The Second Time (6 page)

Her thoughts were as crowded and tangled as the lush, green foliage pressing in on all sides. No solution worked its way through her troubled confusion to show her a clear path. Dawn followed the weed-riddled sidewalk to the driveway and her parked car.

Reeta Canady heard the car turn into the driveway and was out the back door before Dawn could slide from behind the wheel. She knew her daughter’s decision to live permanently in Key West was riding on the outcome of this meeting with Slater MacBride. And she was anxious to know the result, wanting her daughter and grandchild to stay and crossing her fingers that it would come to pass.

“What happened?” Her searching gaze made a hurried inspection of her daughter’s troubled countenance as she tried to guess what it meant.

“Where’s Randy?” Dawn asked, glancing around for her son. This was one conversation she didn’t want him to accidentally overhear. Until she had decided how to handle this situation, she didn’t want Randy to know anything about her meeting with his natural father.

“I saw him ride by on his bike about an hour ago with two other boys his age. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he made some friends here,” her mother replied, anxious to assert something positive into the negative atmosphere she felt. “I don’t expect he’ll be back until supper time.”

His usual parking stall was unoccupied when Slater returned to the building in Old Town that housed his office. The area was cluttered with tourists, young and old alike. Slater was too preoccupied to take notice of any of them, his expression grim and haunted as he rode the brake and swung the low-slung sportscar into its stall.

With a turn of the key, he switched off the powerful engine. Its demise finally brought an end to the invisible fire that had been burning at his heels, driving him out of the house and away from Dawn. If he had stayed any longer, she would have gotten to him again.

From the moment he’d set eyes on her when he stepped out of the car, the same old excitement had started rising in him. He’d known that he
didn’t dare get near enough to touch her. But the temptation had been stronger than his willpower could resist.

It had been curiosity that had prompted him to keep the appointment, a desire to prove that he no longer wanted her. But it had backfired in his face. The long abstinence had not eased his craving for her. Like an alcoholic who didn’t dare take another sip, he should never have taken that first kiss. He was hooked all over again. Slater hated himself for that, and he hated her, too, in that strange way when a man loves too deeply.

Impatience and frustration marked his movements as Slater stepped crisply out of the car. His coiled muscles rippled with the containment of volatile energy in his whipped-lean body. He started toward his office.

A young boy had stopped his bike behind the black sportscar and appeared to be admiring its sleek lines. He smiled quickly at Slater when he drew nearer. “Hi.” It was a bright greeting, issued with guilty swiftness as if the boy was being caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Slater nodded to him curtly, not in the mood to converse with some juvenile. But the bold youth didn’t take the hint.

“Is this your car?” he asked, setting the kickstand so the bike stood upright on its own.

Slater’s first impulse was to ignore the question and keep walking. But he was slowed by a twinge of guilt at the unfairness of taking out his bad temper by being rude to the boy.

“Yes, it is.” Politeness put little warmth in his voice, but he did respond.

His gaze made a flicking, uninterested study of the boy, a gangly mixture of arms and legs with dark, russet-brown hair and light blue eyes. Although the bike was dented and rusted in spots, it was obviously rented, because the boy was dressed in expensive clothes, exclusive labels plainly displayed on the knit shirt and designer denim jeans. The youth was obviously the son of some wealthy tourist. It was an observance Slater made without caring much about the conclusion he had reached. Taking note of such details had become second nature to him.

“Boy, it’s really something,” the lad exclaimed. “How fast will it go?”

This fascination with speed brought a brief twitch of amusement to Slater’s mouth. It was typical of the young, the demand for action and excitement.

“Fast enough,” he returned, aware the boy’s glance was continually darting to him. Something wasn’t quite right here. Although the boy was expressing interest in the sportscar, he seemed more intent on studying him. Slater observed a hint of strain and tension in the boy’s features. Did it come from excitement or the manifestation of nervousness?

“I’d sure like to have a car like this when I’m older,” the boy said in a voice that held a poignant ring of longing.

Bothered by something he couldn’t identify, Slater narrowed his study of the boy. Before he
could reply, he was hailed by a voice coming from up the street.

“Hey, MacBride!”

