Spencer′s Child
Spencer's Child
Joan Kilby
A LITTLE SECRETThe first time he left without telling herThe second time she asked him to go…Meg McKenzie, a marine biology student with a passion for killer whales, is shocked to discover that Spencer Valiella is her thesis supervisor. Spencer is an old flame–the love of her life, actually, and, although he doesn't know it, the father of her son. They met and fell in love one summer while Meg was an undergraduate student…but then Spencer left.To the surprise of neither Meg nor Spencer, the intense feelings they had for each ofhter still exist, and when Spencer learns Meg had his child, they grow even stronger.But old demons plague him–that restlessness, that yearning, that need to be unattached. In spite of Spencer's great love for her and their son, Meg knows he has to leave.It takes a terrifying experience for Spencer to see that living with Meg and his son, loving and caring for them with abandon, is what will truly make him free.
“Saying I love you—it’s like a promise,” Spencer told Meg (#u2d8c3c8e-0d38-58fa-ba6d-fb2c6266a465)Letter to Reader (#ub13cdbce-8296-51d3-a1ce-37aa9618fbc7)Title Page (#u4dba858f-2232-5208-b4c4-b33d80c1de3e)Dedication (#u23dc8d16-b608-537a-9a48-3bfa6f8a8f3f)ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#u81bed955-c323-5caf-8c26-f1263344ebd3)PROLOGUE (#u907715da-d756-5aeb-8f00-c9f939749743)CHAPTER ONE (#u9a97f4cc-09b2-5b2d-bd0f-94abf65bcf52)CHAPTER TWO (#uc07000ef-6134-5826-b05d-eb9b1e489678)CHAPTER THREE (#ua75f80f7-41b3-5243-a453-7aed7498df0c)CHAPTER FOUR (#u2933d025-c72a-5063-834c-e5d8f2558f31)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Saying I love you—it’s like a promise,” Spencer told Meg
“But making promises I can’t keep is worse than any lie.”
“Cant or won’t?” she asked bitterly.
“I don’t want to stay in one place. I don’t want a house in the suburbs. It’s all too safe. Too much sameness. The monotony, the boredom scare me.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said.
His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. “I’ve never forgotten you, Meg. I dream about you. When I was in California I’d look up at the night sky and think, these same stars are shining down on Meg. When I was on the water, I felt the ocean currents connecting us even though we were apart. When we’re together, I want to be with you. I want to make love to you....”
The ache inside her was part physical need, part emotional connection that defied time and logic. But could she handle a relationship on his terms? Yes, she could, she would, yes, yes—
Davis. She’d forgotten what her involvement with Spencer could do to her son...their son, though Spencer still didn’t know it. Her blood cooled Her eyes opened. She pushed on Spencer’s shoulders, clumsily trying to move him off her.
“I can’t do this, Spencer.” Another meteorite blazed across the sky and was gone. “I’ve had enough. Please take me home.”
Dear Reader,
Before I became a writer, I was a marine biologist. Although Spencer’s Child is a fictional story with fictional characters, I drew upon my experiences living and working on the west coast of British Columbia to give it authenticity. I never studied killer whales, but in researching this book I’ve learned so much about these wonderful animals I almost wish I had one.
Through the Vancouver Aquarium, I became the proud adoptive parent of Takush, a northern resident killer whale. The names of the whales Spencer and Meg work with are taken from records of whales identified on the B.C. coast, although the whales don’t all belong to the same pod in real life.
As for my characters, Spencer is one of my favorite kinds of hero—a brilliant but flawed loner, untamable and unattainable. Loving such a man could haunt a woman all her life—especially when she’s borne his child. It was a great pleasure for me to create a heroine, Meg, whose vulnerability is balanced by inner strength, and whose abiding love ultimately heals Spencer and brings them together, forever, with all the joy they so richly deserve.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Joan Kilby
Spencer’s Child
Joan Kilby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my father, for instilling in me the belief that I could
accomplish anything I set my heart on and making sure I
had the discipline to achieve my goals.
And to Nan, for giving me the gift of time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Volker Deeke for sharing his expert
knowledge in the field of killer whale bioacoustics and for
patiently answering my many questions.
Meg Pocklington (who has the same name as my heroine
purely by coincidence!) of the Vancouver Aquarium was
of great assistance in helping me gather information on
killer whales.
Any technical errors are mine.
