The Surprise of His Life (8 page)

"See,
I can't make even you understand," Dean said.

"Okay,
so I don't understand, but I'm not condemning you, either."

"Yeah,
well, you're not Lindsey. I'm not divorcing
your
mother."

It
was a fact that Walker couldn't deny. Lindsey would be prejudiced in a way he
wasn't.

"What
is it you want?" Walker asked after a few seconds of silence.

Dean
shrugged. "To be young again, to have my hair again, to feel the same
excitement about life that I did twenty years ago, to have the chance to play
pro football like you.... You didn't know that I'd wanted to play pro ball, did
you?"

Walker
shook his head. "Why didn't you?"

"I
didn't think I was good enough."

"If
I was good enough, you were good enough."

"Yeah,
well..." Dean answered, leaving the sentence as unfinished as the issue
was unresolved.

"Believe
me," Walker said, "it wasn't what it was cracked up to be."

"The
point is that you got to find that out for yourself."

Walker
couldn't argue the logic. Logic. There was still something about all this that
didn't make any sense, and so he said, "Up to a point I understand what
you're saying, but I still don't understand how divorcing Bunny is going to
make you young again, keep your hairline from receding, and make up for not
playing pro ball."

Pain
streaked across Dean's face, making him look even older than he was complaining
of being. "Look, I just can't..." He was obviously searching for the
right words, but ultimately had to settle for the paltry, "I just can't be
tied down anymore. I don't expect you to understand. Just believe me when I say
I can't. It's nothing personal. I mean, I don't hate Bunny or anything—I could
never hate Bunny—but I can't be tied down."

Walker
refrained from saying that Bunny had probably taken his decision personally.
Very personally.

"Talk
to Lindsey for me," Dean implored.

"I
can't do that."

"Yes,
you can. She'll listen to you."

"It's
not my place."

"Maybe
not, but—"

"No,"
Walker said firmly, then added, "There's not much I wouldn't do for
you—you know that—but this I can't do. Lindsey has a right to hear this from
you."

Hiking
his hands at his hips, Dean gave a weary sigh. "You're right. I know
you're right. Besides, I can hardly avoid her forever."

Dressed
in casual denim, Lindsey entered the office. Her gaze immediately went to her
father, who sat at the smallest of the three desks in the room. Since he was in
the office less than anyone, the smallest desk had seemed the logical choice
for him. Now, two things crossed Lindsey's mind in tandem: One, as always, his
stature dwarfed the desk, making it appear even smaller than it was, and two,
if her mother had changed since last she'd seen her, so had her father.

Lindsey
took in his pants—bright yellow, blue, and sherbet pink. A drawcord cinched the
waist, while the ankles were pegged. Over his chest fit a shocking-pink cotton
jersey. There was nothing wrong with the clothes—far from it. It was just that
for a man who'd once balked at any color other than drab gray or basic black or
brown, the carousel colors looked wildly out of place. Sadly out of place. The
bracelet at his wrist and the iridescent sunglasses in his pocket wouldn't
compute, at all!

"Hi,
Daddy," Lindsey said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that Walker, who was on the
telephone, had looked up when she'd opened the door. His presence was
comforting. Particularly since the other man in the room, her father, seemed a
little bit like a stranger.

At
his daughter's entrance, Dean had glanced up, too. The eyes of father and
daughter met, held, probed. Slowly, Dean pushed back his chair and stood.

"Hey,
sweetie," he said in a voice that Lindsey thought sounded a little
uncertain, though maybe she was mistaken. Maybe she was the one suddenly
feeling uncertain, as though afraid that not only did he want to cast her
mother aside, but maybe her, as well.

Lindsey
crossed to him; Dean crossed to her. And then, she was in his arms. Though his
appearance might be different, his arms were wonderfully familiar. These arms,
hugging her so tightly that it hurt, were the loving arms of her dad, the man
who could slay dragons, the man who could heal young and tender hurts, the man
who'd always had implicit faith in her.

"You
look great," Dean said at last. "Doesn't she look great,
Walker?"

When
Bunny had asked Walker the same question, he'd teased that Lindsey had gone and
gotten herself ugly. Now, taking in the soft taffy-blond curls that tumbled
about her shoulders and the snug jeans that cupped the curves of her shapely
rear, even to tease so seemed outrageously ridiculous. And so he simply spoke
the truth, "Yeah, she looks great."

For
a moment, Lindsey's gaze connected with Walker's. The honest tone of his voice
warmed her.

The
intensity of Lindsey's steel-blue eyes, a look that said what he thought was
important, equally warmed him. Though, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure why.
He just knew that it did.

The
phone rang again, and Walker swore something decidedly unflattering about
Monday mornings and sick secretaries.

Lindsey
turned her attention back to her father. "Could, uh, could you take a
break? I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

Before
Dean could answer, another line rang. Dean punched in the call. It was about
the valve on Rig Four.

"Yeah...
okay... no, I'll be on out."

Disappointment,
frustration, even a bit of anger flowed through Lindsey. "Dad, I really
want to talk to you."

Dean
looked up at his daughter and covered the mouthpiece with his palm. "And I
promise we will."

Lindsey
looked skeptical. Highly skeptical.

"Within
a couple of hours," Dean said into the mouthpiece. "Do ya'll need
anything else?"

Lindsey
looked ready to do battle. Just as her father hung up, she said, "Couldn't
you spare—"

"Let
me get this done, sweetheart, then we'll talk. In fact, I'll tell you what. Why
don't I pick you up at seven and we'll have dinner?"

Lindsey's
skepticism looked on the verge of returning.

