AFTERGLOW (17 page)

David closed his eyes for a moment, visions of utter disaster clashing in his numbed brain.

"David?"

"Tell the kids I'll be there in a couple of hours. I assume you've made yourself at home?"

"Certainly, David."

"Give the kids my love." He sat as still as a pet rock for several minutes after he hung up the phone.

"Are you all right, Dr. Winter?"

David stared silently at Elsa. "What? Oh, yeah, just fine. I feel like a termite on his way to extermination. I feel like the dog that John tried to rake. What's up?"

"Got a little girl with a severe laceration on her leg. Fell off her bike. The kid's being taken care of. It's the mother Dr. Fellson needs you for. The woman's an unholy terror and needs your diplomatic touch."

David wasn't free to call Chelsea for another two hours. When he did, there was no answer. He cursed at the ringing phone. He was supposed to have dinner at her house at seven o'clock. Their last night together until he got back from Boston. He thought of the 1935
Debrett's
he'd found in the dirty recesses of a used-book store, what he had lovingly thought of as her eight-pound Christmas present.

It was wrapped in bright red paper at home, he realized, sitting in full sight of anyone who cared to look on his coffee table.

Chapter 10

«
^
»

"
H
ello
,
Father."

"Hi, Dad."

The two young voices were restrained, and their owners stood at nervous attention, watching him. David felt an overflowing of intense love as he looked at his children. God, they'd grown, changed, and it had only been six months since he'd seen them. "Hi, guys," he said, his voice shaking just a bit. "How about a hug for dear old Dad?"

Taylor bounded toward him, snuck a look at her mother, slowed and allowed herself to be hugged heartily. She had just turned seven, and Mark, David knew, was wild to turn nine to keep a full two years between him and his sister. Taylor was tall, nearly as tall as her brother, and she looked like her father, bless her. Mark was more like Margaret, small boned, with light brown hair and blue eyes.

"Hello, son," David said, looking over Taylor's head. He enfolded the boy in his arms. For the first time in their lives he found himself noticing his children's lack of spontaneity, their lack of enthusiasm. Well, maybe it was natural. After all, he'd been out of their lives for a while now.

"You guys like the flight here?"

"Yes, Dad," Taylor said. "The flight attendant gave me three packets of peanuts."

"She gave two back, of course," Margaret Winter said. She nodded toward David. "You're looking fit. Children, go sit down. One shouldn't make noise in an apartment. It disturbs the other tenants."

"Yes, Mother," Mark said. "Come along, Taylor."

"It's a flat and the penthouse, Margaret. You make it sound like a tenement," David said, watching his two children march like little troopers into the living room. He frowned, already foreseeing those ulcers.

"Well, it isn't exactly a brownstone in Beacon Hill, is it?" She smiled brightly up at him, cleansing away the insult in her words.

He'd loved that house, but of course it had gone to her in the divorce settlement. He said nothing, merely shook his head, wanting to keep the peace. "Why did you come here with no warning, Margaret?"

"All their friends' parents decided to go to the south of France for Christmas. I thought it would be nice to see what all this is about."

"This? You mean beautiful California?"

"Why, yes. You're looking quite well, David."

"So are you, Margaret. That's a very becoming dress."

"You always were partial to clingy wool."

That was a conversation stopper for sure, and David merely nodded and walked into the living room.

"Dad," Taylor said, "this is a very heavy present. It's a book, isn't it? Who's it for?"

"For someone named Chelsea," Margaret said. "How bizarre."

"Bizarre? How's that?"

"As in a section of London. I've never known a Chelsea."

How could she make it sound like chopped liver? David wondered.

"Is
it a book, Father?" Taylor asked again.

"Yes, punkin, it is. Actually, it's a book on British peerages and such."

"You mean like dukes and earls and Prince Charles?"

"Exactly. Would you guys like a soda?"

"They would prefer some hot chocolate, perhaps, but I couldn't find any of the ingredients," Margaret said.

"There's no sugar in the soda, Margaret. Let's keep their teeth healthy. Come along, guys, and let's see what I've got."

Taylor and Mark followed him sedately into the kitchen. They were dressed like little preppies, he saw, and winced. Taylor didn't drink soda out of a can. It had to be in a glass, with three ice cubes.

"Tell me what you've been up to the past six months," David said, seating himself at the kitchen table. For God's sake, he shouldn't be so ill at ease around his own children.

For the next ten minutes both children stumbled through a recital of events. "Of course," Mark concluded, "Mother didn't allow me to be in that play. It was far too plebeian."

Merciful heavens, David thought, he even pronounced the word correctly. He glanced up at the kitchen clock. Six.

"I would like to hear more," he said, rising. "We'll all go out to dinner at the Cliff House. It's a great place and you can see lots of seals from the window. Why don't you go get cleaned up? We'll leave in fifteen minutes."

"It sounds interesting, Father," Mark said.

No, David wanted to correct him, it sounded neat. "Interesting" was the response to a boring comment.