PROLOGUE
MEG PEERED THROUGH her microscope at the marine polychaete curled on its side in the petri dish. With one hand she held open the identification guide to marine invertebrates of the Pacific Northwest; with the other she used a probe to count the bristles arranged in paired sets on each segment. She’d almost finished when the chair next to hers scraped back and someone dropped into the empty seat.
Her concentration broken, Meg glanced up. And her heart beat a little faster.
Spencer Valiella. His brown hair was long and unkempt, as though permanently ruffled by the wind that blew in off the Pacific. He wore khaki pants and a faded black sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out. On the crest of his tanned biceps rode the tattoo of a leaping killer whale.
No one knew much about Spencer. He was a loner. Also a fourth-year honors student here at the University of Victoria and reputed to be brilliant. Yet not the kind of boy her parents would approve of. But she’d noticed him around the building, found him wildly attractive and now he was sitting right beside her.
“His,” she said. “I’m Meg.”
“Spencer.” Barely glancing her way, he hauled his beat-up leather satchel onto the table and began to rummage inside.
Her gaze slid back to the killer whale tattoo. She’d been fascinated with the sleek black-and-white marine mammals ever since she was eight years old and one had leaped straight out of the water not fifty feet from her father’s cabin cruiser. She’d gone into biology with the sole intention of studying them.
“Are you sure you’re in the right class?” she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. “This is Marine Invertebrates 301—a third-year course.”
His features were clean and straight, his sea-green eyes so dark that when she gazed into them she swore she could hear things that went bump in the night.
He took in her styled blond hair, miniskirt and designer top and smiled briefly. “I’m where I have to be, princess.”
Meg turned up her nose and pretended interest in the worm.
Spencer pulled a laboratory manual out of his satchel. A folded square of paper came out with it and slid across the table. From the corner of her eye, Meg saw it coming and stopped it with her hand. She recognized the pale greens and blues and dotted curving lines of a navigation chart.
“Are you into boating?” she asked, sliding it back. “My dad has a cabin cruiser. We go over to Port Townsend all the time.”
“I have a kayak.”
For a second she thought he was being apologetic. But the look that accompanied his words withered that notion and made her cheeks flush. Spencer Valiella was not impressed by clothes or looks or wealth. Meg had brains, too, but she doubted he was interested enough to find out.
He tucked the chart back into his satchel and leaned closer to her microscope. “What have you got there—a polychaete?”
He seemed oblivious to the fact that his knee was now touching hers. She found it hard to focus on anything but the heat generated by the point of contact. Or the wild clean scent of salt air on his skin. “I’m almost finished the ID,” she said without looking up. “You can have the worm when I’m done.”
With a flick of his finger, Spencer turned the worm onto its dorsal surface. “Abarenicola pacifica.”
Meg blinked. It had taken her twenty minutes just to get the family name. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“How many segments is it supposed to have?”
“Twenty,” he said, sounding bored. “Three pairs of branched gills containing hemoglobin on the anterior segment.”
“Wait a minute.” She flipped through the pages of the identification key to the species’ descriptions. “You’re right.”
Meg wrote the name in her notebook beside her pencil illustration of the worm. “Thanks,” she said, and gave him her most brilliant smile. “I’m interested in killer whales, too. Are you studying them for your honors thesis?”
One corner of his mouth curved slowly upward. Above his high cheekbones, his dark eyes gleamed. “Only one thing you need to know about me, princess. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”
“Oh, really.” She started to close her notebook, annoyed with herself now for even trying to get through to the guy.
“Wait a minute.” He reached for the notebook and took a closer look at her drawing of the worm, which was accurate and detailed, down to the very last segment and bristle. “This is good.”
Pride put a bloom in her cheeks. She whipped her notebook away and stuffed it into her bag. She didn’t need approval from Spencer Valiella.
With the eraser end of a pencil, he pushed back the lock of hair that hid her face. “I’m studying communication between maternal groups of resident killer whales, Meg.”
Reluctantly, yet irresistibly, she raised her eyes to his.
“I’ll take you along sometime if you’re seriously interested,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she replied as casually as she could. “I’m interested.”
CHAPTER ONE
FROM THE TOP FLOOR of his rented house. Spencer gazed out over the tiled roofs of Monterey Bay. Beyond the rocky shore lay the Pacific, blue and wrinkled, darker in patches where kelp forests swayed beneath the surface. The ocean stretched northward, its currents linking this temporary home with another he’d known in Victoria, British Columbia.
