Fallen Idols (16 page)

“You have everything you need?”

Walt was in his boxers, bare-chested. His glass of cognac dangled from his fingers. He's still a specimen, Clancy thought, looking at his father as Walt stood in the hallway. He'll rage against the dying of the light until the day he dies, and in the after-life, too, if there is one.

“I'm fine. Thanks, dad. It's been a great day.”

“It has.” Walt hesitated. “About Emma …”

He stopped. Clancy waited for his father to continue. He was going to let this come to him, rather than force anything.

“I'm sure you must have mixed feelings about her, doubts, whatever,” Walt went on. “But I have to tell you, son—she's been a lifesaver for me.”

“That's good, dad. I'm glad.”

He was tired, emotionally as well as physically. He didn't want to talk anymore tonight. They could pick this conversation up in the morning, when his head would be clear.

“She's a bright woman. More importantly, she's a good woman.”

“I …” What could he say to that? That he knew that? He didn't.

“She's almost finished her Ph.D.,” Walt said, as if having an advanced degree made her a weightier person.

“That's good,” Clancy said. He knew that was what his father wanted to hear.

“I ran into her at a get-together one of my friends in the department was throwing. She knew who I was, of course, being involved in archaeology like she is. She'd even read some of my writing, which is more than I can say for most of my actual students over the years. We wound up leaving together and going for coffee, and it was instant rapport. I could talk to her. I hadn't talked to a woman like that since …” He trailed off.

He's snockered, Clancy realized. Not drunk, but his tongue is damn well lubricated. Maybe he needed that crutch, to open up the way he has.

“It was logical that we started seeing each other. I didn't know that many people, not any women. She'd been unhappy in a relationship she'd recently gotten out of, so we were both lonely. And then, over the course of a few months, we came to understand how much we cared for each other. It's not the perfect match—I had that, with your mother. Emma's much younger than me, for one thing. But somehow …” He trailed off.

“The heart knows what it knows,” Clancy said. He felt a sudden twang of compassion for his father. Who was he to judge this man?

Walt smiled. “That's good. Who said that?”

“Woody Allen, I think.”

“One of our great philosophers,” Walt commented wryly. He brought his glass to his mouth again, but it was empty now; he let his arm drop. “Emma doesn't need me. She has plenty of guys sniffing around her like dogs—you can see she's an extremely attractive woman. And she has her own money, she's not a gold digger,” he said, almost as if daring Clancy to argue the point.

“Of course not,” Clancy said; but he couldn't help thinking, Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.

“And she has a great eye. She did the decorating. You know me, I'm not a style maven. But I like what she's clone here, don't you?”

“It's a great-looking place, dad,” Clancy agreed. He threw an arm over his father's shoulder. “I'm happy for you dad, all around. But I'm wiped. We'll talk more in the morning, okay?”

Walt blinked, as if he'd been in a dark room and the light had suddenly been turned on. “Sure. It's been a long day for both of us.”

He started to go. At the doorway, he turned back to face his son. “Don't judge Emma by her looks, or her age, or how she's different from your mom. Your mom was irreplaceable. We all know that. But you can try to accept Emma for who she is, can't you?”

The words stuck in Clancy's throat. He nodded instead.

“Someday I hope you'll understand,” Walt said, as he closed the door behind him.

Sleep came hard, tossing and mining, throwing off covers. Sometime in the middle of the night Clancy thought he heard a car pull up outside, but then he fell back asleep and didn't remember.

The early-morning sun slanting through the wooden blinds woke Clancy up. For a moment he was confused, until he remembered where he was: in his father's house. His new house, not the one Clancy was used to, the one that held all the memories.

He looked at his watch, which he'd left on the bedside table. Six-forty-five. Early. He drank a glass of water hum the pitcher that had been set out for him. Like the rest of the house, this room was nicely put together. Egyptian cotton sheets and an old chenille bedspread covered a wooden-post queen-sized bed. The chest of drawers in the corner was stressed pine, the rug on the dark hardwood floor a fine sisal. And this was the guest room. The other rooms were even more nicely furnished.

There was money in this house. And taste that money can't buy. Walt Gaines had never had either, not on this level.