He turned to observe the approach of his longtime friend and local fishing guide, Jeeter Jones. With the spry, rolling step of a seaman, Jeeter closed the distance between them. His leathered face was cracked by a greeting smile.

“How are you doing, Jeeter?” Slater felt a surge of impatience at this second delay and wished he had not stopped to speak to this boy. It wasn’t company he wanted. It was privacy to deal with the emotions meeting Dawn again had aroused.

“Thought I’d come by and see if I couldn’t talk you into buying me a cup of coffee,” Jeeter explained and glanced curiously at the boy, who was taking advantage of Slater’s distraction to stare raptly at him. “Who’s your young friend?” Something about the boy struck a familiar chord and Jeeter darted a quick look at Slater and found it repeated.

With the arrival of Jeeter Jones, Slater had forgotten about that earlier moment when something about the boy had bothered him. His mildly indifferent glance slid to the youth.

“He was admiring my car,” Slater explained, then addressed the boy, remembering his previous comment about owning a car like it someday. “Maybe your father will buy you one when you’re older.” Judging from the way the boy was dressed, his parents could afford it.

There was a sudden flood of red into the boy’s cheeks. “Yeah,” he mumbled the answer and
turned quickly to his bike, hiding the betraying surge of embarrassment. Kicking the stand back, he hopped onto the seat and pedaled away.

The abruptness of his departure pulled Slater’s gaze after him. The boy didn’t travel far, stopping at the first street vendor he reached. As he looked over the assortment of cookies and cold drinks, the boy stole a glance over his shoulder at Slater and quickly averted his gaze when he saw Slater watching him.

A snorting sound, like a contained laugh, came from Jeeter Jones. “I knew you’d sown some wild seeds in your time, MacBride, but I didn’t expect to see the crop maturing so close to home.”

Slater swung his gaze around to subject Jeeter to his piercing scrutiny. “What are you talking about?”

“That boy,” Jeeter said. “He’s darn near the spittin’ image of you right down to the cowlicks in his hair. What is he? Some cousin of yours?”

Too stunned to reply, Slater stared at his friend for a blank second. Then his head jerked around to stare at the boy still hovering about the vendor’s cart. It wasn’t possible! Dawn had been lying. He would have bet his life on it. But—he had to find out. Whipping off his dark glasses, he jammed them into his shirt pocket so they wouldn’t shade something from his sight and prevent him from seeing something he should.

Turning away from Jeeter, he broke into a jog. “Hey! What about the coffee?” Jeeter protested in a startled voice.

“Another time.” The answer was thrown over his shoulder, his gaze not straying from the boy, who noticed his approach and appeared to tense up. Slater lengthened his stride and weaved through the few pedestrians in his path.

There was a pallor beneath the boy’s tanned face as he hurriedly dug into the pocket of his jeans to pay for the limeade he’d ordered. He was still trying to count out the money when Slater arrived at the cart.

Taking two dollar bills from his pocket, Slater laid them atop the cart. “I’ll buy his, Rufus,” he told the man. “Give me a limeade, too.”

After an interested glance that took in both Slater and the boy, the vendor gave a small shrug and turned to fill a plastic glass with the chilled, fresh-squeezed juice.

“I’ve got the money to pay for my own, sir,” the boy declared, suddenly very stiff and warily nervous with Slater there.

“I know.” His eyes were taking in the youth-softened yet strongly chiseled lines of the boy’s features, the trace of blue in his gray eyes, and the mop of dark hair that rebelled against any orderly style. “What’s your name?” He picked up the two glasses, but withheld giving one to the boy.

“Randy,” he mumbled, trying but not quite meeting Slater’s look.

“Your full name,” Slater prompted and offered one of the glasses.

There was a moment of indecision before the
boy answered. “Randy MacBride Lord.” Then he looked up to watch Slater’s reaction, wary and defensive.

The answer confirmed what Slater had doubted all along. The sudden burden of it removed all emotion from him, wiping him clean like a blackboard.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked with a lack of expression that bordered on a deceptive nonchalance.

Again, he was subjected to a measuring study by the boy before Randy affirmed his knowledge with a slow nod of his head. It was followed by an equally hesitant—“You’re Slater MacBride”—as if Randy didn’t want to admit how much he knew.