In his thirty-one years Spencer had moved thirty-five times. Victoria was one place he’d sworn never to return to. He still thought about Meg. Still felt the tug on his soul across the miles, across the years. A tug he’d resisted seven years ago and finally fled.
But Doc Campbell, his honors supervisor, had just suffered a stroke. Doc, his good friend and mentor, wanted Spencer to take over his marine mammals class until he could return to work. Christmas, at the latest, Doc had promised. The plea had been followed up by a formal request from Randolph Ashton-Whyte, the head of the biology department.
Spencer paced the sparsely furnished living room. His postdoctoral fellowship at the Monterey Aquarium had wound to a close. He’d applied for another research position in Bergen, Norway, but it could be months before he got word on that.
He didn’t want to go back to Victoria and memories of Meg. But for Doc he’d do it.
Two days later Spencer roared through Victoria in his beat-up Camaro with the California plates and muffler fall of holes. He had a kayak strapped to the roof rack, and the back end was loaded down with boxes of books, electronic gear and the few personal effects he’d hung on to over the years. He’d come straight up from Monterey, driving all day and all night, stopping only for gas and coffee and microwaved burritos that tasted like the cardboard they were served in.
It was eight in the morning when Spencer turned onto the potholed ribbon of asphalt that led to his father Ray’s beach cottage in Sooke, west of Victoria. A patchwork of brightly colored wooden houses lined the beach. Across the road, towering Douglas firs spilled their resiny scent into the mid-August heat where it mingled with the salt of the ocean. Spencer rolled down the window and his fingers tapped out the bass of an old Queen song on the hot black roof of the Camaro.
He slowed as he came around the bend, an eye out for the cottage his father had bought twenty years ago with the proceeds from the sale of his first record album. Ray’s flirtation with domesticity had been brief, coinciding with the birth of Spencer’s younger sister, Janis, and lasting only until the next big gig lured him across the continent. Except for the two years Spencer had spent at the university, the cottage had been inhabited off and on by itinerant musician friends of his father’s. His mother had split long ago, taking Janis and Spencer south to her native San Clemente, where she’d eventually settled down with, of all people, an investment banker. Spencer guessed he couldn’t blame her. Some people needed stability.
Around a bend he spotted the mailbox carved from driftwood and slowed to pull into the gravel driveway beside the tiny wooden house with peeling blue paint. The yard was overgrown with weeds and a wind chime of oyster shells clattered in the breeze that drifted around the porch.
He unfolded his limbs from the car and sucked the strong salt air deep into his lungs. Across the grass-strewn sand dunes, the ocean beckoned. The seemingly limitless expanse made him breathe easier. Home. The thought made him laugh. Like the tortoise, his home was on his back. Or more precisely, in the Camaro.
Yawning from lack of sleep, he pulled his duffel bag and laptop computer from the trunk and deposited them on the porch. The house appeared to be empty, as he’d hoped. He reached into a side pocket of the duffel for his key ring. Not the one with the brass killer whale that held his car keys, but the plain steel circle that held the keys to the cottage. And the keys to Doc’s laboratory and office. He’d never returned those when he left. If he believed in fate, he might have thought it was because he was meant to return.
Spencer opened the torn screen door and put the key in the lock knowing it wasn’t fate that had made him hang on to the keys. The research vessel he’d worked on that last summer had set sail early to follow a bumper salmon run that was drawing the killer whales north of their usual habitat. He hadn’t had time to drop off the keys. Or to say goodbye to... anyone.
The screen door banged shut behind him. Inside, the cottage wore the somnolent air of endless summer that seemed to inhabit all beach houses. Before his mother’s defection to southern climes, she’d hung curtains of sand-colored handwoven cloth shot with strands of aqua. The detritus of beach-combing expeditions littered the windowsills: shells, bits of twisted and polished driftwood, colored glass fishing floats washed ashore after perhaps decades at sea.
The plain board floor creaked beneath his feet, the sound muffled by a large oval rag rug. He crossed to the far wall, drawn by an enlarged black-and-white photo of Subpod C3: Kitasu, the matriarch; Geetla and Joker, her two grown sons; and Takush, her daughter. Takush was old enough to have a calf of her own by now. Spencer could still recognize individual killer whales by the shape and size of their dorsal fins and the scars on their sleek black-and-white hides. They seemed more like old friends than the subjects of his honors thesis.