The only one left was Margaret. He said bluntly, as he walked into the living room, "I have one guest room, Margaret. Are you planning on sleeping with the kids?"

"No, I'll take the sofa."

"Why not a hotel? I can call if you like."

"No, here will be just fine."

He nodded, defeated, and said, "I've got a phone call to make and plans to break. Excuse me."

He listened to the third ring, then the
fourth…
Then, "Hello!"

"Hi, Chels, David. Bad news, wretched news, ghastly and all that, except for my kids."

"All right, give."

"Margaret flew in with the children this afternoon. They're all here at my place, and I'm tied up. I can't make tonight. I'm sorry."

Chelsea looked at her romantically set table. "Me, too," she said on a sigh. "Well, at least you won't be going out of town, and I'll be able to meet your kids."

"Well, yes. Let me see what I can work out."

"David?"

"Yes?"

"You won't believe your Christmas present." She giggled.

"Well, you won't be able to lift yours!"

"A big red bow around your middle? Maybe an apple in your mouth?"

He laughed. "Not this year, maybe next. Or your birthday. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Chels."

Chelsea hung up the phone, a thoughtful expression on her face. Unexpected. She found herself wondering why Margaret had come out without warning. Refusing to follow that train of thought, Chelsea finally snuggled
up
with a Dorothy Garlock novel, remembering how she'd joked with Dorothy in New York about the second word of her two-word title—Lash! Ah, what marvelous images that evoked. Great novel, she thought, finishing about midnight. Because she didn't want to brood, she dove into the history of medicine she'd found for her doctor, Saint, in her San Francisco novel.

The evening wasn't exactly a bust, David told himself as he settled down to sleep. The kids hadn't loosened up, but he knew he had to be patient. It occurred to him that their formal behavior had been the acceptable norm during his marriage to Margaret. Had he really been such a stuffed shirt? So cold and
…
rigid? As for Margaret, she'd been pleasant, quite pleasant, in fact. Still, it was going to be difficult living with her until—until when? He hadn't asked her how long she intended to stay. Indeed, his thinking continued, it would be quite nice if she could take herself back to Boston and leave the kids with him for the remainder of their vacation. He decided to discuss it with her in the morning. He didn't have the chance.

Margaret announced over a delicious breakfast that she herself had prepared, "David, you will have the children to yourself today. I have errands to run. Will that be all right with you?"

What errands? he wondered, but said nothing. "Certainly."

David thoughtfully finished his pancakes, making his decision just as Margaret emerged from the bathroom, looking exquisitely lovely.

"Well," she said, "I'll be off now. I rented a car, David, so you don't have to worry about driving me about. Now, children, I expect you to do as your father says. All right?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Yes, ma'am."

She kissed them both, nodded to David and left.

David looked at his children. He believed at that moment that he could count the number of days on his left hand that he'd spent with them, alone, just the three of them. He realized that he had no idea what to do with them. Well, it was time he learned how to be a father.

He took his two little Bostonian preppies to the De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. He decided, after three hours, that he was enjoying it more than they were. The children didn't eat junk food, as they succinctly informed him, so he trotted them to Fisherman's Wharf for some fresh seafood.

He stared out over the Bay as he ate his shrimp salad, his eyes resting on the sailboats. That's it! He'd take them sailing.

"Kids," he said, "how would you like to go out on my sailboat this afternoon?"

Taylor looked at Mark, a silent message passing between them. "That would be very pleasant, Father," Taylor said.

Yeah, David thought. You sound about as excited as if I'd offered you a live squid.

Chelsea, he thought, and smiled. She loved to sail. He kept his fingers crossed that she'd be free and willing as he excused himself and phoned her.

The outing sounded great to Chelsea, so David was driving over the Golden Gate Bridge some thirty minutes later.

Chelsea, dressed in her grubby sailing togs, answered the doorbell, a wide smile on her face. The smile cracked when she observed the two children flanking David. Sailing, she thought. Is he out of his mind? Both children were dressed like little fashion plates.

"Hello," she said, stepping back. "Come in. I'm Chelsea."

The children filed in, stopped and turned. "I'm Taylor."

"I'm Mark."

"And I'm David."

"And I'm overwhelmed! Come on in and sit down. What can I get you guys to drink?"

"A club soda," Taylor said.

"A root beer," Mark said.

"A stiff scotch," David said.

Chelsea shot him a wicked look and went into the kitchen. As she was making up the order she heard Taylor say, "Father, she's got a patch on her jeans!"

"A patch on her bottom," Mark said, a fiend for specificity.

David wanted to groan. He looked at his kids, really looked at them, and realized that the last thing they could do was go sailing in the ridiculous outfits they were wearing. And he wasn't much better, for God's sake. Slacks and a sport jacket!

"Her jeans are very tight," Taylor said. "Mother says that girls should never wear clothes that are too tight. They're not—"

She broke off as Chelsea came back into the living room.

I should have waited, Chelsea thought, smiling to herself. She would have liked to hear about too tight clothes and what the great Margaret had to say about them. And, she thought, my jeans aren't too tight.