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Angus Campbell sat propped up in bed with his knees bent, as though his six-four frame was too long for the mattress. Doc had been bald as long as Spencer had known him and his weathered face was deeply lined, but he had the vitality of a man half his age.
“Spencer, m’boy! You came.” Despite Doc’s enthusiastic greeting, the right side of his face sagged and the faint Scottish burr of his native Glasgow was slurred.
“Of course,” Spencer said, taking a seat beside the bed. “How’d you land up here, anyway? Eat too many cheeseburgers? Or was it too many run-ins with Ashton-Whyte?”
“Don’t talk to me about Ashton-bloody-Whyte,” Doc growled. “The only good thing about this infernal place is his absence. As for the stroke... I was divin’ for abalone with my grandson. We were in the water for hours and I got hypothermia, for God’s sake. That set off cardiac arrhythmia. A blood clot formed in my heart, traveled to my brain. Next thing I know, I’m in here, providin’ free entertainment to the nursing staff who love nothin’ better than sticking a thermometer up my bum.” His blue eyes twinkled at the pretty young nurse who was currently strapping a blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm.
“You’re a disgusting dirty old man,” she scolded with a smile. “The sooner you’re out of here, the happier we’ll all be.”
Spencer turned to Doc. “What about it? Will you be back at the university after Christmas? You know I’ve applied to Bergen, but I don’t want to let your students down.” One in particular.
“I’ll be back. Got research to finish.” Talking suddenly seemed an effort and Doc paused to take a deep breath. “But I’m glad you’re here, lad. First chance you get I want you to check the stationary hydrophone I’ve got positioned in Trincomali Channel. Lee tells me it stopped broadcasting.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Lee is a good lad. I hope you’ll keep him on.”
“Of course. He’s analyzing the data you and he collected over the summer. Good thing you got him on the payroll before you checked into the hospital, though. Randolph isn’t giving me a bean more than he has to.”
“That bloody...!” Doc’s face turned red. “He was nosin’ around here the other day, tryin’ to read my chart. Just because he’s a vertebrate physiologist, he thinks he’s a bloody doctor. He works with hamsters, for cryin’ out loud—last time he did any real research, that is.”
“Now don’t go getting yourself worked up, Dr. Campbell,” the nurse admonished, letting the pressure off the cuff. “Time for your tablets.” She handed him a paper cup containing pills and another cupful of water.
Doc took them with a growl and shot a glance at Spencer. “They’re feeding me rat poison!”
“Warfarin is an anticoagulant,” the nurse explained with an indulgent smile. “Take your pills like a good boy.”
Doc gulped down the tablets and tossed back the water. A little of it dribbled out the paralyzed side of his mouth. The nurse had moved on and Spencer had to stop himself from leaning forward to wipe it away.
“How’s Meg?” Doc rasped. “Weren’t you two friends years ago?”
Spencer shrugged noncommittally. “She seems fine.”
“Has she decided on a thesis topic yet? We only talked in general terms when we met in June.” Doc gripped Spencer’s hand. “She’s keen as mustard. Make sure she’s got a project she can get her teeth into.”
Spencer squeezed Doc’s hand. It was hard to see someone who’d always been full of piss and vinegar brought so low. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good lad.” Doc’s eyelids flickered. He seemed to tire suddenly and he slumped back against his pillows. “When Lee’s finished doing the stats on those recordings, he can start writing up the paper. And for God’s sake, keep Ashton-Whyte away from here if you possibly can. He mustn’t find out...”
“What?” Spencer leaned closer. “What shouldn’t he find out?”
“My age.” Doc’s eyes closed again. “He’ll force me to retire.”
“He can’t do that...” Spencer began, then realized Doc had fallen asleep.
Gently he replaced Doc’s hand on the coverlet and went around the end of the bed to peruse the chart hanging there. He scanned the vital statistics.
Age: seventy-two. Spencer blinked and looked again. Unbelievable but true. He would have sworn Doc wasn’t a day over sixty.
“Be a good lad and alter the numbers for me, son.”
Doc’s sudden request made him drop the chart with a metallic clatter against the bed rails.
