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If only she hadn’t said what she’d said.
He’d known then he’d never be able to give her what she needed.
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. It was years ago. Time he forgot about her.
But he had to call.
His hand hovered over the phone. Even if it was Meg, she might not remember him. The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her busy social schedule.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.
ABOVE THE INCESSANT squawk of Noel, her son’s golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing telephone. She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis’s bedroom. His cry of frustration stabbed straight to the “mother” center of her brain. God, she hoped this was only a phase. But it was one phase after another.
With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms. As she passed the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the roar of the shower. At least Patrick’s noise was cheerful.
She paused in her son’s doorway. Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt. At the sight of her, his cries rose a decibel.
“Mom! It won’t do up.” Angry tears spurted from his dark green eyes. Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best. and the worst, period of her life.
“Come here, sweetie.” Meg dropped to her knees and held out her arms. From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.
A lock of straight brown hair fell over Davis’s scowling forehead, but he didn’t budge. Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.
With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through. “I did it!”
“Do you know why it was so hard?” Meg asked, her tone carefully matter-of fact. “Your shirt is inside out.”
“I know that.” He started to jam another button through its hole. His smooth olive skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.
Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out. “Now, show me again how you can do up those buttons.”
A few minutes later Davis’s buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.
Meg pulled him into a hug. Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had to be learned over and over again. He could build complex Lego structures without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who’d done three years of university biology. But he couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds at a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as soon as they were given.
He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn’t love him desperately, she’d surely have strangled him before he’d turned three. But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.
“Put your pants on,” she said, handing him a pair of navy corduroys.
Davis grasped the pants by the elasticized waist and raised a leg. He lost his balance, so he moved to lean against the bed. He got one leg in, then paused to study a fly cleaning its forelegs on the windowsill.
Meg waited. “Your pants, honey. Davis. Davis.”
“What?” His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.
“Your pants.” She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life. She, who at the best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.
Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys. Then, “Oh.” He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the waistband around his skinny hips. When he got them on, he kept on hopping. “Look at me, I’m a bunny.”
Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.
He squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous. “I don’t want to go to day care. Kids are mean to me.”
Meg’s heart sank. She’d been afraid of this even though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she’d be discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime. How much worse would it be when he went to school? “There’s nothing wrong with having to take medicine.”
“It’s not that,” he said, his small hands clenched into fists. “Tommy said...he...I couldn’t go to...to big kids’ school if I didn’t have a daddy.”
“Oh, Davis.” Meg gathered her son into her arms. Over his shoulder, she glanced at her watch. He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was going to be on time to register for classes at the university. But even though they’d been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions. Maybe it was her sensitivity. Or maybe it was guilt. She just wished she had better answers.
“You do have a daddy,” she said. “He’s just not like other dads. He’s...special.”
“Because he studies killer whales?” Davis jiggled his legs.
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?” He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.
“He’s...” A lover. A loner. A modern-day Ulysses. He’s a genius. A bastard. And my poor heart’s desire. “He can take the peel off an entire orange in just one strip.”
“Really? Wow.” Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due. “But why doesn’t he...you know?”
“What?”
“Live with us. Doesn’t he like us?” Davis dropped the car and picked up a toy sword. He began banging it on the floor.
“This isn’t his home, sweetheart, you know that—Please stop banging. I don’t think he’s ever had a real home. But if he knew about you, I know he’d love you just as much as I do.” She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she often did, if that was true.
“How come you didn’t tell him about me?” There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice. Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.
She took the sword off him. He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it, instead.
“I tried to tell him, years ago. I...couldn’t get through.”
The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore radio. But when she’d realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat. Then, when she was eight months along, she’d called him in Seattle where he was doing his masters degree. Before she could mention the baby, he’d started talking about scholarships and a Ph.D. at a prestigious university. It wasn’t the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that had been a consideration. It was the excitement in his voice when he talked about moving on. New location, new research topic, new everything. Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly. Meg had guts but apparently not enough.
It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby. Nor was it his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role model. None of it was his fault. And all of it was.
Not a day went by when she didn’t think of him. Not a trip to the university when she didn’t look for him around every corner even though she knew he’d left the country years ago. Hopeless. Futile. Pathetic. It was a good thing she was over him.
The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves. “Stop.”
“I want to learn to play baseball,” Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the bat. “Tommy’s dad plays catch with him.”
“I’ll teach you. When we get home tonight we’ll toss the ball around, okay?” She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet. “It’s just you and me, kid, better get used to it. Come on. Your oatmeal is almost ready.”
“First I’m going to see Charlie.”
Charlie, the lizard. Meg watched Davis race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks flapping loosely in front of his toes. Pull up your socks, she wanted to. shout, but didn’t. The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice but to pull them up, figuratively speaking. Please, God, give my boy an understanding teacher.
She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick sailed into the kitchen. His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a knife-edge. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Davis all right?”
“He’s fine. Just a minor skirmish with his buttons.”
“Good. Now, how do I look?” Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched. “I’ve got an interview with the selection committee today, and I’m that far away from promotion.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.
“You look terrific.” She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie a little straighter. “I just love a man in uniform.”
“So do I, sweetie. So do I,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Meg laughed. “You’re terrible. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably slit your little wrists.” Patrick turned as Davis came into the kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands. “I’m in the galley tonight, champ. What would you like for dinner?”
