The You I Never Knew Part 19

"And the smoking?"

"That's tougher. Maybe the smell will gross out some girl and he'll quit."

"Cigarettes are one of his girlfriend's major food groups."

"He needs a new girlfriend, then."

"Oh, and my telling him so is going to work? Sam, you're not that naive."

He had been once, long ago. He'd believed in a love so strong no outside force, certainly no parental disapproval, could interfere. It had taken Gavin Slade precisely one evening to lay waste to that belief.

Sam pushed away the thought and concentrated on Cody. "Does he play any sports?"

"Skateboarding and s...o...b..arding. Even a smoker's lungs can handle both. Here's the deal, Sam. I haven't been the most perfect parent in the universe, but I haven't been awful, either. Something happens to a kid who's growing up, something the Dr. Spock books don't mention. The kid becomes his own person. And sometimes that might be a person who does things that drive you nuts, and nothing you can do will stop him."

"Is it possible he wants to be stopped?"

"You mean is he looking for limits? Of course. Do I draw the line? Of course." She stood up, went to the window, stuck her hands in her back pockets. "Does he step over the line, of course."

Clearly this was familiar territory to Mich.e.l.le. But there were hidden facets she wasn't seeing.

"You know, I reckon it's none of my business, but it appears to me that you're so concerned with making the kid happy, giving him some kind of life that looks good on paper, that you're forgetting something."

She turned to face him, defenses going up like an invisible wall. "And you've figured this out based on knowing us three days?"

He sent her a lopsided grin. "Hey, it's a gift."

She rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, Mich.e.l.le, it's my job to figure out somebody's problem based on a fifteen-minute office visit. Sometimes that's all I get-it happens a lot around here, where most people don't pay regular visits to the doctor and don't follow up. I have fifteen minutes to work on a patient's trouble. In the past five years I've had a lot of practice."

She folded her arms beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and eyed him warily. "All right, you have my attention. Tell me your expert opinion, Doctor."

s.h.i.+t. Why was he doing this?

He planted his elbows on his knees. "My opinion as a doctor is this-Cody's like a lot of kids I see. The more rope you give him, the more ways he finds to tangle himself up. He needs a shorter rein."

"He didn't come with a how-to manual," she said. "That's the thing about raising a kid, Sam. You have to figure it out as you go along."

He felt himself teetering on a precipice. Common sense told him to pull back. His heart made him dive in. "You know as well as any doctor that kids who have unhappy parents wind up a lot more troubled than kids whose parents are relatively content. It doesn't have anything to do with how much money they earn or the sort of house they live in. It has to do with their perception of their place in the world."

"Oh, you're good, Sam. Let's make it my fault."

"d.a.m.n it, Mich.e.l.le-" He was talking himself into deep s.h.i.+t, so he stopped and studied her, pet.i.te and slim, unsmiling and coldly beautiful as she stared at the black squares of the window. Then he glanced at the sketchbook on the table. And finally, he stood, taking a wad of keys from his pocket.

"Mich.e.l.le, get your coat. I want to show you something."

"But Cody-"

"We won't go far."

She pulled on a jacket and boots while he did the same. The night wind slashed at them as they stepped outside. A high three-quarter moon spread a frozen blue glow over the area, and lights from the main house fanned across the yard. Sam led the way along the darkened drive past the cl.u.s.ter of bunkhouses. At the last one, he turned and waded over the unshoveled walk to the front door.

Angling his wad of keys toward the light, he selected one, old and worn, nearly lost in the ma.s.s of other keys. "Wonder if it still fits."

Mich.e.l.le stood silently by as he inserted the key. It stuck, but that was mainly from the cold. Then it turned, and he opened the door, stepping into a room he hadn't seen in seventeen years.

Ghosts haunted this moonlit place. The presence of sheet-draped furniture heightened the eerie effect. He flicked a switch, and the light came on. "Remember this?"

"What would you do if I said no?"

"Call you a liar." He plucked a sheet off a threadbare chair, and one off a nearby table.

"Sam, I don't see the point-Oh."

He watched her take in the scene, wis.h.i.+ng he knew her better, wis.h.i.+ng he knew what she was feeling. He'd counted on Gavin Slade having a hidden streak of sentimentality, and he'd been right. The old man had left this place alone, a shrine to the daughter who had walked out of his life.

"It's exactly the way it was when I used to work here." Mich.e.l.le's words made little frozen puffs in the air.

Gavin had equipped the bungalow especially for her. It had a drafting table, easels and clipboards, tons of canvas and jars of brushes, tubes of paint. Everything was still there, left to atrophy with time and neglect. Sam removed another sheet to reveal an old-fas.h.i.+oned sofa, covered in flea-bitten velveteen.

The sight of it gave him a flash of memory so hot that he nearly shoved Mich.e.l.le down on the musty cus.h.i.+ons. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the way her legs went around him, the sound of her breath in his ear. He remembered what it felt like to be buried to the hilt inside her. He remembered what it was like to feel a love so pure and strong that it burned like a flame that would never go out.

Jesus. It was eighteen degrees in here, and he was starting to sweat. He cast a furtive glance at Mich.e.l.le to see if she noticed.

She was blus.h.i.+ng red to the tips of her ears.

"I wonder if it happened there," he said softly, recklessly. "I wonder if that's where we made Cody."

