Chapter 9: Keeping Vows

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.

 May -- A. E. Housman

He had never intended to allow it to become a habit, had, in fact, meant to limit it to one occasion - one fleeting indulgence, one nod toward forbidden memories, one exercise in nostalgia. A singular event comprised of a harmless little match, occurring in the loveliness of the country club setting, with its precision-sculpted landscaping, executed with such exact perfection that even eruptions of bougainvillea existed within fixed boundaries, everything balanced and coordinated with its California-perfect golf course, all arranged in stunning symmetry around the hacienda-style sprawl of the clubhouse, neighboring spa, and discreet array of private cottages provided for patrons and honored guests.

That had been his intention, but it had not quite worked out as planned.

It might have gone as expected if - and it was a huge 'if' - he'd remembered how much he had always enjoyed the exhilaration of a fast, hard match and the glorious rush of victory when his serve turned out to be a dynamic, overwhelming ace, or his return proved to be so perfectly timed and placed that his opponent had no opportunity to field it successfully. He knew he should have remembered, and taken appropriate measures to avoid resurrecting old habits and preferences. Then he had to suppress a quick smile, knowing that the only strategy that would have worked would have been to resist temptation in the first place.

He never should have picked up the racquet at all - should, in fact, have discarded it long ago. After all, what kind of ex-salesman/semi-drifter ran around with a Bosworth Tour 96 tennis racquet tucked away in the trunk of his car.

The car, of course, was gone now, and he knew he should have let the racquet go with it. It was singularly stupid to have held on to this one sentimental token of his old life, but he had done it anyway, not quite able to consign it to the past. Ridiculous, really, he thought now. It was just a tennis racquet, but . . . it was his tennis racquet, something that he'd treasured, something given to him by someone he'd cared for deeply.

Someone who was not Scotty, and maybe, he thought, that made it even more special. He didn't after all, have a lot of good memories that did not center around his husband.

Best not to pursue that thought, and besides, it was all academic now. Whatever he should have done, he hadn't, and all that was left was to deal with the aftermath. In allowing himself to forget how much he'd loved the game, he had managed to convince himself that a major part of its appeal was due to its connection with his sister, but that, as it turned out, had not been quite so major after all.

There was also the fact that it had been a long time since he'd had something so sweetly uncomplicated to claim his focus, although he knew that wasn't exactly true. Nothing in his life seemed to be truly uncomplicated these days. He'd had no idea how hard it would be to step out of one identity and into another, leaving all his old baggage behind him.

The other part of the problem lay in the fact that he'd failed to take into account how beautiful Brian Padgett would be in a crisp, new set of whites - and how much the man would have resented being called 'beautiful' had he known about it.

Still . . . Kevin had to admit to a certain amount of confusion in his attitude toward his tennis opponent. For as long as he could remember, he'd known that his so-called 'gay-dar' was almost infallible. He had always known, even when he wasn't sure how he knew. Now . . . now he didn't know, and couldn't figure out how to go about finding out - or whether or not he was even interested.

Which was perfectly ridiculous, of course. He wasn't interested; that was the bottom line, because this was not Scotty. Even the name in his mind still raised a stunning degree of pain, and he was beginning to believe it always would. Only . . . 

"Hey!" That was Padgett, laughing as his serve left a smudge on the clay court and went zooming off into the shrubbery. "You playing - or daydreaming?"

"Sorry," Kevin replied with a smile. "Little of both, I guess."

"Yeah, well, keep it up, Federer-wannabe, and I'm going to kick your ass."

Kevin's smile became a predator's grin. "Only if you're planning to talk me to death. Serve it up, Dr. Jones."

Padgett grimaced, pretending to be annoyed by the nickname with which Kevin had christened him, although he could hardly claim that it wasn't appropriate, given his field of study and the fact that he even bore a slight resemblance to Harrison Ford. Which was not, of course, a bad thing. Kevin, an original Star Wars fan at the grand old age of ten, still remembered a favorite scene from the original movie in which a quick, but powerful camera shot had seemed to ignite the color of Han Solo's eyes, earning him a permanent place in Kevin's pantheon of favorite characters, which was later enhanced by the actor's visit to Café 429 and his lavish appreciation for Scotty's spectacular version of steak au poivre, not to mention his immediate, easy acceptance when Kevin was introduced as Scotty's husband. The man had not even blinked before offering a strong, steady handshake

A vivid, beautiful memory. Kevin suppressed a sigh; such memories were problematic at best, and downright dangerous at worst - best discarded in the bright light of a morning like this one.

The match was hard fought, as were all their matches, and the decisive victory in the last set was finally gained by virtue of a single heavy top-spin forehand that Kevin managed to drive into the rear corner of the court with enough force and speed to make any return impossible.

Padgett at that point simply braced his hands against his knees and shook his head. "Bet you can't do that again," he called, moderately out of breath.

Kevin laughed, equally winded. "Bet I can't either."

"You're really good at this, you know," said the not-quite-professor, moving toward the net with hand extended. "They might even take you on as a pro, if you were interested. I heard the last one took off for the greater glory of the silver screen a while back."

"Yeah? He was an actor?" Kevin grasped the outstretched hand firmly.

Padgett grinned. "He was a pretty face, but hey - sometimes that's enough."

Kevin's smile faltered slightly as a familiar image flared in his mind, a remnant of his previous life that he had not thought about in a very long time, mostly because he hadn't allowed himself to delve deeply into anything that wasn't central to his current life. He had dealt with his own up-close-and-personal version of an actor who had started out as nothing more than a pretty face, although to everyone's surprise - maybe even his own - Chad Barry had turned out to have a considerable degree of talent and ability. 

Chad! Of the laughing eyes and the sculpted cheekbones and the abs to die for, and the body . . .

And that was quite enough of that. There was only room in his thoughts for one face - one body - perfect, beautiful, unforgettable, featured in memories which filled him with an ache so profound that he sometimes wondered why no one else could see it. He could not - would not - allow himself to grieve for another.

"Speaking of actors - and pretty faces - I hear they're shooting a sci-fi film over at Mono Lake," said Padgett, moving to the sideline to grab a towel to dry his face. "Makes sense if they're using all those weird salt formations as features of an alien world. Some of my students are getting part-time work as extras. Might be fun to take a run over there and see what's happening. You interested?"

Kevin's smile was bittersweet as he recalled other occasions when he'd visited television film sets - always minding his p's and q's to make sure nobody tumbled to the truth of his relationship to the mega-macho star of whatever scene they were filming. He was slightly surprised to note that he still felt a trace of resentment over the fact that the actor's eventual outing had only served to enhance his standing in the film industry, demonstrating that all the discretion and deliberate slight-of-hand had been completely unnecessary.

Another bitter lesson learned too late.

Still, discretion remained the better part of valor.