He wondered if their dialect of calls and whistles had altered in the years he’d been gone. He planned to paddle out to see them for old time’s sake, but there was no point starting a research program when he’d be leaving again so soon. Doc had sounded robust in spite of his slurred speech when Spencer had called the hospital from Seattle. He’d surely be back by Christmas.
Dropping his duffel bag next to a low bookshelf crammed with tattered paperbacks, Spencer carried his laptop into the kitchen. His head was fuzzy with fatigue but he wanted to check his e-mail—the closest thing he had to a permanent address—before he hit the sack for a few z’s. He set the laptop on the table, plugged it in, then attached the modem to the phone jack on the wall beside the fridge. As he flicked the switch he realized belatedly there might not be any electricity or phone connection. To his surprise, numbers flashed across the screen as the system booted up. He dialed his service provider in California, waiting for the dialog box that would tell him he couldn’t connect...
Brrrinnng.
So the phone was on, too. He hit “receive messages” and got up to look around while the in-box filled.
A used coffee cup sat in the sink. An empty milk carton peeked out of the garbage bin. Damn. Someone was here, after all.
Spencer strode back to the living room and stood at the entrance to the short hall where the two bedrooms were. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Silence.
He knocked softly on the door to the main bedroom and when there was still no answer, pushed it open. The bed was a tangle of thin wool blankets and forest-green sheets. A pile of dirty clothes sat on the floor beside the open closet.
Who was staying here? And where were they now?
Then Spencer noticed the battered guitar case propped against the wall behind the door. The medley of souvenir stickers from cities across the continent spoke of decades of life on the road. He knew that guitar case. A grin spread across his face. His father was in town. He hadn’t seen Ray for a few years, not since he’d driven down to San Francisco from Seattle to catch the Brass Monkeys in concert. Ray had been riding high, a new record deal and a promotional tour in the offing.
Spencer had a flash of memory of doing schoolwork in a bus seat while music blared and his father and the guys in the band played cards or wrote songs. As a kid, he’d loved going on the road with them. Pulling out of the hotel parking lot at dawn, a new city every night, the excitement of the unknown—all were magnified in his young mind. As an adult he still got a kick out of moving on. As if maybe this time he was going to find the Holy Grail, whatever that was. Victoria was a step backward, but seeing Ray would make the trip worthwhile.
Where the hell was he? Spencer shut the door to his father’s room and went back to the kitchen. Ray would turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile, at the top of his in-box was a message from the head of the biology department at University of Victoria.
Dr. Valiella,
Did I mention that Angus Campbell has an honors student? Please give her a call ASAP. Her name is Meg McKenzie, phone number...
Spencer rocked back in his chair, his pulse thrumming. Meg. Could this be his Meg McKenzie? No way. She’d only been one year behind him. She would have finished her degree long ago and gone on to either graduate studies or a job somewhere.
Spencer got up to pace across to the window overlooking the tiny backyard. Meg’s image, tucked away in his subconscious, surged forth. Impish smile, bright eyes the blue of a robin’s egg, hair the color of sunlight. The memory of her laughter rang in his ears, the careless confident laughter of a girl possessed of talent, brains and wealth.
He shut his eyes and the blackness behind his lids pulsed with pinpricks of light. They were the stars above a campsite on Saltspring Island. Sleeping bags zipped together, bare limbs entwined. The wonder of their first time together.
And their last. For a few short hours he’d been able to give her what she wanted.
If only she hadn’t said what she’d said.
He’d known then he’d never be able to give her what she needed.
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. It was years ago. Time he forgot about her.
But he had to call.
His hand hovered over the phone. Even if it was Meg, she might not remember him. The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her busy social schedule.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.
ABOVE THE INCESSANT squawk of Noel, her son’s golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing telephone. She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis’s bedroom. His cry of frustration stabbed straight to the “mother” center of her brain. God, she hoped this was only a phase. But it was one phase after another.
With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms. As she passed the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the roar of the shower. At least Patrick’s noise was cheerful.
She paused in her son’s doorway. Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt. At the sight of her, his cries rose a decibel.
“Mom! It won’t do up.” Angry tears spurted from his dark green eyes. Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best. and the worst, period of her life.
“Come here, sweetie.” Meg dropped to her knees and held out her arms. From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.
A lock of straight brown hair fell over Davis’s scowling forehead, but he didn’t budge. Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.
With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through. “I did it!”
“Do you know why it was so hard?” Meg asked, her tone carefully matter-of fact. “Your shirt is inside out.”
“I know that.” He started to jam another button through its hole. His smooth olive skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.
Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out. “Now, show me again how you can do up those buttons.”
A few minutes later Davis’s buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.
Meg pulled him into a hug. Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had to be learned over and over again. He could build complex Lego structures without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who’d done three years of university biology. But he couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds at a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as soon as they were given.
He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn’t love him desperately, she’d surely have strangled him before he’d turned three. But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.
“Put your pants on,” she said, handing him a pair of navy corduroys.
Davis grasped the pants by the elasticized waist and raised a leg. He lost his balance, so he moved to lean against the bed. He got one leg in, then paused to study a fly cleaning its forelegs on the windowsill.
Meg waited. “Your pants, honey. Davis. Davis.”
“What?” His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.
“Your pants.” She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life. She, who at the best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.
Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys. Then, “Oh.” He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the waistband around his skinny hips. When he got them on, he kept on hopping. “Look at me, I’m a bunny.”
Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.
He squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous. “I don’t want to go to day care. Kids are mean to me.”
Meg’s heart sank. She’d been afraid of this even though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she’d be discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime. How much worse would it be when he went to school? “There’s nothing wrong with having to take medicine.”
“It’s not that,” he said, his small hands clenched into fists. “Tommy said...he...I couldn’t go to...to big kids’ school if I didn’t have a daddy.”
“Oh, Davis.” Meg gathered her son into her arms. Over his shoulder, she glanced at her watch. He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was going to be on time to register for classes at the university. But even though they’d been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions. Maybe it was her sensitivity. Or maybe it was guilt. She just wished she had better answers.
“You do have a daddy,” she said. “He’s just not like other dads. He’s...special.”
“Because he studies killer whales?” Davis jiggled his legs.
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?” He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.
“He’s...” A lover. A loner. A modern-day Ulysses. He’s a genius. A bastard. And my poor heart’s desire. “He can take the peel off an entire orange in just one strip.”
“Really? Wow.” Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due. “But why doesn’t he...you know?”
“What?”
“Live with us. Doesn’t he like us?” Davis dropped the car and picked up a toy sword. He began banging it on the floor.
“This isn’t his home, sweetheart, you know that—Please stop banging. I don’t think he’s ever had a real home. But if he knew about you, I know he’d love you just as much as I do.” She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she often did, if that was true.
“How come you didn’t tell him about me?” There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice. Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.
She took the sword off him. He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it, instead.
“I tried to tell him, years ago. I...couldn’t get through.”
The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore radio. But when she’d realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat. Then, when she was eight months along, she’d called him in Seattle where he was doing his masters degree. Before she could mention the baby, he’d started talking about scholarships and a Ph.D. at a prestigious university. It wasn’t the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that had been a consideration. It was the excitement in his voice when he talked about moving on. New location, new research topic, new everything. Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly. Meg had guts but apparently not enough.
It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby. Nor was it his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role model. None of it was his fault. And all of it was.
Not a day went by when she didn’t think of him. Not a trip to the university when she didn’t look for him around every corner even though she knew he’d left the country years ago. Hopeless. Futile. Pathetic. It was a good thing she was over him.
The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves. “Stop.”
“I want to learn to play baseball,” Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the bat. “Tommy’s dad plays catch with him.”
“I’ll teach you. When we get home tonight we’ll toss the ball around, okay?” She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet. “It’s just you and me, kid, better get used to it. Come on. Your oatmeal is almost ready.”
“First I’m going to see Charlie.”
Charlie, the lizard. Meg watched Davis race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks flapping loosely in front of his toes. Pull up your socks, she wanted to. shout, but didn’t. The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice but to pull them up, figuratively speaking. Please, God, give my boy an understanding teacher.
She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick sailed into the kitchen. His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a knife-edge. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Davis all right?”
“He’s fine. Just a minor skirmish with his buttons.”
“Good. Now, how do I look?” Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched. “I’ve got an interview with the selection committee today, and I’m that far away from promotion.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.
“You look terrific.” She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie a little straighter. “I just love a man in uniform.”
“So do I, sweetie. So do I,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Meg laughed. “You’re terrible. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably slit your little wrists.” Patrick turned as Davis came into the kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands. “I’m in the galley tonight, champ. What would you like for dinner?”
“Hot dogs!” Davis opened his hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.
Patrick planted his fists on his hips. “You simply must expand your repertoire, mister. But discipline’s your mom’s department. Hot dogs, it is. I’ll make Caesar salad for us.” he added to Meg.
