The Surprise of His Life (10 page)

Even
as Walker discreetly watched, Dean lowered his head and planted a kiss, a thorough
kiss, to the woman's lips. The woman leaned into Dean, unabashedly pressing her
svelte body to his. Dean slipped an arm about her waist and hauled her even
closer. Walker felt sick—sick at heart. He, likewise, understood, and never
more fully, the reputed blissfulness of ignorance. God, how he wished he hadn't
seen what he just did! That acknowledged, he admitted that he couldn't say he
was surprised. He'd had a nagging suspicion that he just couldn't shake.
However much he longed to believe that his friend wasn't capable of such
duplicity, the truth remained that an affair was an important component of a
mid-life crisis.

And
there was no doubt about it, Dean Ellison was square in the middle of a
mid-life crisis! He'd also unwittingly put his friend square in the middle of a
moral dilemma. Walker owed allegiance to all three parties involved—Bunny, Dean
and Lindsey. Lindsey. God, she'd be crushed if she knew that her father was
seeing another woman!

Pulling
around the corner, Walker watched and waited, hating what he was seeing, yet
captivated by it. In minutes, the woman walked to her car, got in and pulled
from the drive. She turned at the corner, and Walker leaned forward as though
retrieving something from the glove compartment. He looked up just as she was
passing by... and got the shock of his life. Up close, the woman became nothing
more than a child. She couldn't even be as old as Lindsey. Dean was having an
affair with a woman, a child, younger than his daughter!

Walker
drove home with his thoughts alternately clouded by gray confusion and a red
blaze of anger. What should he do? Should he tell Bunny, tell Lindsey? Should
he confront Dean? The truth was that he felt like punching Dean out for putting
him in this hotter-than-hot spot. Which, in and of itself, was upsetting. He
could never remember wanting to punch out his best friend.

Once
home, Walker showered, went through the motions of eating, then called Lindsey.
He had no idea what he was going to say until he heard himself saying it. Her
father was fine, he told her. He'd had an errand to run just as he'd suspected.
Hanging up the phone, Walker cursed at the out-and-out lie. He felt betrayed by
Dean. Furthermore, even though he'd decided that there was no way he could tell
Lindsey about her father's affair, he felt as though he were betraying her. He
wasn't certain which was worse: being betrayed or being the betrayer.

That
night he slept restlessly and, when he did manage to drop off to sleep, he had
wild and disturbing dreams. He dreamed that he and Dean were fighting it out,
crude fisticuffs that bloodied noses and bruised knuckles. Interestingly,
Dean's punches to him didn't elicit pain. It was only those he landed to Dean
that caused him to writhe in physical agony. The blood was crimson and reminded
Walker of flame-red hair... the flame-red hair of the woman coiled sensuously,
serpentinely about Dean. Dean was kissing her and telling her that he'd wanted
to play professional football.

Another
time—or perhaps this dream simply flowed into the other—Walker was comforting
Lindsey. In the background, her father embraced the red-haired woman, while
Lindsey cried. The tears, flowing from her silver-blue eyes, looked like
diamonds—pale blue-tinted diamonds. Walker tried to capture them as they bled onto
her cheek, but the softness of her cheek distracted him. It was softer than
anything he'd ever felt, softer than fleece, softer than clouds, softer than
silk and lace. Silk and lace. Like the hem of her slip. Like the hem of her
sexy slip.

And
then he was embracing her, pulling her into him... comforting her... reassuring
her... sighing at the softness of her... threading his fingers through the
satin fullness of her hair... tilting her head back... brushing her lips with
his....

The
next morning he awakened tired and restless. He had dreamed something—something
about Dean, something about Lindsey. The something about Lindsey he couldn't
remember. What couldn't he remember? He didn't pursue the question.
Intuitively, he knew that he'd be happier without an answer.

"I
don't believe it," Lindsey said later that morning. If her words had not
betrayed her disbelief, her voice most assuredly would have.