"No, thanks," he said, grabbing his own towel to dry his hair, which always tended to curl more tightly when damp. "I've got an appointment in the city this afternoon."

Padgett's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Something important?"

Kevin hesitated, slightly perturbed by the intensity of the interest flaring in hazel eyes that were sometimes brown and sometimes gray and sometimes green and sometimes indeterminate.

"Not really. Just some paperwork over a piece of property that my grandparents owned a long time ago. Red tape stuff actually, but I've put it off long enough."

Padgett looked vaguely uncertain for a moment; then he smiled and nodded. "Another time then."

Kevin laughed. "Not much into checking out how movies are made. I prefer to maintain my illusions."

Again, that quick flare of speculation. "That can be dangerous, you know."

Kevin chose not to answer, although he had to deliberately suppress an urge to agree vehemently.

Padgett looked thoughtful, a slight frown touching his lips, but elected to drop the subject.

"Got time for a drink?" he asked instead.

Kevin glanced at his watch. "It's not even noon yet."

Padgett shrugged. "It's five o'clock somewhere. Come on. One glass of pinot to celebrate your victory. Okay?"

Kevin decided not to argue. Besides, he enjoyed Padgett's company, even though he had chosen not to examine his motives too closely. There was no romantic aspect to their casual relationship; he would not - could not - allow that, not even in a fleeting, ships-in-the-night manner. But they did share some small nuance of camaraderie - something that he probably should not indulge, but seemed unable to resist anyway.

He had tried to become the proverbial island that no man is - but had never quite managed to achieve the level of isolation he sought, the place where he would be permanently, perfectly safe - and irrevocably lost.

The bar area of the club was quiet and stylish in the manner of a classy British pub, with lots of richly detailed wood veneers, plush leather seating, stained glass accents, and soft, indirect lighting. It was also almost empty as Padgett led the way to a small booth in the corner - Kevin's favorite spot for a quiet drink. As they took their seats, it occurred to Kevin that he should be slightly alarmed that his companion knew him well enough to assume that he would want to sit here. He had spent months learning to avoid familiarity at all costs; it bred the kind of sloppy, unguarded attitude that could result in dangerous slips of the tongue.

But this was not the moment to indulge his paranoia, he supposed.

The bartender, a college kid named Greg - slender, dark-eyed, and Gucci-model pretty - had claimed Kevin as a kindred spirit once he'd learned where he worked; he greeted the two new arrivals with a bright smile, glanced at his reflection in the mirrored bar to make sure every artfully tousled hair was where it should be, and proceeded without waiting for an order, pouring out two goblets of the house's best pinot. He then brought them forward and failed to notice the fleeting frown that touched Kevin's lips - the one that reluctantly acknowledged the realization that his reputation as a man of mystery was somehow deteriorating around him with every day that went by and every person who got to know him just a little better than he'd meant to allow.

Another example of his inability to isolate himself.

"Can I get you anything else, Gentlemen?" asked the bartender. "You're here on a good day. The chef is making a special effort for the lunch menu. Paella, I think, and tiramisu for dessert."

"What's the occasion?" asked Padgett.

The youth leaned forward - closer to Kevin - and lowered his voice. "Apparently, we have some celebrity staying in one of the guest cottages - someone who's determined to avoid attracting the attention of the paparazzi." He paused and waited for Kevin to look up and meet his eyes, but that didn't happen, so he drew a deep breath and continued, swallowing a mild surge of disappointment. "Anyway, it's an opportunity to enjoy something out of the ordinary, so would you . . ."

"Not for me," Kevin interrupted, offering a tiny smile to apologize for his lack of manners. "I have to be going."

"You sure?" Greg replied. "Everything's ready to serve, and . . ."

"Thanks, but no, thanks." This time, Kevin's tone of voice was firmer, and there was no smile to soften it as he drained his glass. 

The bartender managed - barely - not to flinch away from the coldness in that voice, but Kevin did not notice as he rose and hefted his carry-all to his shoulder, and made his departure with just a "See you guys later" tossed over his shoulder.

It was Padgett who noted that young Greg's beautiful dark eyes seemed to fill with a sharp, heavy swell of disappointment. It lasted less than the space of a heartbeat, but it was very real nonetheless. Still, Padgett said nothing, simply filing the moment away in a section of his mind that he had begun to categorize as "the mystery of Kevin Wynter".

Kevin, of course, would have been appalled to learn that he'd generated sufficient interest to merit such a label. It wasn't - quite - intense enough to be categorized as an obsession. Not yet anyway. But it wasgrowing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It had rained in the early morning, and the incredible perfection of the club's manicured setting - emphasized by the natural, beautifully imperfect, autumn-hued landscape around it - was rendered even more idyllic by the arc of a rainbow rising into the western sky, and the celebrity - he smiled as he applied the term to himself - currently cloistered within the most luxurious of the guest cottages stood framed in pale light pouring through the French window and felt a bit like the king of the hill.

It was temporary, of course. He had never been a king - had not a drop of royal blood nor the tiniest trace of patrician lineage. No aristocratic claim to fame; no old bloodlines; not even a connection to wealth or industrial lineage.

He was just . . .

The thought died without him even noting its passing, as a quick movement near the clubhouse area drew his attention to a stray spark of sunlight glinting in dark hair, curled tight and thick - there and gone almost before he could notice it. But not quite quickly enough.

It couldn't be - could it? He knew that he had been lucky in his life - that getting to this place at this time was more a question of good fortune than any suggestion of having earned his place - but he had never been that lucky. So why should be believe it now.

But, if he simply stood here, telling himself that he had to be wrong, he would never get a chance to find out that he might be right after all. He was running for the door before the thought was complete.

Still, even at full speed - which was considerable given the length of his legs and gym-perfected strength of his muscles - he was not quite fast enough, as the powerful roar of a Harley engine fractured the pastoral serenity of the morning just as he arrived in the elegantly landscaped parking area, and the rider, helmet and jacket preventing any possibility of a revealing glimpse of face or body, raced out through the massive wrought iron gates and disappeared down the curving road, shaded by thick stands of California black oak.

Damn! He moved toward his car - a classic Porsche Cabriolet, black and hand-polished - only to remember that he had not paused to grab his keys when he'd raced out of his cottage. Damn!

Still, he told himself, walking slowly back toward his lodgings, it had only been a glimpse, too quick and fleeting to show him anything substantial. What were the odds, after all? He was almost certainly dead wrong, and ridiculously gullible to even entertain the notion that it might have been . . .

But what if that glimpse had been enough? There had certainly been a time when one brief sighting of that thick mass of curls would have sent him racing to intercept the man who wore it, and - if there were even the remotest possibility that his instincts were spot on - he couldn't just ignore it, could he? One thing was certain; in this place - deliberately remote and sheltered - whoever the individual had been, he wouldn't be just a nameless, unknown passerby.