“I met your mother today,” Slater said.

“I know,” Randy said, then explained, “I saw your car parked in the driveway behind hers when I rode by the house on my bike. Did she—” he faltered, lowering his gaze to nervously study the handlebars of his bike, “—did she . . . tell you about me?”

“Yes.” Slater released a bitter, laughing breath that held no humor. “It seems I’m the last one to know.” He noticed the moisture gathering in Randy’s eyes and his desperate attempt to hide the tears. It tugged at something in his heart. A new gentleness entered his voice when Slater spoke again. “I think it’s time you and I talked about a few things.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a hopeful tremor in Randy’s voice.

“Why don’t you lock up your bike in that rackstand over there?” Slater nodded to one positioned at the corner. “Then we’ll go walk somewhere and find a place to drink our limeade.”

“Okay.” Randy pushed his bike toward the stand with a betraying eagerness.

Her shoulder-length red hair was tied atop her head in a short ponytail to keep the hot weight of it off her neck while she helped her mother fix the evening meal. Dawn dabbed at the perspiration beading in the hollow of her throat from the heat of the stove. She poked a fork into the potatoes to test whether they were done. It broke into pieces at the touch of the fork tines. She turned off the burner beneath the pan.

“The potatoes are almost mush,” she announced to her mother and turned. “Any sign of Randy yet?”

Her mother peered out the window above the sink where she was tearing lettuce leaves to make a salad. “I don’t see him. Maybe he’s in the garage with your father.”

“I’ll see.” Dawn moved away from the stove and walked to the screen door.

Outside, she made a quick scan of the backyard, looking for Randy’s bike. There were hammering sounds coming from the garage and Dawn headed toward the raised door. The garage was so crowded with pieces of wood, slabs of
cypress trunks, and objects in various stages of completion that there wasn’t any room for a car.

Without attempting to work her way through the obstacle course of nails, sawdust, and the lumber-strewn floor, Dawn paused inside the opening and called to her father, raising her voice to make herself heard above the racket of his hammering. “Hey, Pop!”

He straightened from his workbench and turned, taking a mouthful of nails from his mouth. “Time for supper?” he guessed.

“Yes. But I’m looking for Randy. Has he come home yet?” she frowned.

“Haven’t seen him all afternoon,” he said with a shake of his head, then laid his tools on the counter and turned to walk through the maze on a path only he could discern. “I’m going to get all this cleaned up someday. Problem is, I’ve run out of friends to give all this stuff to.”

Dawn glanced at the cypress clock propped against a wall and a uniquely styled chair with a cypress slab seat, two of the rare pieces that were finished and now gathering dust. “Instead of giving them away, you should sell them,” she advised. The garage contained everything from handmade furniture to lamps to polished pieces of driftwood and sculptures made out of shells and carved wood.

“It wouldn’t be fair.” He shrugged aside the craftsmanship of the products. “It’s just something I do to pass the time.”

“Puttering or not, it’s better than some of the stuff I’ve seen in the shops,” Dawn declared,
then turned her gaze toward the driveway. “I wonder where Randy is.”

Her father laid a hand on her shoulder in an affectionate gesture that also pushed her toward the house. “He’ll be here directly. He probably just lost track of the time. But don’t worry, that bottomless stomach of his will soon be reminding him it’s supper time.”

Dawn let herself be guided to the house, but she was still bothered by Randy’s absence.

A quarter of an hour later, all the food was ready to be dished up and served. Her father had returned to the kitchen from washing his hands and took his customary chair at the head of the table. Dawn was growing impatient and irritated at her son’s tardiness.

“Isn’t Randy here yet?” her father asked.

“No.” Her hands were on her hips, betraying the suppressed anger with her stance, as she looked out the rear screen door for the umpteenth time.

“It’s all right,” her mother insisted. “We can keep the food hot a while longer.”

“It is not all right, Mother,” Dawn retorted. “Randy knows what time we have supper. It’s rude and thoughtless of him to keep us waiting.”

“I’m sure he’s probably having such a good time playing with his new friends that he just hasn’t realized how late it is.” Her mother provided an excuse for the absent Randy. “It isn’t like him to deliberately stay gone without a reason.”