Your mother knows you're here? In Dallas? With me?"

She nodded.

"I guess that's why she hasn't written lately."

"She writes to you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Every week for almost twenty years." His lips twisted in a sad little smile. "She never mentions the past. She would tell me about you... not in any great detail, but that you were doing fine and growing like a weed, that kind of thing. They're the kind of letters you'd write to a pen pal." He shook his head. "It took me a while to get used to that, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can get used to anything. Anything."

"She hasn't written because she burned all your letters to keep me from seeing them. Knowing Mother, she didn't have your address written down anywhere." She gave a short, harsh laugh. "Pen pal letters? You should have written us off years ago and gotten yourself a new family."

He smiled. "I have a family. You and your mother were never out of my thoughts, never out of my heart. And now that you're here, now that you've let me into your life, it's enough. By God, it's more than I ever dreamed of."

He kissed her forehead, then reached for the doorknob. "I think we both need some time alone now. We can talk again tomorrow." He smiled down at her. "We have a lot of catching up to do, Maid Mary."

When the door closed behind him, Whitney turned and saw Dean standing in the darkened hall that led to the bedroom.

"You heard?" Whitney asked him.

He nodded, a short, jerky movement. "Tough. Tough on you. Tough on him."