Someone would know him.

He couldn't quite suppress a smile as he turned away from the private path that led to his cottage, and headed instead for the clubhouse. When his agent had told him about this place, lauding it as close enough to the set to be convenient while providing a perfect hideaway for a celebrity who needed some privacy, he had been skeptical at best. But, having tired of the endless pursuit by paparazzi determined to catch him in flagrante with his latest lover, he'd been desperate enough to give it a try. It would certainly be the height of irony if it should turn out to be the place where he could find something for which he'd been searching desperately.

Okay. Not something. Someone.

When he walked into the lounge area, the bartender favored him with a brilliant smile. Brilliant - and interested, unless he was mistaken.

"Good morning, Sir," said the slender youth, standing very tall and sculptured. "I hope your accommodations are satisfactory, and, if not, I'll . . . " A tremor in the voice betrayed the natural nervousness involved in addressing a celebrity. "Is there anything I can do for you?" Subtle but definite stress on the "anything".

Chad Barry smiled - the special, seductive smile that had won the hearts of millions of television and movie fans around the world - and decided to withhold the more obvious response for a less public moment. Instead he prepared to ask the question that had brought him into the lounge in the first place.

He allowed the smile to shift just slightly, assuming a nuance of intimacy, as he moved closer to the bar. "As a matter of fact, you'd earn my everlasting gratitude . . ." another pause, and even more nuance . . . "if you can tell me the name of the man who just walked out of here."

The charming blush that touched Greg Rowland's cheeks informed Barry that his gay-dar was functioning perfectly - as always - and it provided a focus for his attention, engaging his slightly predatory instincts while simultaneously preventing him from noticing the bright flicker of interest in the eyes of the other individual present in the bar. Brian Padgett sat back in his corner booth and continued to nurse his drink, somehow finding his own pensive thoughts more intriguing than the actions of the world-class celebrity exchanging flirtatious repartee with the impressionable young bartender.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



It was mid-afternoon by the time Kevin topped a fairly sharp ridgeline marking the border of Santa Clara county, pulling off the road into a narrow lay-by and doffing his helmet to enjoy an unimpeded view of the cluster of skyscrapers amid the urban sprawl that represented the population center of Silicone Valley. San Jose did not dazzle the eyes like its larger neighbor to the northwest; San Francisco - with a fascinating beauty as bright and distinctive as Paris, far across one ocean, or Hong Kong, far across another - would always draw the wanderer hungering for the unique Pacific Coast urban experience, but San Jose - by its very nature - was safer for one electing to linger in shadow or blend in with faceless masses. It was beautiful, in the classic sense of California beauty, but it was not as cosmopolitan and did not attract the kind of jet setters that might - just might - have recognized a transformed version of Kevin Walker. Given the notoriety of some of his family members and his own participation in Golden State politics, not to mention gay rights causes, it was not beyond possibility that he might be quickly identified in the city by the bay.

He could, of course, have chosen to hold this meeting in Modesto or Stockton or Manteca, sparing him half the distance of the trip, but his paranoia - even after all these months - remained as intense as ever. Kevin Walker might have taken chances at some points in his life; Kevin Wynter did not.

It was not that he did not trust Julia; in point of fact, he trusted her implicitly. But he saw no point in providing information that she did not need, which might put her in an awkward position should any of the ubiquitous Walker clan ever discover her connection to their prodigal son.

She could not be forced or manipulated into divulging what she did not know.

It was logical to assume that she'd figured out that he was dwelling somewhere in the north central reaches of California, but that was still a massive area - a huge haystack in which one little needle might stay comfortably lost. He could not allow himself to be more specific. He had even gone so far as to purchase and activate his new cellular phone with an 831 Monterey area code. It would prove nothing, of course, but it served as another red herring for anyone who might try to track him down.

He loved the child who was the daughter of both his heart and his body, and he had come to love her mother as well, as much a sister as those of his blood; maybe even a bit more than that. But that love did not blind him to the truth. Julia would not betray him - unless someone convinced her that such a betrayal would be for his own good. And he knew, better than anyone, that his family - especially his mother - could be incredibly persuasive, especially when she believed that she was right; Nora Walker was a walking definition of protective motherhood.

He shook off that thought, not wanting to dwell on the hurt he had inflicted on the woman who had molded him into the man he now was. He knew that she was suffering; he knew that she did not deserve such treatment. But he also knew that she would get over it eventually, and be better off in the process.

More thoughts best avoided.

Though he had asked for this meeting, Julia had responded that he'd only barely beat her to it, since there was something they needed to discuss - face to face. Since that conversation, he'd attempted to quell a sense of uneasiness rising in his gut. His purpose here was simple and straightforward. He had drafted a new will, addressing all his interests in Walker family holdings and stock, and had it notarized by a clerk at the El Dorado county seat in Placerville. 

Appropriately, he thought, he had named Elizabeth as his sole heir, and he wanted to make sure that Julia had a copy of the document. 

On the other hand, he had no idea what Julia wanted - or why he felt such a sense of disquiet.

Time to find out.

He quickly replaced his helmet, zipped up the Joe Rocker denim jacket he wore when it was too warm for leather, and resumed his journey, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could sit in quiet contemplation - of anything - without having to avoid thoughts of what had been and was no more. Somehow he doubted it.

He was mildly surprised - and a bit relieved - to find that Santana Row had not changed much in the years since he'd last visited there. Leaving his bike in a secure parking facility - and all his biking paraphernalia with it - he strolled down the palm-lined sidewalk, passing various emporia where he had occasionally shopped - Gucci, Tourneau, Urban Outfitters - and restaurants where he had dined with friends or family - Left Bank Brasserie, Blowfish, Pinkberry. A few things had gone missing, most notably the huge Borders that had once been a crown jewel of the setting, sacrificed on the techno-altars of Kindle and Nook. And there were new shops, of course, and new eateries, but all had been carefully constructed and decorated to fit perfectly into the ambiance of the complex - golden state classic, according to stylists and designers, or California kitsch, as Scottie had once dubbed it.

Damn!

He had dressed casually for the day - as he always did these days. He did not exactly mourn for his Armani suits and Ralph Lauren shirts and Ferragamo shoes, but he did occasionally miss them. Or, more accurately, he missed the man he had been when he'd worn them. But that was another waste of time and focus. Today, he wore 501's and a long-sleeved Tommy Hilfiger shirt, blue on blue stripes deliberately chosen to accentuate the blue of his eyes. He allowed himself a tiny smile as that thought crossed his mind; in order to become a new man, he had been forced to abandon the extravagant styles and expensive tastes of a lifetime, but nothing would ever change the innate compulsion to capitalize his assets.