"I
know I've been avoiding you, I know we have to talk, and we will tonight. I
promise. Okay?"

"Do
you mean it?"

Dean
made the appropriate sign over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to
choke." As a little girl, her father pledging to cross his heart and
hoping to die had frightened Lindsey, so he'd modified the saying.

Lindsey
smiled. "Okay. Seven."

The
smile faded, however, as she watched her father, after a peck to her cheek,
walk from the office. She turned to Walker.

"Do
you think he'll show up?"

"Yeah.
He'll show."

"How
can you be so sure? His track record isn't exactly sterling."

"I
just know," he answered, grinning as he added, "Besides, I'll kick
his butt if he doesn't."

"That'll
be the day—when you and Dad fight."

Walker's
grin faded as he thought of his best friend. "Yeah."

Lightening
the mood, Lindsey said, "I don't suppose I can buy you a cup of
coffee?"

"I'd
love to, but there's no way I can get away. Not with Gerri out and all the zoo
animals loose and on the prowl."

As
if to prove his point, the phone rang. He sighed.

"Let
me get out of here and let you go to work," Lindsey said, heading for the
door. Before Walker could answer the phone, she turned and said, "I
thought you said I'd gone and gotten ugly."

The
truth was that Walker could never remember thinking anyone more
beautiful—beautiful and something more. Alive. Lindsey was alive. Appealingly
alive.

The
grin recaptured one corner of his mouth. "It's remarkable what a little
rest will do."

Lindsey's
heart gave a bumpy thump-thump at the sight of his all-male smile... and at his
words. She said nothing. She simply smiled, waved, and walked out the door.

Walker
watched her go. Curiously, her absence left him feeling... flat. Deflated. As
though life had shifted from technicolor to black and white. He had no idea how
long he stood staring at the spot where she'd been only seconds before. When
the ringing of the telephone finally penetrated his consciousness, he felt like
a first-class fool. What was wrong with him?

Brushing
thoughts of Lindsey aside, he reached for the phone. "Gal-Tex," he
said. "May I help you?"

When
the telephone rang, Walker ignored it. He'd had his fill of telephones for one
day. Besides, the cool water felt too good to abandon as he lazily glided the
length of the swimming pool. It had rained earlier in the afternoon, which
meant that his knee had ached all day and he really needed this exercise.
Badly. Plus the heat had set in with a vengeance once the rain had stopped,
making the night air thick and sticky like a blob of bubble gum. No, he
thought, as the water purled across his body, the last thing he needed was
another phone call.

And
yet...

What
if it were Adam calling about the baby? Or what if it were Bunny needing
something? Or what if it were Lindsey calling to say that her father hadn't
shown up, after all? This last had been on Walker's mind all evening. Surely
Dean had kept his promise. Surely Dean wouldn't disappoint Lindsey again. Would
he?

Before
he knew quite what he was doing, Walker converted his gliding strokes into
something faster and in seconds hefted himself onto the side of the pool. He'd
again swum in the nude, the way he most often did, owing to the sheltered
privacy the redwood fence and privet hedge provided. Then, too, the houses in
this secluded neighborhood were set discreetly apart. He reached for the
portable phone that lay on the glass-topped table even as his bare backside
registered the heat still contained within the concrete.

Adjusting
the phone's On button, Walker said, "Hello?"

There
was a pause, then, "Am I interrupting anything important?"

The
voice belonged to Lindsey. The memory of her standing in the office doorway
that afternoon came to mind. The memory was clothed in denim—clinging denim. As
always, he was uncomfortable with these errant thoughts. Denying them, he
grabbed his watch and checked the time. Ten minutes after ten o'clock. Surely
she'd have called earlier if Dean failed to show.

"No,"
Walker said, "I was just getting in a few laps." Before she could
answer, he added, "How did the evening go with your father?"

At
the mention that Walker had been swimming, a bold—even a brazen—image flashed
through Lindsey's mind. The image consisted of sun-tanned skin, silver-tipped
ebony hair foresting a wide chest, the same ebony-tinted hair scoring stomach
and legs and...

She
focused on the question Walker had asked. "Who knows?" she said in
answer.

Walker
halted the towel he was passing through his hair. A renegade drop of water ran
down the ridge of his straight nose. "He did show up, didn't he?"

"Oh,
yeah, he showed up."

"Well,
did you talk to him?"

"Not
really. I mostly talked
at
him."

"I
see," Walker said, seeing only too clearly. Dean wasn't into communication
these days.

"In
short," Lindsey said, "he told me to mind my own business. Oh, he
wasn't quite that blunt. No, as a matter of fact, he was that blunt. He told me
that what was going on between him and Mother was their business only, that no
third person, not even a daughter, could sit in judgment on a couple's
marriage, that no one could judge what two other people were feeling in their
hearts." Lindsey gave a weary sigh. "And if you tell me that you told
me so, I'll scream."

Or
cry, Walker thought, hearing the strain in her voice. She was trying hard to
control her emotions. As always, he wanted to protect her, shield her. In fact,
the thought of her crying did strangely painful things to him.

"Hey,"
he said, "get that chin up off the curb before it gets run over."

"And
how do you know my chin's on the curb?"

"Having
been there a time or two myself, I recognized the sound of one's voice bleating
against concrete."

Lindsey
giggled, then sobered. "What really upset me was his categorical rejection
of counseling. He doesn't need counseling, he said. He wasn't nuts, he told
me." She sighed again. "Oh, Walker, he's so different. I mean, he is
and he isn't. He's still my dad, but he seems like someone else, too. And when
did he start dressing like... like... I don't know, like he was twenty instead
of forty? Not that forty is old or anything," she hastened to add.