Daniel's Gift (25 page)

Luke shook his head in disgust at Denise's evasive answer. Of course, she didn't want to tell his parents about her deceit.

Charles walked toward the house, pausing by the door. "If you think we're going to drive two hours to see some kid we've never met just because you were stupid enough to impregnate that woman, you're a damn fool. And this sure as hell better not interfere with Sheri-Tech. I gave you my company. I gave you my home. Don't you dare bring shame to this family."

Luke glared at his father, feeling so much anger that he thought he might explode.

"That kid is my son. If you don't want to acknowledge that fact, fine. He doesn't need you. He needs me. And I will not walk away from him."

Charles stormed into the house.

"Oh, Luke. This isn't good for his heart, you know." Beverly went into the house, leaving Luke and Denise alone.

Denise set down her glass of wine. "Gee, that went well."

"How can they be so unfeeling? How can they not care?"

"How can you care so much?" Denise countered. "You don't even know this child. He might be a spoiled brat. It's not like he's a tiny, cuddly baby and you can tickle his toes. He's an adolescent teenager with hormones raging and probably a smart-ass attitude."

"He's not."

"How do you know? You've never spoken to him."

"I have," Luke said, before he could catch himself.

Denise raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said he was unconscious."

"You wouldn't understand." He stalked over to the steps leading into the garden. He had to get away from her, from all of them.

"You're right, I wouldn't understand," she cried after him. "In the last few months, since we moved up from L.A., you've changed. I want you to change back. I want things to be the way they were before."

"So do I," Luke said, but he wasn't talking about days before. He was talking about years before -- about Jenny.

Chapter Seventeen

Three hours later, Luke pulled up in front of their Hillsborough home. He hit the remote control for the garage and pulled the car inside. The light went on as the door closed behind them, and for a moment he and Denise were caught in the quiet intimacy of the garage.

As he reached for the door handle, her hand caught his arm. He turned his head. She was crying -- silent tears that dripped down her face in almost perfect symmetry.

"Don't go back to her," she said. "I need you."

Luke felt a sudden, constricting pain in his chest. Guilt rushed over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under, rendering him helpless. He hated being out of control and right now he was so far out of control, it was laughable.

"I have to see if there's been any change."

"You called thirty minutes ago." Her hand dropped to the phone in the car. "You know there hasn't been any change."

"His condition is minute-by-minute."

"Luke, be honest." Denise licked her lips, as if uncertain whether or not she wanted to pursue the conversation.

"I'm trying to be honest. For the first time in a long time, I'm telling you how I feel. If it's not what you want to hear, I'm sorry. This isn't about us. It's about me and my son, a bond that you obviously don't understand."

"I want you to stay home tonight. I want you to go upstairs with me, right now, and make love."

Luke rested his arm on the steering wheel. He looked out the front window of the car at the rows of meticulously placed tools on the wall, reminded that this was his father's house, the house he had grown up in, the house where his life had been planned out to the last detail. He had followed the plan exactly, with only one minor detour, a two-month summer-long fantasy with Jenny. Aside from that, he had done everything he was expected to do, including making love to his wife whenever she requested it.

But this -- this demand hit him the wrong way. How the hell could he make love when his son was lying in a coma? He wasn't a robot. He had feelings, even if they had been buried for most of his life.

"Don't you want me anymore?" Denise asked. "Have I gained weight? Is there gray in my hair, wrinkles around my eyes. Tell me, I'll fix it."

Luke sighed. With Denise, everything revolved around her. Even now, she was surreptitiously looking in the mirror, checking to see if her hair was mussed, or her lipstick smudged.

"It's not a question of that," Luke said. "You're a beautiful woman."

"Then why is it so hard for my husband to come upstairs and make love to me?"

She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth -- practiced, seductive lips that could please when they wanted to. And right now Denise wanted to, because she was afraid. Luke was smart enough to know that Denise wanted to solidify her position more than she wanted an orgasm. She would do whatever it took. He had always admired her killer instincts. Only now they were turned on him, and that he didn't like.

He pushed her away. "Not now."

Her eyes lit with anger. "When you're finally ready, I may not be."

"I'll take that chance."

Silence fell between them.

"You've changed," she said.

"You've finally noticed."

"Finally? It's only been three days since -- you know."

"Danny's accident was a catalyst. We both know our marriage has been faltering for a long time. You had an affair last year, Denise." The words came out before he had a chance to consider them. Once said, Luke was relieved to have it out in the open. He should have confronted her months ago.

"I didn't."

Her denial came fast and swift. She looked shocked and wounded by his statement. Luke didn't buy it for a second. She hadn't looked this innocent the first night they had made love. "Hank Stanford, the tennis pro at the club," he said.

"How could you accuse me of such a thing?"

"He told me."

"He lied."

Luke searched her face for the truth, but she was a skillful liar. He wondered how many other things she had put over him in the past. "Fine. Let's drop the matter of your affair for the moment. You can't deny that you had your tubes tied without telling me."

Denise sat back in her seat and clasped her hands in her lap. "I don't want to talk about that anymore. It's over and done with."

"Well, it looks like we have nothing to talk about. Get out, Denise. I have to go to the hospital."

Her breath came out like the hiss of a snake. "You're cruel, Luke."

"I don't have time for this."

"If you want my support, then let me come with you."

