The Surprise of His Life (11 page)

"I
mean, she's not underage or anything—she's nineteen—but that's..." He
sighed. "That's still a kid, huh?" He laughed mirthlessly. "I've
got a daughter older than my girlfriend."

Walker
said nothing. He wondered what Dean would think if someone his age was seeing
Lindsey. He didn't pursue the thought, because, quite frankly, he himself
didn't much like the idea of an older man with Lindsey. Something in him said
maybe he wouldn't like seeing Lindsey with any man, regardless of his age. He
told the something to get lost, that the subject was something he didn't want
to consider too closely.

"I
didn't leave Bunny for her," Dean said. "Our relationship isn't that
serious. I mean, I did start seeing her before I left Bunny. God knows, I
hadn't intended to, it just happened. I stopped at the diner one day for lunch,
and she got to kidding around and then... well, one thing led to another, but
we're not serious. She's going off to college this fall. She's sweet and
everything, but our relationship's just not that serious."

"Then
why are you seeing her?" The question was blunt. Determinedly so. At its
core was Walker's need to understand. His desperate need.

Dean
looked over at his friend. His unvarnished answer rang with painful honesty.
"Because she makes me feel young. I said that I didn't leave Bunny for
Michele, and I didn't. I left her for the way Michele makes me feel. She makes
me feel young. She makes me feel alive."

Somewhere
during the discussion, Dean had driven the car back into the parking lot of
Gal-Tex. He hadn't killed the motor, though, and Walker was aware of the
engine's powerful thrumming vibration. Understanding equally rumbled through
him. He could identify with wanting to feel alive. Growing older didn't
necessarily bother him, but the emptiness he felt did. He was tired of feeling
that he was standing on the sidelines watching everyone else live life.

"I
know it's not an excuse, and I'm not trying to pretend it is," Dean said,
"but Bunny's the only woman I'd ever been with. Hell, I used to talk big
about scoring with the girls—we all did!—but the truth was I never did. I met
Bunny the summer I graduated from high school, and we went together until we
got married. She's the only woman I'd ever been with."

Walker
grinned despite the seriousness of the discussion. "Yeah, I guess we all
exaggerated a little."

Dean
grinned, too. "What about Sissie Pennywell? We all thought that you and
she... I mean, you never said anything, but then again you didn't deny
anything, either."

Walker's
grin grew. "Let's just put it this way, I wouldn't have ruined her chances
of getting into a nunnery."

For
a moment, both men sat smiling at high school memories. For a moment, both were
bound in the close camaraderie they'd shared for most of their lives.

Dean's
smile slowly disappeared. "Like I said before, I don't expect you to approve
or to understand." His voice had deepened when he added, "I just
don't want you to hate me."

There
was no doubt in Walker's mind that Dean Ellison had just bared his soul. Nor
was there any doubt in Walker's heart that it had taken courage to do so. But
then, his friend had never lacked for courage. Not on the football field. Not
flying helicopters through the war-torn skies of Vietnam. Not hustling back and
forth across a sometimes stormy gulf. No, Dean may have his faults, but lacking
courage wasn't one of them. Any more than it had ever been, or ever would be,
in doubt how Walker felt about this man, this man who was closer than a
brother.

"I
could never hate you," Walker said. "I don't always like what you do,
but I could never hate you."

Dean
said nothing. The two men simply stared at each other. Finally, his voice
noticeably blank, Dean said, "To tell you the truth, I don't always like
what I do, either... and I'm not always as kind as you. Sometimes I despise
myself."

The
heartfelt words slammed into Walker's heart, bringing with them a new
realization, a realization that Walker's narrowed thinking had not taken into
account. While it was true that Dean was hurting innocent people—Bunny and
Lindsey and even his best friend—it was also true that he was hurting himself.
In fact, perhaps it was he who was hurting most of all.

"I'm
sorry."