He glanced at his watch as he rounded a corner and saw the Bistro Brienne ahead of him, charming and delightfully retro, brand new but artfully designed to look as if it had been in place for decades. 

He wasn't really late - not much, anyway - but one step inside the gently illuminated foyer was enough to inform him that he'd been eagerly awaited, as he was immediately assaulted by a squealing, jean-clad Elizabeth who had no patience for waiting to be noticed.

From her vantage point in a corner booth, Julia realized that - from a social etiquette standpoint - she should have scolded her daughter and demanded that she behave with decorum, but she was much too busy enjoying the sight of her beautiful little girl laughing and swarming into the arms of the man who was the truest father she would ever know.

It would only last for the briefest of moments, but - during that tiny fragment of time - it seemed that there were only the two of them standing together on the world's stage, and Julia elected to remain completely still - to allow them every instant they could steal from a reality that would never allow them more.

She wondered if she would ever find any two people more beautiful than these two, wrapped in each other's arms, blond ringlets bright against dark curls as Kevin stumbled slightly, obviously finding it impossible to maintain the defensive facade that ordinarily shielded him from unexpected emotional assaults. Elizabeth's eyes were bright with unalloyed joy; Kevin's were equally as bright, but there were layers of several different feelings there. His joy would forever be tempered with other emotions which were just as real and just as intense but would remain eternally unaddressed.

Obviously, there was no defense against the undiluted affections of a delightful baby girl - even though she was - technically - no longer a baby.

Realizing almost immediately that the two of them were the center of a lot of attention, Kevin braced Lizzie against his hip and carried her to the table where Julia waited. Julia - and one other.

Kevin almost managed to suppress a sigh as he maneuvered himself and the child who clung to him with arms like steel, into the booth, knowing that the reason for this 'emergency' meeting was sitting across from him, studying him with beautiful, thick-lashed hazel eyes.

"Let me guess," he said, settling Elizabeth beside him and disentangling himself from her arms. "You're Jeff."

The man with the hazel eyes smiled. "Guilty as charged."

Kevin reached across the table and lifted Julia's hand, pressing it to his lips. "Do I get to play protective big brother?" he asked, suppressing a grin.

"You most certainly do not," she laughed, correctly identifying the glint of mischief in Kevin's eyes.

"But . . ."

"Stop it!" she continued, a gentle smile touching her lips. "He doesn't know you and can't possibly understand that dry, sardonic, nasty Walker wit. I've known you for ten years, and I still don't get it - sometimes."

Kevin ignored her to focus on her companion. "Trust me. Dry and sardonic are certainly appropriate, but I've never been nasty in my life."

Jeff Aldridge threw back his head back and laughed aloud, as streaks of sunlight struck coppery glints in his hair.

Kevin grinned. Given her history - especially her vulnerability to one extremely self-centered Walker brother - Julia might have been accused of having questionable taste in men, but it seemed that she might have made up for it this time around.

"Let's get our baby girl started on her newest favorite thing," she said, as a smart young waiter arrived to deliver Elizabeth's special treat from the menu: a luscious dish of creme brulee, piled high with blackberries, strawberries, and kiwi slices. 

In a matter of seconds, the little girl was totally focused on spooning the glazed custard into her mouth, ignoring everything else around her although she did not relinquish her grasp of Kevin's arm.

The envelope holding the will was quickly delivered into Julia's hands, and she stated her objections - exactly as expected - which Kevin ignored, also as expected.

That was the conclusion of the business portion of the meeting.

"I thought you two should meet now," said Julia softly, looking directly into Kevin's eyes. "Without delay. Since you're . . ." she paused and seemed to struggle to find the right words.

Jeff Aldridge came to her rescue. "Since we're going to be brothers," he said.

Kevin looked up and found himself the object of intense scrutiny by the couple sitting across from him. "Brothers?" he echoed. "What do you . . ."

"Oh, come on, Kevin," said Julia, not quite rolling her eyes with impatience - but close to it. "You're not that thick. This is just a contingency plan, but it's a good one. A simple one."

Kevin turned aside to enjoy the sight of his daughter with a blob of pudding on the tip of her nose and a fragment of caramel glaze at the corner of her lip. "So you two are . . ."

"Yes," said Jeff, his eyes gone soft with affection and joy. "I've asked Julia to marry me, and I promise you that I will make her - and Elizabeth - very happy - and compensate for what they've been through in the past. All those things that you couldn't protect them from. And I hope you'll give us your blessing. But Julia and I are also hoping that this can provide an easy solution to the problem which might occur should Lizzy ever make a remark about 'Unca Kev' in the wrong place at the wrong time. Provided you're willing, of course."

Kevin shifted his gaze to study Julia's expression. "Is this what you really want, Jules?"

Her smile was brilliant. "It is."

Kevin frowned. "But what if they decide to press her for details. I don't want . . ."

"Kevin," Julia interrupted, "you worry too much. It's not going to happen."

"What makes you say that?"

She sighed, and Jeff deftly stepped in to ask Elizabeth about her custard, allowing her mother to speak to Kevin with some degree of discretion. "Because there's almost no contact any more. Tommy's pretty much moved on, so we hardly ever see him, and it's been months since I spoke to most of the others. The Walkers, for the most part, seem to think it's disloyal of them to try to maintain any contact with someone who refused to drink their particular brand of Kool-Aid. Nora calls occasionally, of course, but she's . . . conflicted, I think. I'm pretty sure she knows what Tommy has done, but she doesn't want to believe it. She doesn't want to face the fact that he's abandoned his daughter, so it's just easier to keep her distance. The only one who hasn't changed is Justin. He still calls sometimes, and he sounds the same, but he's got his own issues, doesn't he? So there really isn't much to worry about, is there?"

Kevin's eyes were suddenly filled with shadows. "And Scotty? Does he . . ."

"No," she said quickly. "I think it's too painful for him. Thinking of Lizzie reminds him . . ."

"Yeah, okay. I get it, but . . ."

But Julia was determined. "Trust me, Kev. When I tell the Walkers about the new man in my life, that'll pretty much put an end to any substantial contact they have with me. And when I casually mention that he has a brother named Kevin, they'll barely notice, but it will explain any casual comment Lizzie might make."

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, but then - abruptly - he closed it again, conceding the truth of her comment, a truth that he once would have denied with his last breath.

"So," she said slowly, "are you okay with this?"

At that point, Kevin turned to study Jeff's face and took a moment to choose his words carefully. "This extraordinary little girl," he said finally, gently, "has been through too much in her young life, and deserves everything beautiful and bright and blessed. For that matter, so does her mother. Can you guarantee that?"