Luke thought about her request. Was he being unfair, asking Denise to support him, to handle a situation that she had yet to see? Maybe she would be able to understand his plight if she could visit Danny. But what about Jenny? And her sister and brother? Did he have the right to bring more tension into a situation that was already tense? Still, he owed Denise something -- at least a chance to be kind.

"All right. Come with me," he said.

Denise fidgeted with the strap on her purse. "You mean now?"

"Of course, now."

"You've taken me by surprise. I didn't expect you to say yes. Let me think."

"You don't really want to go, do you?" He saw the answer in her evasive eyes, in her nervous movements. Of course, she didn't want to go to the hospital. She just wanted to make a point.

"I do want to go, but I have a meeting tonight with the Junior League to plan the Christmas fashion show. Tomorrow would be better for me."

"We're not planning a lunch date, Denise. Tomorrow might be too late."

Denise got out of the car in a huff. "Well, I can't do it tonight. There is another life going on outside of that hospital, Luke -- our life. And it used to be a life that you loved, that you wanted as much as I did."

Denise was right. The only problem was he didn't want it anymore.

* * *

Jenny sat back in the chair next to Danny's bed and closed her eyes. She had been at the hospital for hours, talking, singing, telling stories until her voice grew hoarse. The nurses changed shifts, the IV pumped new fluid into Danny's veins, the ventilator gave him oxygen, and Danny remained hopelessly quiet.

The room felt empty, as if she were the only one in it. It was odd that she had felt Danny's presence so strongly at Merrilee's house and not here. Here was Danny's body, his heart, his legs, his arms, his head, his freckles -- her eyes blurred with tears -- his adorable freckles that reminded her of how young he really was.

Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn't it have been her? She had lived thirty years. She had had love and grief and everything in between. But Danny, he was just beginning to live, to grow into his big feet, to be a man.

"Why? Why?" she said out loud. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling as if it would allow her a peek into heaven. It didn't. She wondered if there really was a heaven or a God. She wished she had more religion in her life, more faith to fall back on, but she had been an absentee Christian for most of her life.

Maybe that's why God was punishing her. Because she had skipped church and taken Danny out of Sunday school when he complained of boredom. She should have made him stick it out. She should have done everything -- different.

"Jenny?"

Something else she should have done differently. Luke.

"You're back," she said.

"I said I would be." Luke walked over to the bed and stared down at his son. "Hi, kid. I came. I'm here. Isn't it about time we actually spoke to each other?"

Jenny watched him in amazement, her anger at his presence vanishing in front of his unexpected tenderness.

"I never knew how much I wanted a son until I found out about you." Luke touched Danny's forehead and pushed one of his stray curls back behind his ear. "I wish I'd been there when you were born, when you took your first step, when you threw your first spoonful of mashed potatoes at your mother." He looked at Jenny and smiled. "Knowing your mom, she probably threw a spoonful back at you."

"I did," Jenny murmured. "We had an old-fashioned food fight. It was great fun."

"I'm sorry I missed it. I missed everything. I should have been there for you. I should have supported you and Danny. I blew it."

"Danny wasn't part of your plan. Neither was I."

"I'm beginning to think that plan was flawed. Come on, Danny, wake up. Talk to me. Yell at me. Tell me I'm the worst father in the world, but dammit -- don't die. Don't you dare die on me."

Luke's hands clenched the bedrail until his knuckles turned white. Without conscious thought, Jenny put her arm around his waist. He did the same. Suddenly they weren't strangers but parents sharing their sorrow.

Luke turned to her. She slid into his embrace, and a warm feeling of peace came over her, along with a twinge of guilt. It was wrong to be with Luke. Alan should be giving her comfort, not this man -- this man she had loved and hated with so much passion, so much anger.

But Jenny didn't pull away. She couldn't. The connection between them was too strong. They were bound together by their son -- at least for this moment.

"I want to see Danny's room, his things," Luke said. "I want to know where he sleeps, what he wears to school. Would you let me take you home? Please."

Jenny considered the question. It was the please at the end that convinced her. If Luke had demanded, she would have said no. Even now, she hesitated. She hadn't been home since the accident. She didn't want to leave, and yet, she didn't seem to be doing much good here. Maybe if she went home, she would feel in touch with Danny again, the way she had felt at Merrilee's house.

"All right," she said. "If you'll drive. My car broke down last week, and with the accident, I haven't had a chance to do anything about it. I have Merrilee's car, but I don't want to take it out to the coast. She thinks the salt air does things to her paint."

Jenny turned to Danny. "I'll see you in the morning, honey. Sleep tight -- don't let the bed bugs bite. I love you." She waited, wanting to hear his answering refrain, I love you, too, Mom. But nothing came.

"It's so hard." She touched his cowlick with her fingers. "Please, Danny. Tell me you love me back. I want so badly to hear you say the words."

Silence. God, how she hated the silence.

Twenty minutes later, Luke turned on to Highway 1 and asked Jenny for directions to her house. They had made the drive in companionable silence, listening to music on the radio, the occasional sports and traffic update, and the lively banter of a deejay determined to entertain.

"Is that it?" Luke asked. "One-twenty-five, you said?"

"The yellow house with the green shutters." She smiled suddenly as Luke grinned at her. "Okay, I lived out one fantasy. Sue me."

"Did you paint it or did you buy it that color?"

"I painted it. I hate white houses," she said.

"I remember. You always wanted a house on the beach."

"It's hardly a house on the beach. More like a broken-down cottage a block from the beach, with bad plumbing, floors that slope, and absolutely no view," she corrected. "But ifs home."