“Hot dogs!” Davis opened his hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.
Patrick planted his fists on his hips. “You simply must expand your repertoire, mister. But discipline’s your mom’s department. Hot dogs, it is. I’ll make Caesar salad for us.” he added to Meg.
“Patrick You know I’m trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all.”
Patrick turned puppy-dog eyes on her. They always made her cave. As he well knew.
“Oh, all right. Since you’re cooking, you get to choose.”
They might as well be married the way they argued over Davis’s upbringing. She had the final say of course, but she couldn’t squash all of Patrick’s many indulgences.
“Davis,” she said, turning to her son, “get Charlie out of your collar and back in his cage. Then run and wash your hands. You don’t want lizard slime in your oatmeal.”
“Lizards aren’t slimy, Mom. Sheesh!” But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion. Just to let her know he was complying under duress.
Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away. “Keep going,” she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.
Patrick clucked his tongue as he put the kettle on to boil. “Ease up on the boy,” he said, measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger. “Watching his every move like a hawk won’t teach him self-reliance.”
Meg dropped a handful of raisins into the oatmeal and turned down the heat. “Oh, Patrick, you know what he’s like.”
“Vividly. But you can’t be the earth, moon and stars to the child. You need a break before school starts. Why don’t you let me look after him for a couple of days while you pamper yourself with a weekend at the Empress Hotel?”
“You know I can’t afford that.”
Even if she could afford a weekend at the Empress, she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Patrick’s life-style; he was just way too lenient. Davis constantly pushed the limits. He needed a firm hand. He needed stability, continuity and routine. He needed to know where he stood every moment of the day. She could just imagine how spun out her son would be after a couple of days with Patrick giving him whatever his heart desired. If only she could call on her mother.... But there was no use wishing.
The telephone began to ring again.
Meg reached for the cordless phone and, still stirring the oatmeal, tucked it under her chin while she opened the fridge to get some milk. “Hello?”
Noel hopped out of his open cage above the kitchen counter and onto her shoulder. “Hello?” he squawked in her other ear.
“Get away.” She brushed at the bird and it flew to the top of the fridge. “Sorry, not you,” she said into the receiver. Behind her she could hear Davis rummaging through the cupboard. The kettle began to hiss. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
A man cleared his throat. “May I speak to Meg McKenzie?”
Her hand froze on the wooden spoon. Spencer. She’d know his deep voice anywhere, anytime. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen seemed to swirl. The sounds around her faded away. Without warning she was snatched from the mundane activities of breakfast and dropped, like a stone through water, into the past. She was sinking, fast.
“Who is this?” she whispered hoarsely, buying time. What could he be calling for now, after all these years?
“Spencer...” He paused. “Spencer Valiella.”
A prickling chill ran from behind her ears and down her arms. Glancing up, she saw Patrick’s round hazel eyes regarding her avidly. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face, which she was sure must be pale.
“Dr. Ashton-Whyte from the university asked me to call you,” Spencer went on, as though speaking to a stranger. “I’m taking over Dr. Campbell’s position—I assume you know he had a stroke?”
His words caused a roaring in her ears. Spencer, it’s me you’re talking to. “Yes. I—I went to see him in the hospital.”
There was a pause, then he said slowly, “I used to know a Meg McKenzie—about seven years ago. She did the best biological illustrations I’ve ever seen.”
He did remember. If she shut her eyes she could almost imagine she was hearing his voice in the dark—
“Mom! Can I have my oatmeal? I’m starving.”
Davis. Meg felt her spine go cold. Spinning around, she held a finger against her lips to shush him, then hurried over to spoon oatmeal into his bowl.
With her free hand pressed to her other ear, she walked back into the kitchen and said quietly into the receiver, “Thank you. Spencer.”
Silence while she listened to the sound of her thudding heart and shallow breath.
“Meg,” he said at last, “so it is you. I couldn’t believe it at first. How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Unexpectedly anger coursed through her, bringing the blood back to her cheeks. She was not fine. He’d made love to her, then left town without even saying goodbye.
“I had no idea you would be taking over Dr. Campbell’s position,” she said, covering her anger with an artificially bright voice, taking refuge from hurt by reverting to her preppy self of seven years ago. Before Davis. Before poverty. Before the falling out with her mother.
“I’ve kept in touch with Doc over the years,” Spencer said. “He knew I was available and suggested to Ashton-Whyte I’d be suitable for the job. I’ll be an assistant professor, not a full professor like Doc, but I can live with that.”
He’d kept in touch with Dr. Campbell. But not with her. Meg gripped the telephone, trying not to weep with anger and frustration and hurt. When she thought of all the nights she’d lain awake and fantasized about an emotional reunion. Idiot.
“Well, you certainly know your cetaceans,” she replied, still in that overbright tone reminiscent of her mother’s garden-club voice.
“Have you decided on a topic?”
“Topic? Oh, you’re talking about my thesis.” She didn’t mean anything to him. Never had. “I’ve got some ideas I was going to discuss with Dr. Campbell.”
“I guess you’ll be discussing them with me, instead.”
It hit her then. She was not only talking to Spencer, she would soon see him. And not only see him, but work with him on a daily basis. Meg groped for a chair and lowered herself into it. Davis spooned oatmeal into his mouth and watched her, wide-eyed. Patrick set a cup of coffee in front of her.
“So you’ll be my honors supervisor?”
“If you have no objection.”