To his credit, Jeff Aldridge did not offer a knee-jerk response. Instead, he paused to consider how best to answer. "Sometimes, life throws curve balls, and we don't know how we'll respond until it happens, so I won't offer you any mindless guarantees. But I can promise you this: I will spend the rest of my life doing my very best to build a good life for them - and for us, as a family. Julia has told me all about you, Kevin. Everything - good, bad, and in-between. So I don't say this lightly. I would be very honored to consider you my brother."

He extended his hand across the table, and Kevin, after a pause that was so brief it was almost - almost - unnoticeable, accepted it; the unbreakable bond of one gentleman to another.

Kevin's smile was suddenly very bright, and more than a bit mischievous. "You need to understand that I haven't always had the best experience with brothers. Nor can I claim to have always been the best brother in return. So be forewarned."

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Jeff, looking only slightly perturbed, just as Kevin had intended, remembering that Julia's father - despite being something of an ogre and a bully - had never been able to intimidate Tommy enough to insure his devotion to his wife and daughter; therefore a little bit of extra pressure - from an unexpected direction - might just do the trick. It was certainly not the nicest, most compassionate means of exerting influence, but insuring Elizabeth's welfare - and her mother's as well - was worth the effort.

"Good. Now I could use a drink. How about you guys?"

Jeff Aldridge could not quite suppress a sigh of relief, and Julia could not quite bite back the smile that touched her lips. She loved Jeff, and she believed, with her whole heart, that he loved her in return, and that he also loved her daughter. But she had worried about Kevin's reaction, believing that he might see her new partner with clearer eyes than her own, since he had his own agenda to follow; an agenda totally removed from any his brother might have followed. Tommy took care of Tommy. Always. In that, he was much like his sisters. But Kevin was different, despite his claims of being totally self-centered. Kevin took care of those he loved, and no other man would ever love Elizabeth the way that Kevin loved her. She was his daughter, no matter what her birth certificate might say.

And he deserved the right to approve - or disapprove - of the man who would stand in his place and raise his child.

Kevin was Elizabeth's father, and someday, Julia had already decided, she would know it. She looked up and studied his face, as Elizabeth, having finished her treat and climbed into his lap, managing to transfer smears of pudding and caramel to his shirt, his hands, and his face, was now engaged in filling him in about her progress in tumbling class and how much she loved her new trampoline. His smile was achingly gentle - almost painful to behold - and the light in his eyes, when he looked up and met her gaze, spoke to her and told her that - somehow, impossibly - he knew what she was thinking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sunset.

He had spent months now in trying to decide which moment of the day was his least favorite, and he still wasn't sure.

Sometimes, it was that sweet second at the pale, fragile birth of day, when the first gentle finger of light made its way through blinds and curtains to wash away the darkness and make him remember how it felt to waken beneath the gaze of beautiful blue eyes, so filled with love and joy that he was instantly rendered boneless and breathless with desire and contentment.

Sometimes, it was moonrise - the instant when glints of silver stirred the air and frosted the night, reminding him of how the light would glisten in drifts of dark hair and turn those self-same blue eyes to bottomless pools of deepest sapphire, shadowed with lust and hunger and taking his breath away even before full, luscious lips devoured his own.

Sometimes, it was the carousel brilliance of mid-morning, washing the world in a glittering veil of clarity - illuminating classic features and focusing, somehow, on the perfection of a blinding smile. And sometimes, it was at the crest of afternoon, when the sun seemed to concentrate and pour liquid gold into the atmosphere, always most delectable when it fell - undeflected - on a face that would forever be his primary definition of beauty.

Sometimes.

But mostly - almost always - it was now, at this moment. When the sun was slipping down to touch the horizon, firing its final bolts of brilliance towards the heavens and fighting against the encroachment of night. Now - when the world would have been at its most perfect moment, when the day was ending and the night was approaching. When Kevin - in a universe that was more perfect than anyone had known at the time - would have turned away from his professional obligations and duties and turned into the arms of the man he loved.

Somehow, Scotty always noticed this moment; somehow, he always knew it had come, even if he was horrendously busy with whatever task might claim his attention. Somehow, he always paused - for the space of a heartbeat - and mourned something so elementary that it had barely even been acknowledged when it had been part of a daily routine.

This day was no different.

The kitchen was busy, as always. The reservation book was full, with lots of regulars expected, and there were two large dinner parties scheduled as well: the Robleys' anniversary bash, for family and close friends, numbering 38 in all, to be held in the main dining area, and a private celebration dinner in honor of the publication of the second book of a new series of young adult novels by Sarah St. Germain - widely hailed as the next-generation J. K. Rowling - in the new private salon of the restaurant.

Scotty allowed himself a weary smile when that thought crossed his mind. He could almost hear a particularly laconic voice commenting on the semi-satirical nature of that simile, and wondering how it had come to pass that such a projection could be the peak of publishing aspirations - a new Rowling in the genre she had claimed for her own, rather than a new Faulkner or a new Hemingway or a new Fitzgerald.

The literary world, in the aftermath of Harry Potter, had become a radically different place in a remarkably short period of time.

From his own perspective, Scotty found it a bit too different.

He sighed as he approached the open door to the new dining area.

The renovations had been completed only a couple of weeks earlier, and Scotty had to admit that the decorator had done a spectacular job. No one who studied the private chamber, with its wainscoted, slubbed silk walls, stained glass, mullioned windows, and Tiffany-style chandeliers would have guessed that it had previously been a private office fronting a storage area.

All traces of its utilitarian past had been erased. 

Every trace. Even the hardwood floor, which had born scuff marks from desks and bookcases being moved, and from other . . . things; that was gone too, replaced with dark, gleaming slate.

Scotty could barely stand to look at it, although Saul was vocally delighted with it - loudly and repeatedly - and frequently annoyed with Scotty's ridiculous melancholy sentimentality.

It was, after all, just a room. The elder partner was rapidly losing patience with his increasingly moribund young chef.

Saul could not know, of course, that the first night spent in this - Scotty and Kevin's new home - had been spent in this room, with a picnic basket, a couple of bottles of outrageously expensive wine, a Boze system playing ridiculously romantic ballads, and a couple of sleeping bags zipped together. There had been a perfectly serviceable bed upstairs, of course, one that they had long ago claimed as their own; but it had seemed appropriate somehow to spend that first night downstairs - where they would practice their professions and build their futures.

Perhaps they had intended to go upstairs before the night was over, but, in the end, they hadn't. The night had devoured them, as they had devoured each other, and it had always seemed to him that it was the time they'd shared then that had christened this place, made it theirs in a way that nothing else ever would.

Scotty paused at the door to the room and noted that the moment - that special moment - was at hand. He took the opportunity to check - from a distance - to make sure everything was ready; that the linen was spotless, the china and crystal perfectly laid, flowers and candles beautifully arranged.

Everything perfect - but he did not go in. In fact, he almost never did.

Saul thought - and frequently said - that his reluctance was silly, and that was okay. Saul was entitled to his opinion.