Walker,
who was sitting at his desk, glanced up from the drilling chart he was
perusing. It was all Lindsey could do not to reach out and brush back a swath
of hair that slanted across his forehead. Ever since he'd returned from the
sports car outing several hours before, his hair had been attractively mussed,
as though the wind had played a game of tag through the silver-tinted black
strands. But Walker had been too pensive to even take heed of his hair's
tousled condition. Lindsey couldn't help but notice, however. Just the way she
couldn't help but wonder what had transpired between the two men.

"For
what?" Walker now asked, removing the reading glasses he'd been forced to
put on in order to make out the detail chart figures.

"For
the surly mood I've been in," Lindsey said with a sheepish smile. "It
isn't your fault Dad bought a sports car. It isn't your fault that he's acting
like a jerk."

Walker
wanted to tell Lindsey how badly Dean was hurting, but he knew that Lindsey
herself was in pain. It was hard to see another's pain through your own.
Instead, he laid the glasses on the desk and, pushing back his chair, he stood.
"You haven't been in a surly mood."

She
made a little sound that could only be interpreted as contradiction.
"Yeah, sure," she said, thinking that, despite the fact that it was
the end of the day, Walker still looked good. Real good. The jeans that earlier
had been crisply starched now hugged his form in a way that was guaranteed to
attract a woman's attention. At least, it had attracted hers.

Stepping
toward the cooler of bottled water, Walker poured himself a cup, drank and
tossed the cup into the trash. He had known that Dean's buying the sports car
had upset Lindsey. He just hadn't known what to say to make Lindsey feel
better. If she knew the extent of her father's aberrant behavior, if she knew
about his affair, Walker doubted seriously that anything anybody said would help
Lindsey's feelings. In fact, knowing would destroy her. In a way he couldn't
explain, he still felt as though he himself was betraying her simply by being
in possession of the knowledge. On the other hand, he couldn't betray a
friendship. Dean's tormented face still haunted him.

To
tell you the truth, I don't always like what I do, either... and I'm not always
as kind as you. Sometimes I despise myself... despise myself... despise
myself....

"I
know your dad buying the car upset you, and I can understand why. I just don't
know what to say."

As
he spoke, he brushed back the strand of hair from his forehead. Fascinated,
Lindsey watched him, wondering if his hair felt as soft as it looked. And was
the hair on his chest—she could see raven-colored sprigs peeking from the vee
of his white knit shirt—just as soft? This last thought caused her pulse to
accelerate.

"You
could say yes," Lindsey said, ignoring the racing of her heart... or at
least trying to.

As
she spoke, she stepped toward Walker. His eyes went to the gentle sway of her
ponytail, around which hung a pert pink bow. It was a mesmerizing sway that
reinforced the notion he'd conceived earlier. Namely, that Lindsey was a
combination of both woman and child. A beguiling combination, if he listened to
his heart. Which he tried not to do. Instead, he focused on what she'd said.

"I
could say yes to what?"

"To
letting me buy you a drink." Before he could respond, she added, "My
way of apologizing for my surly mood this afternoon."

Interestingly,
the mention of their having a drink together—or maybe it was that damned
provocative sway of her ponytail! —caused his heartbeat to flutter. Whichever,
he felt it in his best interest to ignore it.

"I
told you, you weren't in a surly—"

"I
was," Lindsey interjected. "And I insist upon buying you a
drink."

Walker's
heartbeat fluttered again. Again, he ignored it.

"Hey,
I'm not dressed—"

"You're
fine," Lindsey said, forcing her eyes not to take a sensual inventory of
the length and breadth of his body. "We'll go somewhere casual."

"You're
too young to drink," he said, feeling as though he were being backed into
a corner. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant corner, which made him feel all
the more backed into it.

"You
told me just the other day how adult I was."

Walker
remembered having done that very thing. And as he stood watching her this
moment, he couldn't in good conscience retract what he'd said. Despite the fact
that the ponytail emphasized her youth, she looked very much like the woman her
years claimed that she was. If nothing else, the way she filled out the
pastel-shaded sweater attested to her maturity.

