The Surprise of His Life (6 page)

Walker
thought of his wife and of the happy years they'd shared. The truth was that he
couldn't imagine ever wanting to divorce Phyllis. Nor could he imagine why
Lindsey's implicit faith in him should move him so. But it did. It made him
feel..
. special
was the only word that came to mind.

"Do
you still miss her?"

The
question came softly stealing through the still night. There was no need to
clarify whom the question concerned. Walker cut his eyes to Lindsey. In the
moon- lit darkness, it appeared that her eyes had been waiting for his. If he
didn't know better, he might have believed that his answer was of monumental
importance.

"I
still miss her," he said at last, "but it's as if she were a dream I
once had—a nice dream, but a dream. She no longer seems real." He thought
of how he felt as though he was just going through the motions of life, as
though something vibrant, something vital, was missing. That in mind, he added,
though he was unsure why he was sharing something so intimate, "Only the
emptiness she once filled seems real."

Walker
would have sworn that Lindsey's eyes darkened. Was it possible that she, too,
had an emptiness within her that needed filling?

"Phyllis
was a very lucky lady," Lindsey said.

The
world grew quiet, so quiet that one could almost hear the stars whispering in
the heavens. Walker heard the silence, and in it the echo of Lindsey's remark.
The kid had disappeared entirely, giving way to a full-grown woman. To a
beautiful woman silhouetted in silver moonlight. Her transformation from woman
to girl, from girl to woman, was intriguing.

And
sexy.

He
realized the inappropriateness of this last thought, but could not bring
himself to deny the truth of it. He told himself that it was nothing personal,
that is, nothing specifically aimed at Lindsey. It simply had to do with the
vacillation from youth to adulthood and back again. The child-woman, the
woman-child, had had its sensual appeal from time immemorial.

"I,
uh, I should go in," Lindsey said.

"Yeah.
You need some sleep."

"Yeah,"
she agreed. "Well, good night—" she pushed away from the car
"—and thanks for everything. I mean it. I don't know what I would have
done without you today."

As
she spoke, Lindsey brought her hand to Walker's elbow. She touched it lightly,
allowing her fingers to trail the length of his arm. For just a second, she
took his hand in hers—palm to palm, skin to skin. She squeezed, meshing their
fingers.

Walker
could remember dozens of times over the years when he'd taken her hand in his,
when she'd taken his hand in hers. What he couldn't remember was any one of
those dozens of times feeling like this time. He could never remember such
warmth. But then, she withdrew her hand. He was left only with the memory of
their fingers clinging together. And like all memories, it paled by comparison
to the real thing. Which was comforting, because it allowed him the luxury of
negating what he'd felt. She'd simply taken his hand in hers. It was no big
deal.

"Good
night," Lindsey repeated.

"Good
night," Walker said. He watched as she took one backward step, then
another before starting for the house. At the door, she turned and waved. He
waved back... with a hand that curiously still felt warm... despite the fact
that all she'd done was to take his hand in hers.

Bunny
Ellison was still asleep. In fact, Lindsey thought she looked dead to the
world. Only an occasional twitch told of the dream demons with whom she
jousted. Needlessly rearranging the afghan about her mother, Lindsey sighed.
She didn't know which was worse-dream demons or those that brazenly roamed the
daylight hours. Whichever, she was tired of demons. She wanted to smile and
feel it in her heart.

However,
no smile danced across Lindsey's lips. Instead, she shut off the lamp and
headed for the kitchen. There, she glanced around. The floor was devoid of
broken glass, all of which had been discarded in the trash. She wished it were
as easy to get rid of the memories of her mother gathering up the shards as
though putting them back together would mend her marriage. The scene had
frightened her. She'd never seen her mother out of control. She didn't want to
see her that way again. Grabbing the wide-eyed teddy bear that Walker had given
her, Lindsey turned off the light switch and walked down the hallway toward the
back bedroom—her parents' bedroom—where the soft light from a single lamp
glowed.