But that didn't change the fact that he would deliberately avoid that room, probably for the rest of his life.

Unless . . .

He shook off the thought and made haste back to the kitchen where a standing rib roast and an accompanying Sauce Bordelaise awaited his attention. It was the favorite of Matthew Allman, the owner of Allman House, the publishing giant, who was hosting the announcement dinner for the author, and who - not so coincidentally - had approached Scotty recently about the possibility of publishing a cookbook of his recipes.

Scotty had scoffed initially, but . . .

The idea had begun to grow on him.

Artists, after all, expressed their deepest emotions - love, joy, loss, tragedy, despair - through their art. Painters created masterpieces on canvas; composers penned symphonies; writers wrote and gave birth to whole new worlds. If his cooking was his art, did it make sense to pour his heart - broken though it might be - into new culinary masterpieces? Would he find some kind of solace in his artistry?

Matt Allman thought so, and had pointed out that the publication of original cookbooks, by creative chefs, had become a hugely profitable industry.

Could he become a member of that elite registry? Did he want that kind of notoriety? Or money?

Would it ease the broken heart within him?

No, he was pretty sure it wouldn't.

But being rich and famous and heartbroken would probably be better than being poor and unknown and heartbroken.

What else did he have?

It had been more than six months, and only recently had he begun to accept a bitter truth. Kevin was gone; Kevin was not coming back.

What did he have in his life that could replace what he had lost?

Nothing. But maybe it was time he began to try to find a new direction, a new focus. Anything to take away the emptiness that surrounded him.

In a little while, he would begin the assembly of his classic Sauce Bordelaise, using his own signature blend of herbs and spices and adding a generous dash of the ingredient that was uniquely his own contribution to the elegant finished product.

He could not paint a Mona Lisa, or scuplt a Pieta, or compose a Für Elise, or write a Pulitzer-worthy novel, but he could do this, could create his own version of this magnificent entree, could make what no one else could. It was not, of course, enough; nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he had lost. But perhaps it would be better than nothing.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to look forward to - some purpose that made him want to get out of bed in the morning.

Perhaps it was time he started trying to find that purpose. He wasn't stupid, of course; he knew why he had never bothered to go searching before.

If he looked for something - and found it - it was a tacit admission that there was no hope of regaining the world that lay behind him. It was giving up; it was letting go.

It was accepting that Kevin was gone and would not be returning.

Now there was a thought he could refuse to dwell on.

A glance outside confirmed that the liquid gold brilliance of a California sunset was still in its prime moment of beauty, which - he judged - was a perfect motivation for taking a walk to enjoy the experience. He had a quick errand to run, since he'd forgotten to pick up Saul's prescriptions from the nearby medical complex, and it gave him a purpose for his walk. The drive would take two minutes; the walk no more than ten, and he needed something on which to fix his concentration. Something besides . . .

He exchanged his chef's jacket for the light denim that was his casual favorite - a gift from . . .

Damn it! 

He turned his collar up against the slight chill in the wind, as he set off at a rapid pace, cutting through a small public garden and determined to focus on the lovely quality of the light, or the sleek form of a Jaguar F-type convertible, pewter-colored and growling with barely leashed power as it went purring by, or the adorable little boy wearing a Game of Thrones t-shirt while sitting on a bench with an elderly woman and enthusiastically enjoying a double dip ice cream cone.

A beautiful portrait of a multi-generational family. So beautiful that Scotty paused for a moment to consider . . . family.

Not his own family, of course. There wasn't much to contemplate there. His father had disappeared from his life - almost entirely - in pursuit of the kind of happy marriage he had never known with Scotty's mother. As for Bertha, she had recently returned to Arizona, to bury herself in a 'spiritual reawakening' - her term for a renewed dedication to the principles of her ultra-conservative protestant church. She had gone reluctantly, still harboring a desperate hope that she might find a way to reform her wayward son and convince him to turn away from his chosen debauched lifestyle. She had been doomed to failure, of course; Scotty could no more change his sexual orientation than he could change the color of his skin. But she had never given up on him, and had departed, finally, believing that she had, at least. achieved some small degree of success. He might never love a woman or have a traditional family, but she had been pretty sure that he would never take up with another 'partner in sin'.

Scotty might remain homosexual in his mind, but it really wouldn't matter so long as he did not practice his vile perversions. And - from Bertha's perspective - the reason for those perversions was gone. Kevin Walker had walked out of her son's life, and - just possibly - managed to save his soul. 

It was not ideal, of course, but Bertha, at this point, would settle for what she could get.

That was definitely not a thought that Scotty wanted to pursue. Better to turn his attentions elsewhere.

Kevin's family - larger than life, all consuming, loud, brash and carnival-colored and more than happy to be the focus of anyone's attention.

The Walker family - excepting only Nora, and Justin, perhaps - had moved on. They had moved heaven and earth in a search for their brother - for a while - but they were not prone to clinging to lost causes.

Life goes on; Scotty thought it should be etched on a Walker family crest.

Only Nora still cried, but she did it in silence, and only when she was alone. Or maybe - once in a while - when Justin came upon her in the still of the night, when she could not quite summon up the determination to conceal the depth of her pain from her youngest.

Kitty had become a political force to be reckoned with, rumored to be on the fast tract to a position of power in the California division of the Republican National Committee. Her status as Robert McCallister's widow and her national reputation as a conservative pundit had opened a lot of doors for her, and the one personal issue which might have proved problematic for her career had gone the way of all flesh when her affair with young Seth Whitley - grad student and aspiring writer - ended, exactly as Kevin had predicted. When the novelty had worn off and she had realized that their only common ground occurred in the bedroom, she had quickly said her tearful farewells and jetted off into the sunset. To Washington actually, where she had discovered any number of prospective suitors to offer solace for her not terribly broken heart.

Tommy had built himself a new life as well, with a new woman. He had not yet married his new soul mate - his Rose from Seattle who had inadvertently exposed a whole cellar full of Walker skeletons - but the two were constructing a golden future for themselves, as they'd discovered that they shared a gift for generating wads of cash by engaging in a new age process known as 'flipping houses'. 

It was a 21st century kind of California gold rush, and they seemed to be riding its wave into staggering financial success. Tommy had never been happier, finally feeling that he had achieved status that would have been worthy of his father's approval. Of course, there was one fly in the golden ointment; the memory of his failed marriage and his inability to sire children bothered him sometimes, and he even wondered, occasionally, if he should make some effort - legally - to gain custody of his only child. But he never pursued it, and, as time went on, he thought about it less and less, for . . . there was a bottom line there, wasn't there? The ugly truth was that Elizabeth was not truly his daughter, and no legal document would ever change that. So, for the most part, he was relieved that he would finally be able to support her financially - if Julia ever chose to force the issue. But mostly, she didn't, so he confined his interest in the little girl's life to birthday and Christmas gifts, sporadic cash contributions, and occasional phone calls.