He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, packed his small bag. His flight left at noon—he had time to kill before he left for the airport. More time to spend with his father. He drank another glass of water, trying to clear the cotton out of his mouth. It helped, but not completely.

Emma was already bustling about in the kitchen when he came in. She was dressed, showered, set up for her day. Clancy wasn't surprised that she was there—he would have been surprised if she hadn't been. He remembered, vaguely, hearing a car in the middle of the night. Was that her, returning after he had gone to bed? He didn't know, and anyway, what did it matter? She and his father were together. Get over it.

“Good morning,” she sang out. “Sleep well?”

“Like a brick,” he lied easily.

“Coffee?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Please.”

She poured him a cup of coffee. “There's milk on the table. Help yourself.”

The table in the breakfast nook was set with three places. Knives, forks, and spoons were laid out neatly on linen napkins, there was butter in a china butter dish, jam, in a small bowl, cream and sugar in matching pewter servers. A large bowl of fresh peaches and nectarine resided in the middle of the table. Martha Stewart couldn't set a better table, Clancy thought bemusedly.

“Walt should show his face soon,” Emma said. “He's an early riser.” She smiled at him again. “I guess it runs in your family. I'm going to make waffles, but would you like anything else in the meantime? There's juice, bagels, cereal.”

“This is fine. Thank you.” He sat down and poured some milk into his cup, stirred it.

Something about this domestic tableau was annoying—it was too damn neat, almost antiseptic, a photo shoot out of Architectural Digest. Not Walt Gaines's style. His father was a very different man now from the one Clancy had known his entire life. How much has he changed? Clancy wondered. What other changes am I going to discover that I don't know about yet? And how many others won't I like?

Emma took off after breakfast. She and Clancy said their good-byes; she was glad he'd come to visit them, the first of many visits, she hoped, the usual palaver people say when they don't know each other well enough to say anything meaningful. He said the same things back to her.

After she left, Clancy filled Walt in on what was going on with him and his brothers. It all sounded good to Walt, he and Jocelyn had done their job—they'd taught the fledglings how to fly without crashing.

For his part, Walt expanded on what he was doing: research on his book, guest-lecturing at various colleges in the area, consulting with museums and foundations. He didn't miss Wisconsin at all.

“What's going on with La Chimenea?” Clancy asked, after his father had touched the other bases. It had been over a year since Walt had been there. “When are you going back down again?”

Walt's face clouded. “That's up in the air.” He hesitated. “I can't handle being there.”

That his father was reticent to return to the site was understandable, but it still came as a shock to Clancy. The development of La Chimenea was going to be his father's monument. Now he was thinking of abandoning it? Clancy understood that being there would be traumatic, because of the memory of his mother being killed. But it hadn't happened there, and time had passed.

“La Chimenea didn't kill mom.”

Walt looked at him sharply.

“She loved it down there.” Clancy could see that his father didn't want to get into this, but he felt he had to. Ghosts have to be buried, or they'll haunt you forever. “Mom would've wanted you to.”

“You don't know that,” Walt said darkly.

“I know that she loved that you loved your work,” Clancy replied. “She wouldn't want you making this kind of sacrifice for her.”

Right thing to say, but the wrong time. Clancy knew that before he said it, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't want to rile his dad up, especially now that they'd reestablished their relationship, but it had to be said.

“She's the one who sacrificed,” Walt said. He was glowering. “She put my wishes and needs before hers her entire life. And look what it got her.”

“It got her you, and us, and a life she loved.”

“It got her killed.”

“It was an accident, dad.” Damn it, why had he ever started up on this? He put up his hands in a defensive posture. “Let's not talk about it anymore, okay? It's not my place to tell you what to do or not to do. You'll do what's right for you, dad, I know you will.”

Walt looked away for a moment. When he looked back, he was forcing a smile. “I'm gonna try. Hey, we've had a good time, haven't we?”

“We've had a great time, dad.”

Walt walked Clancy to his car. They hugged.

“It's going to be different between us from now on,” Walt promised Clancy. “For all of us.”

“That's super, dad. That's what we all want.”