“Thought I was asleep, did you?” A feral grin played around one side of Doc’s mouth. “Caught Ashton-Whyte that way.”
“How come the university doesn’t know your correct age?”
The good side of Doc’s mouth curved into a smile. “Years ago when I was getting close to retirement age, I cultivated the acquaintance of a verra’ obliging lassie over in Records...”
“Doctor Campbell, I’m shocked.” Spencer grinned. “But your secret’s safe with me.”
Spencer didn’t know which was more surprising—that Doc looked so young for his age or that he hadn’t had a stroke before now, given his temperament and his frequent contact with Ashton-Whyte.
SATURDAY MORNING, Meg was parked in front of her parents’ house. It was already later than she would have liked and Davis was in one of his obstinate moods, refusing to get out of the car.
“Come on, Davis,” she said. “It’s time to go inside.”
Davis picked at a tear in the fabric seat cover. Meg could feel a pain start to throb in her temple. She glanced at her watch, then down the curving driveway. Empty—so far.
Straightening, she threw her father an apologetic glance.
Roger frowned. “Doesn’t he want to stay with me?”
“He’s really excited about it, honestly.” She took a bottle from her purse and handed it to him. “Give him one tablet after lunch. No matter what he says. He might not be very hungry, but you should try to get something into him.”
Roger tucked the bottle in his pocket “Are you okay, Meggie? You seem nervous. Is your new honors supervisor some kind of ogre or something?”
Meg pulled her father away from the car and lowered her voice. “He’s Spencer Valiella.”
Roger’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown and his jaw jutted forward. “Spencer Valiella is not welcome on my property.”
Meg put a hand to her damp forehead. “We can’t talk about it now. He’s due to arrive any minute. I want to get Davis inside. They can’t meet. Not yet.”
“Damn right they can’t meet!”
Which only made Meg want to argue on Spencer’s behalf. Ridiculous. She went back to the car. The passenger door was open. Davis was on his knees in the gravel, staring intently at a bug crawling through the stones.
“Come on, honey.” She bent and took his hand. “I bet Grandpa would like to show you the fish in his aquarium.”
Davis jumped up. “Does he have any new ones?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“You ask him.” The boy pressed against her side, darting a glance to Roger. Roger smiled and Davis turned his face into her waist.
“Let’s go ask him together.” Meg knew trying to hurry him was fatal, but the pace was excruciating. She glanced over her shoulder at the driveway again.
“Hello, Davis.” Roger bent and extended his hand. Davis shook his head, and looked at his mom.
“Go on, honey, shake,” Meg said. She turned to Roger. “He could hardly sleep last night he was so excited.”
“So you said. Don’t worry about it.” Roger dropped his hand.
Davis touched Roger’s pant leg. “Did you get a new fish?”
“No, but I’ve got a new castle. The Siamese fighting fish like to swim through the archway.”
Meg heard the roar of a mufflerless car turn into the driveway. “Why don’t you go see, Davis? Quick, before they get tired.”
Davis rolled his eyes. “Fish don’t get tired of swimming.”
The car was still out of sight behind the box hedge but was getting closer by the second. She didn’t need to see the driver to know it had to be Spencer. None of her parents’ friends, or even their children, would drive something that sounded like that.
She fixed her most powerful stare on Davis. “Go. Now.
Roger touched his grandson on the shoulder, turning him toward the house. “Do fish ever sleep, Davis?”
Meg watched them go into the house through the garage and almost broke into tears at the relief. She would tell Spencer, but in her own time. If he found out by surprise, it would be too dreadful.
The door had just shut behind Roger and Davis when Spencer’s black Camaro, kayak strapped to the roof rack, came to a halt beside her Toyota. Meg remembered suddenly the Matchbox cars Davis carried with him wherever he went. Had he left any lying on the back seat where Spencer might see them? The back door was still wide open.
Spencer got out, and closed his own door, his gaze fixed on her. Without so much as a glance inside her car, he reached over and flicked shut the door on the Toyota. Meg let out her breath, her heart pounding crazily. She wasn’t going to survive, she just wasn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
“MORNING,” Spencer said. He’d forgotten how great her tanned legs and shapely hips looked in shorts. His body responded to memories of its own, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Ready?”