Walker
glanced up. Lindsey stood staring out the window and into the parking lot. She
wore a candy-pink skirt and a pink, blue and yellow summer sweater. Pink flats
encased her feet, while her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a pink
ribbon. She looked like a girl; she looked like a woman. The combination,
coupled with a restless night and troublesome dreams, had unnerved Walker all
morning. So much so that he'd hidden behind a facade of professionalism.

Lindsey
had wondered at Walker's mood, which had bordered on, if not cool, then at
least withdrawn, but now everything fled from her mind except the sports car
strutting to a stop in the space reserved for her father.

"What
is it?" Walker asked.

"I
don't believe it," Lindsey repeated, watching her father spill from the
car. "When did Daddy buy a sports car?"

"Sports
car?" Walker asked, rising and walking to stand just behind Lindsey. He'd
been right. The top of her head came midway of his chin when she wore
low-heeled shoes, which provided a good location for her perfume, a bedeviling
scent of summer flowers, to subtly swirl about him. Glancing up and outward,
Walker saw a sports car, a convertible whose color was red, as in flame red, as
in redhead, sitting in the parking lot.

"Don't
tell me you didn't know about it," she said.

"I
didn't know about it."

"Hi!"
Dean called, bursting through the office door as though it were the most
glorious morn that had ever dawned. He still wore his iridescent sunglasses,
which entirely hid his eyes behind a deep purple tint. "Isn't she a
beauty?" Before anyone could answer, he rushed on with, "I went by
just to look. Next thing I knew, I'd bought it! I said, what the heck? You only
live once." Again, before a comment could be forthcoming, he asked,
"What do you think?"

What
Walker thought was that, if his friend were flying any higher, he'd bump into a
cloud. He also sensed a tension in Lindsey. It was a tension that had not been
there minutes before.

Lindsey,
on the other hand, thought her father had already run into something... and
knocked what little sense he had clean out of his head. She felt her disbelief
boil over into irritation. No, maybe it wasn't irritation at all. Maybe it was
a clear-cut case of anger. Here she was worried sick about her mother, here she
was trying to salvage their marriage and here her father was out buying a new
flashy, splashy sports car, as though the only thing of importance was him
zooming about like a playboy!

"C'mon,
let me show her to you," Dean said. "I'll even take you for a
spin." As he spoke, he slid an arm about Lindsey's shoulder.

Lindsey
discreetly slid away. "You two go on. I'll stay and man the office."

"Ah,
c'mon," her father said. "The office'll be fine for five
minutes."

"No,
really, ya'll go on," Lindsey insisted, stepping back behind the desk and
starting to shuffle the papers. "I've got a couple of calls to make."
Lindsey's gaze shifted to Walker, as though she was begging him to understand
her feelings and run interference for her.

"Call
and see if you can get Ed Dowell," Walker said. "If not, just leave
the message that I'd like to cancel the meeting for next week and
reschedule."

Lindsey
gave a silent thank-you and reached for the phone.

"I'll
take you for a ride another time, sweetheart," Dean said, seemingly
oblivious to his daughter's dark mood. "C'mon," Dean said enthusiastically
to Walker. "Wait till you hear this engine, wait till you feel this
power."

All
the way to the parking lot, Walker listened to technical chatter: the car had a
five-speed manual transmission and a 32-valve V8 engine, which allowed it to
soar from zero to 60 mph in 6.2 seconds. Then there was the antilock brakes,
air bags, the ten-way electrically adjustable seats and a fully automatic soft
top, which could be raised or lowered at the touch of a button. Walker heard,
but didn't hear, saw, but didn't see, felt, but didn't feel. In truth, all he
heard was the drone of Dean's voice, all he saw was the redhead buried in
Dean's arms, all he felt was the tension that had instantly coiled in Lindsey
at the sight of the automobile.

"Look
at her," Dean said, drawing his hand across the side of the car, as though
in a caress.