Placing
the bear on the bedside table, she bent down before her suitcase, opened it,
and rummaged through the contents until she found a cotton nightshirt with a
smiling bear emblazoned beneath the question: Have You Given Someone A Bear Hug
Today?

Walker
rushed to mind.

Only
minutes before, desperate to touch him, she'd briefly placed her hand in his.
What she'd really wanted, though, was to be in his arms. But then, what was
new? It was something that she'd wanted for so long now that she couldn't
remember when she hadn't wanted it. Maybe the truth was that the wanting had
started long before eighteen months ago, but that she had prudently kept it
from herself. She was no longer hiding her feelings, however. At least not from
herself. No longer would she treat her feelings for Walker as though they were
something to be ashamed of. They weren't. She was in love with him, and love
was never a shameful emotion. Neither did love count the years. Her heart
couldn't care less that Walker was twenty-four years older than she. All her
heart cared about was loving him.

It
had taken courage for her to ask if he still missed his wife, but his answer
had been her reward. She had feared that his never having remarried meant that
he was clinging to memories of his dead wife. Obviously, that wasn't the case.
Obviously, he just hadn't fallen in love again. Could he with her? She had
absolutely no idea, not even a hint of a clue, but surely she owed it to
herself to find out. Especially since he'd admitted to being as lonely— wasn't
that what feeling empty was all about?—as she.

Slipping
out of her clothes, Lindsey drew the nightshirt over her head and let it settle
about her. It felt soft and cool against her bare skin—her back, her breasts,
her buttocks. Unable to stop herself, she closed her eyes and imagined that it
was Walker's hands caressing her. Like her love for him, she no longer censured
the feelings that coursed through her. She no longer chastised herself for such
sweet musings. How could you chastise yourself for something that felt more
natural than breathing? Even so, she knew that such sweet musings could be
torture. Because of that, she bridled her imagination and forced herself to the
mundane task of brushing her teeth.

Afterward,
she pulled back the spread and eased onto the side of the bed. She did not lie
down. Instead, she splayed her hand against the smoothness of the sheet. This
was her parents' bed. This was where she'd come when bad dreams had awakened
her; this was where she'd come, bubbling with excitement, on Christmas morning
to awaken her parents; this was where she'd come to tell her parents she was
home from a date. There was something tragically wrong about this bed now being
empty.

Standing,
Lindsey picked up the teddy bear and walked from the room. She left the light
on in the bedroom, as though her parents had just stepped out and would return
any moment. Following the hallway, Lindsey turned on the light switch of her
old bedroom. Hundreds of pairs of teddy-bear eyes, some of glass, others of
antique buttons, met hers. Lindsey smiled amid the silent greetings she heard.
Lovingly rearranging the stuffed animals on the bed—there were several
expensive Steiff

bears
made of mohair—she turned off the light and lay down among them. She still
cradled the latest furry acquisition. It was warm. It was cuddly. It was also a
poor substitute for the man she wished were in her arms.

A
couple of miles away, Walker pulled the car into his driveway. As expected, the
house was dark. Now that his son had flown from the nest, he could never quite
grow used to returning to a dark house. He kept threatening to leave a light
on, but if he did, he knew he would be admitting that the unwelcoming darkness
bothered him. Which it did, but it was just another unspoken game that human
beings were so adept at playing. Maybe he ought to get a dog. Naw, he wasn't home
enough to do a pet justice. Of course the reason he wasn't home much was
because he preferred to stay at the office or out on a rig or anywhere else for
that matter. Anywhere that would keep him from returning to an empty, dark
house.

The
house was the same one he'd lived in with Phyllis. He'd seen no need to move
after her death. In truth, moving had been the last thing he'd wanted to do. If
the memories were painful, the memories had also been familiar. Something about
the sameness had preserved what little sanity he'd had left. He had redecorated
about two years ago, or rather had had someone do it for him, since he knew
next to nothing about decorating. The decorator had worked her magic with
colors she'd called sand, cream and cinnamon.