Elizabeth didn't seem to mind, and Julia minded even less.

They were the past; Rose was his future.

Sarah and Luc were still devoted to each other, more in love than ever and each enormously successful in their chosen fields. Luc was in the process of completing a series of paintings for display in a chic collectors' gallery in Greenwich Village, and Sarah's communications network was growing by leaps and bounds. Still, they had begun to feel overwhelmed by career demands and decided that the risk to their relationship was too great to ignore, so they had taken a month off to enjoy a trip to Australia and New Zealand, along with a South Pacific cruise, while Paige and Cooper spent the time with their father.

So - success all around among the siblings, though in widely divergent directions.

Still, Kitty, Sarah, and Tommy continued to share one specific attitude; all remained angry and resentful toward the brother they blamed for deserting them; none, of course, ever conceded that there were moments when they missed him terribly, or needed him intensely.

The only sibling who refused to blame Kevin was Justin, who still had troubles of his own. Despite making valiant efforts, Justin had never managed to get over Rebecca completely. He had proved to be a tower of strength for other members of his family and had grown into a fine young man. But he was still alone and uncommitted, still desperately missing his brother, and for that reason, he was the member of the Walker clan Scotty trusted most, and consistently turned to when he needed a kind word or a supportive gesture.

But he was wasting time and effort, standing here thinking about facts of life that would remain unchanged, no matter how much he pondered, and he had more important things to do. He would finish his errand and then. . .

Later, he would be uncertain what it was that stopped him in his tracks. He didn't think he'd actually seen anything that alarmed him; nor had he heard anything - exactly.

So he would never be sure what it was that made him freeze and turn back to stare down at the little boy sitting on the park bench, with ice cream smeared across his features as he chattered away in his own unique version of toddler-speak, to the woman who smiled down at him.

There was nothing really - nothing but . . .

He stared in silence, and then saw a figure coming forward from the park entrance, and, in that instant, the world actually seemed to shift around him as he realized why he'd stopped. It was not recognition - exactly; there had been no specific familiar feature to trigger such a defined response. But there had been just the tiniest hint; just a nuance of instinct.

The young woman moving toward him was, as always, quite stunning, and had, perhaps, become even more so, as the years had gone by and she had developed an unerring fashion sense. Time had been kind to Michelle, as her physical beauty had only intensified as she'd matured. In addition, she had been fortunate enough to make the right kind of contacts in the fashion world in order to launch her own fledgling line of designer handbags. Clad in lace-trimmed Nina Ricci casuals and Lanvin ankle boots, she looked smart and self-assured. Like everyone not born to wealth, she had known her share of hard times, but - somehow - she always managed to look Park-Avenue chic. 

Composed, stylish, beautiful. Very Michelle. Except for the look on her face when she realized that it was Scotty standing in the middle of the walkway, the look of confusion in his beautiful eyes shifting to a dawning, horrified awareness as he stared first at her and then down at the little boy who had stopped chattering away as he became aware of the tall stranger looking down at him.

And for the space of a heartbeat, the world seemed to go completely still - a vivid tableau in shades of gold and scarlet and autumnal jade, limned by deep, opaque shades of gray.

Scotty didn't understand very much, didn't even understand how he knew what he knew - but he knew nonetheless. There could be no doubt as the eyes staring up at him - beautifully blue and thick-lashed - were mirror images of his own eyes.

When the moment stretched and then shattered - as it must - he turned, feeling stiff and graceless, as if his limbs had forgotten how to flow from one position to another; thus his shift to confront the woman who had been his childhood friend, his deeply trusted companion, was rough and jerky, betraying the depth of his confusion. But it was nothing compared to the shadows of agony in his eyes.

"What did you do?" It was barely a whisper, and Michelle - still twenty feet away - could not possibly have heard him. But there was no need for her to hear it. Beneath the surface of her mind, she had been dreading this moment for almost two years. Somehow, she had always known it would come to this.

"Scotty," she replied, hurrying forward, even though every instinct within her consciousness was screaming at her to run away. "Scotty, please . . ."

There was more than a nuance of panic in her voice, suggesting that she was desperately looking for a way out - an escape route, but she knew that such an attempt would be pointless. Whether she stood and faced it now or not mattered little; she would still have to face it.

"What did you do?" Scotty repeated, as his legs finally failed him and he collapsed to his knees, bringing him face to face with the beautiful little boy sitting on the park bench with his grandmother - Michelle's mother, whom Scotty would certainly have recognized immediately if he'd actually taken a good look at her.

Michelle forced herself to stand still, fiercely resisting the urge to grab her little boy - the child of her loins - and run away, as far and as fast as she could. But it was too late. No matter how far she ran, she knew she would never forget the level of pain or the awareness of betrayal expressed on Scotty's face.

Still, he said nothing, and he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. 

Michelle could not avoid the cold flood of shame that raced through her. Scotty was not speaking, she realized, because he couldn't; the words would not come. Strangely, she realized that she would have preferred it if he had screamed at her, berated her, accused her of the vile treachery of her betrayal. The fact that he did none of that only deepened her feelings of guilt.

"Scotty?"

No answer; no response at all. He just continued to stare, his eyes drinking in the beauty of the tiny child who was now looking back at him, apparently every bit as enchanted as the grown man who was unable to look away.

When Scotty finally found his voice, he did not shout; did not accuse; did not scream his anger and frustration.

Instead he whispered. "Do you know . . . what you've done? What you did to us . . . to him?"

Deliberately, coldly, Michelle sat down on the bench and took the little boy - her little boy, no matter what any cold legal document might say - onto her lap. "I do," she answered, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice. "I know. But do you know what the two of you tried to do to me? You tried to use me - like a fucking incubator. Like a machine to grow your little clone, so that I'd be nothing to him - so that you could just come in and take over when he was born perfect and complete and leave me just . . . empty. Just a used-up shell. And I couldn't let you do that. He's mi . . ."

"No." Not a whisper now. Louder - and stronger. "He was never yours to keep. You agreed to this. You came to us, Michelle. You wanted this. You . . ."

"But I couldn't know, could I?" she interrupted, pulling the child closer. "I couldn't imagine how it would be - to feel him growing inside me, to realize that it was my blood and my body that nourished him and fed him and sheltered him. How could I know that? And how could I just . . . let him go? How could I . . ."

"Stop it!" Scotty snapped. "You know better. You know me better than that. You know I would never have cut you out of his life. You know that I would have . . ."

"I do know you," she interrupted, face now red and blotchy and eyes gleaming with desperation. "But I also knew Kevin, didn't I? I knew how he felt about me; I knew he'd never have wanted me to be a part of my baby's life, no matter that he wouldn't exist without me. And I knew how much you loved him. In the end, you'd have given him what he wanted, and I'd . . . I'd just have been thrown away, like yesterday's garbage."