She caught her breath with a little hiccup. "No. It was the boathouse. It... happened at the boathouse."

The place by the river had been their secret retreat, where they could steal away and find privacy together. Suddenly Sam was inundated with memories of that summer. It was the one time in his life when he saw everything with perfect clarity, when he felt absolutely certain he was going in the right direction, absolutely certain he knew what the outcome would be.

Funny thing about life. It had a way of spinning you around, shooting you off in a totally different direction, like a wild ride on a greenbroke horse. You had no idea where you were heading until you landed a.s.s-first in the dirt.

"Sam, why did you bring me here?"

I keep remembering what it was like to be with you. He gritted his teeth to keep from saying it. Instead, he said, "There's a lot of waiting around involved in transplantation and recovery. You could be painting while you're here."

"No." She spoke swiftly, decisively. Almost defensively.

"Why not?"

"I draw and paint for work. As long as I have this enforced sabbatical, why would I do anything that resembles work?"

He wanted to say that the paintings she used to do were so different from the sketches in her book that they didn't resemble work at all, but a gifted mind and eye and hand creating something extraordinary.

He didn't say anything. She was hard to read, this grown-up Mich.e.l.le. One thing was certain-she was in a skittish state, and he didn't seem to be helping matters.

He could feel himself moving fast toward a conviction that there were things he and Mich.e.l.le should explore. What would it be like to get to know her again, to look at her through adult eyes? He could see the yearning in her eyes, the shadows of unfulfilled dreams, and he knew he couldn't dismiss her from his life when the transplant was over.

"Besides," she said, picking up a frozen paint tube, "the supplies are spoiled."

"You could replace them easily enough. Next trip to Missoula, you could lay in a bunch of paint and brushes."

"I'm really not interested, Sam."

He let her words sink in. "We'd better get out of here before we freeze to death."

He walked her back to her door and stood there for a moment, studying her in the glow from the porch light.

Suddenly he felt like a trespa.s.ser. "I've got to go, Mich.e.l.le."

" 'Night, Sam."

" 'Night." His hand, without consulting his head, came up and cupped her cheek.

She didn't move. "Your hand is cold."

"Your cheek is warm." He leaned down and kissed it, soft skin and a subtle fragrance of perfume and snow. "I guess I'll be seeing you around... or not," he added. Then he walked to his truck, resisting the urge to whistle.

Chapter 20.

When Mich.e.l.le rushed back inside the house, she pushed aside the kitchen curtain to catch a last glimpse of Sam. The moon, a cold white smile, threw a stream of light over him, and he held up one hand in farewell. Embarra.s.sed to be caught, she dropped the curtain and leaned against the counter. She was shaking all over. Shaking with memories and wanting and, most of all, with fear. Sam McPhee was part of her past, part of a past she had traveled far, far away from, and she shouldn't be having this explosive chemical reaction to him. But he was so bound up in things that were important-Cody and her art and Montana and Gavin-that she felt both wildly attracted to him and terrified of him.

She checked on Cody, finding the door to his room firmly closed. Then she brewed a cup of tea, using two bags to make it stronger, and when she sat down on the sofa, her hand went to the phone.

After two rings, she was tapping her foot with impatience. He picked up on the fourth ring. "Brad Lovell."

"It's me."

"Hiya, babe." He sounded warm and comfortable.

She smiled, her insides watery with relief. "What are you doing? Are you busy?"

"Going over some papers. Looks like we'll be able to afford a condo on Kauai after all-"

"Brad?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I have to tell you something."

"What, you'd rather find a place on Maui?"

"No, nothing like that." G.o.d. When did he get the impression she wanted a condo in Hawaii in the first place?

"What is it, Mich.e.l.le?"

She blew on her tea, took a sip. "It's about Cody."

"s.h.i.+t. Is he in trouble already?"

It bugged her no end that Brad's first a.s.sumption was that Cody got in trouble. It bugged her even more that, basically, he was right.

"Well, there's trouble... and there's trouble."

"So you want to tell me, or are we going to play twenty questions?"

She took another sip, then set her cup down. "It's about his... about the man who fathered him."

"The cowboy."

"Yes. Um, he lives in Crystal City now. The other night I... ran into him." She made a swift decision not to explain the details.

"So did he recognize you?"

She was a little insulted by the implication. "Yes. And it didn't take him long to put two and two together and figure out about Cody."

Silence.

"Brad?"

"I keep waiting to hear you say you're going on Oprah with all this."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Right. Anyway, we-I told Cody tonight. He wasn't thrilled, but I think he's still getting used to the idea."

"What about you, Mich.e.l.le? Are you thrilled?"

She felt a sting of guilt, because she wanted to be able to say that seeing Sam again meant nothing to her. That she felt nothing.

"I was shocked, I guess. Surprised. I never thought I'd see him again. But it turns out he did all right for himself, became a doctor, and he's a partner in a horse ranch about ten miles from here. His name is Sam McPhee."

"Do you think he wants something from you?"

She thought about the way Sam had touched her, the way he'd said good night. A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed over her. "Like... what?"

"Like visitation rights or something."

A terrible chill touched the base of her neck. "I have no idea. It all came about so fast. He hasn't asked for a thing." Yet. But tonight she had seen the questions in his eyes.

"Well, if he gets some idea that playing the dad is all fun and games, remind him of what college tuition costs these days."