He'd
also had a swimming pool built at the same time he'd remodeled. Sidetracking
the house, it was to the swimming pool that he now headed via the outside gate.
Not bothering with lights—in fact, they were the last thing he wanted for what
he had in mind—he pocketed his car keys and started stripping his clothes at
poolside. Yanking the knit shirt over his head, he wadded it up and tossed it
at the nearby glass-topped table. His khaki pants, which he unzipped and
shucked from his legs in seemingly one motion, he let fall where and as they
chose. He kicked out of his shoes, peeled off his socks, and, hooking his thumb
into the elastic waistband of his jockey shorts, pared the clingy fabric from
his body.

His
hot body.

His
tired body.

His
restless body.

Why
did he feel so restless, so damned restless?

Not
even attempting to find an answer, he dove into the pool. Hands above his head,
he cut through the cool water, feeling his body's heat and weariness begin to
dissipate. The restlessness remained, however. In an attempt to counteract it,
he began to swim laps. He began to
vigorously
swim laps. Splashing his
feet, grabbing fistfuls of water, he traveled from one end of the pool back to
the other, then back again. Over and over until he lost count... until his
muscles burned... until his lungs threatened to explode.

Bursting
from the water, he levered himself onto the side of the pool. He shook his
head, slinging water in a wide arc. A drop of moisture rolled from an eyelash
and plopped onto his moist cheek. He swiped at it and took a deep breath. At
the same time, he took stock of his body. His body heat had cooled, the
weariness had eased into his muscles in a way that beckoned sleep. The
restlessness, however, remained, making sleep frustratingly elusive. He should
have gone ahead and had the caffeine, he thought in irritation, because it
looked as if he was going to be awake anyway. Thinking. Worrying.

With
Gerri gone, he was behind at work. The business had its fair share of jobs
right now, which demanded a lot of time and attention. Then, too, he couldn't
negate what was happening to his friends. Because he cared for them, the
breakup of their marriage was a stress that spilled over into his life.

Lindsey.

An
image of her flashed before him. An image of silky-soft blond hair. An image of
sultry gray eyes. An image of a young woman upset by the crisis unfolding in
her parents' lives. He would do anything to spare her, but he couldn't.

"Do
you still miss her?"

He
hadn't been expecting Lindsey's question about Phyllis. Any more than he'd been
expecting his answer, but it had come easily enough, truthfully enough. He
did
still miss Phyllis, but it wasn't the kind of missing that tied his heart
into knots. It just felt as if some part of him had been removed... and that
nothing, no one, had ever replaced that missing part. It just felt as if he
were empty inside, waiting, wanting to be touched by some warmth.

Warmth.

The
memory of Lindsey's hand in his came sweetly sweeping through his mind, his
senses. Against all logic, he could feel his palm heating, as though it had
been kissed by the noonday sun. He didn't understand the return of the memory;
he didn't understand the power it held over him, though he clearly understood
that the memory disturbed him. Greatly. So much so that he erased it from his
mind and pushed to his feet. Bare, leaving his clothes where he'd discarded
them, he walked toward house.

The
dark, empty, lonely house.

The
following Monday morning, the office telephone rang four times in as many
minutes. Walker, who'd arrived promptly at seven o'clock—it was now four
minutes after seven—reached once more for the receiver. The ringing stopped in
midpeal.

"Gal-Tex,"
he said, thankful now that he'd come in the afternoon before.

Though
he hadn't gotten near as much paperwork done as he'd hoped, he at least hadn't
had to contend with telephone interruptions. Even so, he'd spent far too much
of the Sunday afternoon wondering if Dean and Lindsey had gotten
together—surely they had—and what had been said at the meeting. Telling himself
that what went on between father and daughter was none of his business had done
little to alleviate the wondering.