She tugged nervously on her long braid. “My kayak’s in the garage. Can you give me a hand?”
He started walking over. “How are your folks?”
“Fine. Mother’s got her garden club thing today.”
“And your dad doesn’t want to breathe the same air as me.”
Meg stopped short. “That’s not—”
“I saw him high-tail it into the house.”
“He—”
“Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” Spencer moved under the open garage door. “Who’s the boy?”
“The boy?” Her voice sounded strangled.
He glanced at her. “Yeah. Is he one of your brother’s kids?”
“What? Oh. Yes. That’s right.” She hurried past him to the far end of the kayak.
“It’s Nick who’s married, isn’t it?” He’d liked her brothers, Nick more than the other two, but maybe that was because Nick was a geologist and not a lawyer or a banker. Her parents were another matter altogether.
“All three are married now.” Meg moved to the far end of the kayak. “You don’t have to be married to have a child.”
“Ever the nitpicker.” Spencer bent to pick up his end. “We’d better move if we’re going to catch that ferry.”
They loaded the Orca onto his roof rack and tied it down. Spencer lifted the trunk so Meg could put her backpack inside. He glanced up at the house and saw the living room curtain twitch. Some things never changed. With a mocking salute at the window, he slid into the driver’s seat. Then he gunned the engine and with a roar spun around the circular drive and back out to the road.
Meg shook her head. “What are you, Jimmy Dean?”
Spencer laughed. “Your father would be disappointed if I didn’t put on a show.” He glanced at her T-shirt. “Are you going to be warm enough? It can get cool on the water, especially if you get wet.”
“You mean when you get wet Don’t worry, I’ve got a sweatshirt in my backpack.” She glanced around the interior. “From the outside this car looks like it belongs in a Mad Max movie, but inside it’s immaculate.”
Spencer shrugged. “The inside is what I see. Didn’t know you were so easily impressed.”
She grinned. “Cleanliness is always impressive where least expected.”
“Very funny.” He scowled to hide the pleasure he felt at simply being with her. “Put on a CD if you like.”
She flipped through the disks. “Hey, this is your dad’s band. ‘Ray and the Brass Monkeys, Live.’ Remember the time you took me backstage at his concert? Gosh, he was good. Where is he these days?”
Spencer frowned. He’d forgotten Meg had heard his dad play. And met him. And liked him. Hopefully he could keep the two apart. He’d hate Meg to see his father in his current state. Hate for her to pity him. Hey, what was he thinking? This was Ray! He was just in a slump. Back up in no time.
“He’s, ah, he’s at the cottage.”
“Really?” Meg glanced up. “Is he in town for a concert?”
“He’s...taking a breather. He probably won’t be around long. You know him—here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Like father, like son,” Meg murmured, and put the disk into the state-of-the-art CD player.
The opening bars of Ray’s upbeat brassy style of blues-rock fusion drowned out some of the muffler noise. Then the gravelly voice of Ray Valiella came on, and the background noise just seemed to blend in. Spencer began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Are you going to get your muffler fixed?”
He had it booked into a local garage, but he couldn’t resist teasing her. “It’s supposed to sound that way.”
She threw him a look. When are you going to grow up?
“I like your hair long,” he said. Now this was the understatement of the year. Her hair fascinated him. Thick and fine and heavy, like braided corn silk, it hung over her shoulder and down her blue cotton-clad breast. His gaze lingered where it shouldn’t. Then met hers.
She turned to look straight ahead. “What happens once I decide on a project?”
Damn. For a few minutes they’d slipped into their old way of talking—but then her cool wariness had brought him back to reality. He might not have changed, but the situation sure as hell had. Get used to it, Valiella. “You’ll need to write up your experimental design using proper scientific method. But you know that.”
“I think I do, but it’s been so long. I’m afraid I may have forgotten things.”
Spencer glanced at her. That straight little nose didn’t ride quite as high as it used to. He wondered why. “Then you’ll just learn it over again,” he said. “Or ask me—I might know.”