The
gesture reminded Walker of Dean's hand sliding around the waist of the young
woman. He told himself that he had no right to judge Dean, but the truth was
that he guessed he was. Dean was hurting two people whom he cared deeply about.

"Wait
till you see how she handles," Dean said, tossing the keys to Walker.

With
lightning speed, Walker caught them, then sailed them back to Dean. "You
drive. I'm not used to anything that goes from zero to sixty in 6.2
seconds."

Dean
laughed. "Believe me, you can get use to this baby's performance. Not that
I've opened her up on the streets, but the power's there. You can feel
it."

Walker
thought his friend sounded orgasmic.

Opening
the car door, Dean bustled inside. Walker, less enthusiastic, followed suit,
feeling the warmth of the sun-heated leather penetrate the fabric of his
slacks. In seconds, the car hummed. Dean's hand on the gearshift, the
convertible, its nose pointed in the direction of the street, roared from the
parking lot. In a gusty surge, the wind tunneled through Walker's hair, teasing
it like sensuous fingers. Dean's hair flew wild, too, ironically playing up the
receding hairline that Dean fought so valiantly to disguise.

Dean
looked over at his friend, grinned, then shifted into another gear that sent
the car barreling down the street. Not dangerously so, but enough to challenge
the speed limit. Several turns here, several there, and Dean maneuvered the
vehicle onto an asphalt road that ran just at the edge of town. The road was
deserted, except for an occasional car. Without warning, Dean floored the gas pedal.
The car, like a bullet, shot forward, causing the wind to whip violently at
hair and clothes and senses.

"Great,
huh?" Dean shouted above the howl.

Walker
said nothing. He simply rested his arm across the back of the seat in a
negligible pose that said he was out for nothing more than a snail-paced Sunday
drive.

Slowing
the car, which had indeed lived up to its fast claim, Dean pulled the vehicle
to the shoulder of the road, made an illegal U-turn and started back into town
at a more reasonable pace.

Looking
over at Walker, he asked, "Well, what do you think?"

What
he thought was that he was about to do something he'd probably regret.
"Who is she?"

On
the surface, Dean's expression went absolutely blank. Below the surface,
however, Walker thought he saw a streak of panic flash behind the purple-lensed
sunglasses. The flash was so quick that it made the sports car's speed seem drop-dead
slow.

"Who's
who?" Dean asked calmly—too calmly.

"The
young girl I saw you with?"

"What
girl—"

"For
God's sake, Dean, don't insult my intelligence or our friendship!"

Dean
said nothing. Neither did he look in Walker's direction. It was as though the
road had become the sole focus of his attention.

Obviously
realizing he'd have to make a comment at some point, he said finally,
"How'd you find out?"

"I
saw you."

"Where?"

"On
the porch of your apartment," Walker said, adding angrily, "Didn't
discretion ever cross your mind?"

"I
was discreet!" Dean bellowed back.

"On
the porch of your apartment? For God's sake, Lindsey could have been the one to
find you!"

Dean
jerked his head in Walker's direction. "She doesn't know, does she? She
and... Bunny don't know?"

"Not
that I'm aware of."

"You're,
uh... you're not going to tell them, are you?"

Walker
had been looking at his friend. He now turned his eyes back to the road.
"No," he said, flatly, but emphatically. Just as he'd known in a
split second that he couldn't tell Lindsey, so, too, in just such a split
second did he discover he couldn't betray his friend. Being caught in the
middle was an unbearable position, one he hoped to never be caught in again.
Assuming he ever got out of the viselike jaws of this unbearable middle.

At
his answer, Walker could feel Dean's relief. He could hear the soft sigh that
whispered at his lips. It crossed Walker's mind that maybe Dean was offering up
a prayer of thanks.

Neither
spoke for a while, then, blocks from the office, Dean said, "I, uh, I met
her at a diner. She's a nice kid."

Kid.
Walker thought the word more than appropriate. He was relieved, though, that at
least Dean wasn't denying the woman's youthfulness.