“Give my love to Callie. And your brothers.” He grinned. It was the first honest smile Clancy had seen that harked back to the old Walt Gaines. “Tell them that from now on, when they call me, I'll answer the phone.”

He saw Walt waving in the rearview mirror until he turned the corner and couldn't see him anymore. Man, was he glad he had come up here. Granted, Walt wasn't supposed to have been home, but maybe the reconciliation was destined to come about the way it did. It had happened, that was the important thing.

He drove a few blocks past houses that were similar in size and feel to his father's—this was a high-class neighborhood, for sure. Looking out the front windshield, he noticed a FOR SALE sign planted in a front lawn. The house was California Spanish in design, like his father's. Walt's house was slightly smaller, and this house was on a larger lot, but they were roughly similar.

I wonder what these places cost? he thought. If you paid the going price, which his father, luckily, hadn't had to do.

He pulled over to the curb and jotted down the address, and the name and phone number of the listing agent's office.

“I'd like to speak to Louise Bernstein, please.”

Clancy stood at a pay phone in the United Airhnes terminal. His plane would begin boarding in five minutes. He'd called Callie and told her it was, miraculously, on schedule. Since he had a few minutes to kill, he'd made this call.

“This is Louise Bernstein.” The voice of the woman who came on the line was crisp, businesslike.

“I'm from out of town,” Clancy told her over the phone. “I'm considering relocating my business out here, and I saw a house you represent in a neighborhood I've been touted on.” He read off the address.

“Well, you picked one of the best areas in Los Angeles, Mr. …”

A name. He glanced at the boarding pass in his hand.

“O'Hare.”

“Mr. O'Hare. What business are you in, if I may ask.”

“Fitness centers.” Not much of a stretch.

“Oh, that's good.” He could hear her voice brightening—she was talking to a man with money, not some waste-my-time looky-loo. “That's a great business to be in, especially out here. I belong to two clubs myself.”

“I'm sure you're fit, then,” he bantered.

“I try. It's a never-ending battle.” She paused a moment—he imagined she was picking up pen and paper. “Would you like to see the house?” she asked. “I could arrange a tour, although not until tomorrow.”

“I'm returning to Chicago today. But I'll be back in a couple of weeks. We could do it then.”

“I could probably get you in today,” she replied quickly. “A house of that quality in that neighborhood isn't going to be on the market for long. I've only just listed it. I'd hate for you to miss out without having a chance to see it.”

“Umm …” He waited a moment, as if pondering the thought. “I have people waiting for me on the other end, that's the problem. But maybe I could rearrange my schedule. What's the asking price?”

He listened for a moment; then he almost dropped the phone, along with his jaw.
How fucking much?
got to the tip of his tongue before he managed to choke it down.

“Mr. O'Hare,” the broker was saying to dead air. “Are you there? Have we been cut off? Mr. O'Hare?”

He replaced the phone on its cradle.

C
HICAGO

T
he brothers were hanging together at Clancy's bar early on a Sunday morning. Today was the first time the three of them had been able to get together since Clancy's return from the coast. They had talked on the phone and exchanged e-mails, but Tom and Will wanted a face-to-face lowdown on their father's situation.

From Labor Day until Christmas, Sunday was Clancy's biggest money making day, courtesy of the NFL and satellite TV. (Monday, because of Monday Night Football, was the second busiest). The pregame shows came on at eleven, which was when he unlocked the doors. By the time the first of the five televised games of the day started—the twelve o'clock and three o'clock on FOX, the same on CBS, and the seven-thirty on ESPN—the place would be rocking, patrons four deep at the bar, bumping up against each other, hefting their glasses and yelling at the TV screens, particularly if the Bears were on against one of their archrivals, like the Lions or Vikings.

Now, though, at nine o'clock, the place was empty except for the three of them. The bartenders and waitresses would start drifting in around ten-thirty. Callie had stayed home—she avoided the Sunday mosh pit.

Tom and Will had flown into Midway early in the morning, coordinating their flights to arrive close together. Clancy had picked them up, having already stopped at a deli on the way to the airport to load up on lox, bagels, and Danish.