"You
want to see my ID?" she asked teasingly.

What
he wanted was to get out of the corner. Or maybe he didn't want out of the
corner at all. Maybe he wanted to be pressured into having a drink with
Lindsey. When you got right down to it, what was the harm in it? Wasn't it
acceptable for a goddaughter to buy her godfather a drink? Where was it written
that it wasn't?

Suddenly
the teasing lights vanished from Lindsey's gray-blue eyes. "I promise you
I'm all grown up," she said. Her eyes held Walker's for the fraction of a
second necessary to prove her point.

Walker
heard the challenge in her voice. He saw it in her eyes. There was no way he
could avoid it. Even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't, because he suddenly
needed to prove to himself that everything he'd been feeling of late—his
superawareness of Lindsey—was nothing more than an emotional mirage. He glanced
up at the clock. It read ten minutes after five o'clock.

"Let's
go," he said, his voice strong and sure in the conviction that he'd just
made the right choice. After all, a drink was simply a drink. Why try to make
something more out of it?

In
answer, Walker's heart skipped another beat.

Within
twenty minutes, each having driven his own car, both Lindsey and Walker sat in
the lounge of a hotel located in the city's historic Strand district. The bar's
dark walnut paneling, its polished hardwood floors, its Victorian ambiance
created not only an air of elegance, but also one of intimacy. Scattered among
wicker tables stood tall palms, their fronds cascading downward as though
bending to whisper a lover's secret, while delicate romantic bouquets of
sweet-scented posies graced each table. To add to the intimacy, soft piano
music wafted from the back of the lounge.

"What
can I get you?" the waiter asked.

"I'll
have a white wine spritzer," Lindsey said. On the drive over she'd
repaired her makeup, adding a pale pink lip gloss to her lips and dabbing
perfume behind her ears and in the vee of her sweater.

"Bourbon
and water on the rocks," Walker said, normally not ordering more than a
beer. On the drive over, however, as tight muscles had begun to make themselves
known, he'd realized that he'd had a bitch of a day. Confronting a friend about
his affair made for a bitch of a day, a real bourbon-and-water kind of day. The
sight and smell of Lindsey as she exited the car, her lips gleaming in pink,
her skin bathed in perfume, her ponytail contrasting markedly with the long, shapely,
white-stockinged legs that slid from the vehicle, did nothing to ease the
tension of said bitchy day. In fact, they had once more sent his heart into
that crazy uneven rhythm. "Just make that bourbon on the rocks," he
said, only several notes away from a growl.

"Tired?"
Lindsey asked when the waiter stepped away. She'd heard the dark timbre in
Walker's voice. She also noticed the plain aviator sunglasses tucked in his
shirt pocket. He'd been wearing them when he'd gotten out of the car. It
crossed her mind that her father had wasted a lot of money on fancy colored
lenses when the gray-tinted ones Walker was wearing were enough to make a woman
salivate.

"Yeah.
I guess so." Totally surprising himself, he grinned. "Either that or
I'm in a surly mood."

Lindsey
smiled. "No more surly moods, no more talking about business, and no more
talking about Mom and Dad. Agreed?"

"Agreed.
So what do we talk about?"

"'Of
kings and queens or simpler things,'" she quoted from a book that Walker
had read to her and Adam dozens of times when they were youngsters.

Walker's
grin turned to a laugh. "I hadn't thought of that in years. Whatever
happened to that book? Was it yours or Adam's?"

"It
was mine, and I have it in a chest in the attic. Thanks," Lindsey added as
the waiter delivered their drinks.

"Thanks,"
Walker repeated, though he had to admit that he felt less in need of a drink
than he had minutes before. It was strange how laughter could relax coiled
muscles. Maybe that was what was wrong with his life. Maybe that was what all
the emptiness was about. Maybe he'd just forgotten how to laugh. Although
laughter, like most all things in life, was better when shared with someone
else.