Scotty's eyes were huge now and filled with shadow. "Oh, my God, Michelle. You never knew him at all. Kevin was . . ." He fell silent then, knowing he would never be able to make her see the truth. Michelle believed what she wanted to believe - what she needed to believe in order to excuse what she'd done.

"He's so . . . perfect," he said finally, extending one hand to brush a dark curl back from the child's forehead. A perfect child; a perfect little boy. His little boy!

A son. My son!

"What's his name?" he asked finally, deliberately swallowing the anger that threatened to sweep him away in a raging tide of bitterness and recrimination.

"Daniel." That was Michelle's mother, who had witnessed this confrontation with a growing sense of desperation. She knew - had always known - that what her daughter had done was wrong. But then, she'd reasoned, it was equally wrong for two men to marry and father a child, so - using a bit of twisted logic - she'd concluded that one wrong cancelled out the other.

Specious, of course, but she'd loved her grandchild so much that she'd decided she could live with the deception.

Until now. Until she'd read the terrible heartbreak in this beautiful young man's eyes. She had known Scotty almost as long as Michelle had, and she tasted bitter shame as she wondered how she'd managed to forget what a lovely, generous individual he had always been.

Did anything else really matter?

"Daniel," Scotty echoed. "Beautiful name."

"Yes," Michelle replied. "For a beautiful child."

Scotty shifted then, drawing closer. "Can I . . . can I hold him?"

Michelle easily identified the terrible need in her old friend's eyes, and she almost relented; almost gave in, even though that voice within her was still insisting that she should gather her son and run for her life.

Almost.

"No. Not just . . . yet."

"Michelle, I'll . . ."

"You'll what?" she demanded . "Take him from me. Cause a scene. And I'll scream for the police, and we'll say you assaulted me and tried to take my baby. How do you think they'll react to that?"

"But he's not . . ."

"No? His birth certificate says he's mine. You want to fight it out, Scotty? In court? The law hasn't quite caught up with the times, you know. I've checked. So maybe - maybe you just need to chill out so we can talk . . . about alternatives, maybe."

Scotty quickly cupped the child's chin with a gentle hand before rising to his feet. He was still unsteady, but growing less so with each moment. Confusion was giving way to something else, and if that something else included no small measure of anger, then so be it.

"What kind of alternatives?" he asked finally.

Michelle glanced at her mother, who nodded quickly. It wasn't as if they had not discussed this possibility before, and she knew her role.

"Mom's going to take Daniel home," said Michelle, as she rose and shifted her son into his grandmother's arms, "and you and I are going to have a drink. Or two."

Scotty wanted to argue, his eyes devouring the sight of the son he'd only just discovered. He wanted to refuse to let him out of his sight - but he didn't. He wanted the child safe and happy, and, for the moment, that meant allowing him to go on living the life to which he was accustomed. 

For now.

But first - he stepped forward quickly, allowing no argument, and touched his lips to his son's forehead. "Hi, Daniel," he whispered. "I'm your daddy - and I'll see you soon."

He did not speak again until grandmother and child were safely ensconced in a taxi and on their way home - to an address he deliberately overheard when it was given to the driver.

"Now about that drink," he said then, noting that Reilly's Tavern was just across the way. He thought that a nice, big draught of Irish whiskey might be just the thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Michelle drank quickly, but her breathing was still uneven, almost harsh. "I don't know how to begin," she whispered. "I never meant it to happen like this. I planned. . . " She paused, and he was stunned to note tears rising in her eyes. "It wasn't supposed to happen now. Not yet. I wanted to tell you when . . . when you were ready to hear it. But . . ."

"When I was ready to hear it?" He couldn't quite control the venal sneer in his voice. In fact, he had no desire to do so. She had earned his anger, and she should hear it.

"Scotty, I can . . . I can't make your life perfect again. I know that. But I . . . I think I can make it better. I think I can give you something to make up for what you've lost. But . . . but you have to promise me that you'll hear me out; that you'll listen to me and not . . . not judge me."

"When have I ever judged you?" he asked quickly, and the flicker of light in her eyes told him that she knew he was right. He never had. Of course, it also acknowledged that he had never before had such a good reason.

"Until now."

He did not bother to argue, as he took a giant gulp of his drink.

"I was going to wait," she said slowly, turning aside to look toward the window where the evening light was a thick, liquid gold. "I planned to build up my own life and become this big fashion success, and then come to you with this. From a position of strength, you know. And I thought I could do that, but . . . now, now I guess that's all just a pipedream."

If she was waiting for some kind of comment or commiseration, she was doomed to disappointment.

She would have to go on, to forge ahead - to hope that he would be able to understand what you was saying. What she could give him.

"You have to understand, Scotty. In the end, I just couldn't . . . I couldn't give him up. He was a part of me. Not Kevin. He was mine. Mine - not Kevin's. So I . . . ran away. I lied and said I'd lost the baby, and I went to New York to have him. I never meant it to hurt you guys so much; honest to God, I didn't. I never dreamed that it might destroy your marriage."

Scotty remained silent, turning to motion to the waitress to bring another round. Scotty had never been one to depend on Dutch courage, but, at this moment, he figured he could use all the help he could get. "You . . . stole our son," he said then, deliberately not looking at her. "Do you have any idea . . . what you did to us? Do you . . ."

"I do," she said quickly, unwilling to hear the rest of the accusation. "And I'm truly sorry. I know I was wrong. And I know it's too late to fix what's broken. Kevin is gone, and you seem to think he's not coming back. I can't do anything about that. But . . ."

"But what?"

"But I can give you something else, can't I? I can give you a family. A real family, with a partner and a son. I mean, I know you'll never fancy me, but that's okay. We could have our own little arrangement, and . . . and maybe someday, you'll find another man to fill your bed, but I could be . . . Daniel and I could be . . ."

"Shut up!" Sharp and harsh and strident, and so filled with pain that she could barely stand to hear it. "If you value your life, don't say another word."

Michelle's eyes were huge as she realized that Scotty - her gentle, beloved, lifelong friend, Scotty - had just threatened her. He didn't mean it, she knew, but it was unbelievable just the same. Quickly she rose and picked up her handbag. But she would not go in silence. "I know you're in shock, and I know you're hurt. But take some time to think about it. Think about what I'm offering; think about having something - someone - to fill your empty life. Really think about it, and when you do, I'll be around."

But he couldn't really think about it, could he? For every time he allowed the thought to rise in his mind, it automatically triggered the vision of what they could have had - what he and Kevin had lost.

The sun slipped down below the horizon, at last, draping darkness across the world, and Scotty welcomed it.

He had never felt more alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


TBC