“Patrick You know I’m trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all.”
Patrick turned puppy-dog eyes on her. They always made her cave. As he well knew.
“Oh, all right. Since you’re cooking, you get to choose.”
They might as well be married the way they argued over Davis’s upbringing. She had the final say of course, but she couldn’t squash all of Patrick’s many indulgences.
“Davis,” she said, turning to her son, “get Charlie out of your collar and back in his cage. Then run and wash your hands. You don’t want lizard slime in your oatmeal.”
“Lizards aren’t slimy, Mom. Sheesh!” But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion. Just to let her know he was complying under duress.
Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away. “Keep going,” she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.
Patrick clucked his tongue as he put the kettle on to boil. “Ease up on the boy,” he said, measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger. “Watching his every move like a hawk won’t teach him self-reliance.”
Meg dropped a handful of raisins into the oatmeal and turned down the heat. “Oh, Patrick, you know what he’s like.”
“Vividly. But you can’t be the earth, moon and stars to the child. You need a break before school starts. Why don’t you let me look after him for a couple of days while you pamper yourself with a weekend at the Empress Hotel?”
“You know I can’t afford that.”
Even if she could afford a weekend at the Empress, she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Patrick’s life-style; he was just way too lenient. Davis constantly pushed the limits. He needed a firm hand. He needed stability, continuity and routine. He needed to know where he stood every moment of the day. She could just imagine how spun out her son would be after a couple of days with Patrick giving him whatever his heart desired. If only she could call on her mother.... But there was no use wishing.
The telephone began to ring again.
Meg reached for the cordless phone and, still stirring the oatmeal, tucked it under her chin while she opened the fridge to get some milk. “Hello?”
Noel hopped out of his open cage above the kitchen counter and onto her shoulder. “Hello?” he squawked in her other ear.
“Get away.” She brushed at the bird and it flew to the top of the fridge. “Sorry, not you,” she said into the receiver. Behind her she could hear Davis rummaging through the cupboard. The kettle began to hiss. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
A man cleared his throat. “May I speak to Meg McKenzie?”
Her hand froze on the wooden spoon. Spencer. She’d know his deep voice anywhere, anytime. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen seemed to swirl. The sounds around her faded away. Without warning she was snatched from the mundane activities of breakfast and dropped, like a stone through water, into the past. She was sinking, fast.
“Who is this?” she whispered hoarsely, buying time. What could he be calling for now, after all these years?
“Spencer...” He paused. “Spencer Valiella.”
A prickling chill ran from behind her ears and down her arms. Glancing up, she saw Patrick’s round hazel eyes regarding her avidly. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face, which she was sure must be pale.
“Dr. Ashton-Whyte from the university asked me to call you,” Spencer went on, as though speaking to a stranger. “I’m taking over Dr. Campbell’s position—I assume you know he had a stroke?”
His words caused a roaring in her ears. Spencer, it’s me you’re talking to. “Yes. I—I went to see him in the hospital.”
There was a pause, then he said slowly, “I used to know a Meg McKenzie—about seven years ago. She did the best biological illustrations I’ve ever seen.”
He did remember. If she shut her eyes she could almost imagine she was hearing his voice in the dark—
“Mom! Can I have my oatmeal? I’m starving.”
Davis. Meg felt her spine go cold. Spinning around, she held a finger against her lips to shush him, then hurried over to spoon oatmeal into his bowl.
With her free hand pressed to her other ear, she walked back into the kitchen and said quietly into the receiver, “Thank you. Spencer.”
Silence while she listened to the sound of her thudding heart and shallow breath.
“Meg,” he said at last, “so it is you. I couldn’t believe it at first. How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Unexpectedly anger coursed through her, bringing the blood back to her cheeks. She was not fine. He’d made love to her, then left town without even saying goodbye.
“I had no idea you would be taking over Dr. Campbell’s position,” she said, covering her anger with an artificially bright voice, taking refuge from hurt by reverting to her preppy self of seven years ago. Before Davis. Before poverty. Before the falling out with her mother.
“I’ve kept in touch with Doc over the years,” Spencer said. “He knew I was available and suggested to Ashton-Whyte I’d be suitable for the job. I’ll be an assistant professor, not a full professor like Doc, but I can live with that.”
He’d kept in touch with Dr. Campbell. But not with her. Meg gripped the telephone, trying not to weep with anger and frustration and hurt. When she thought of all the nights she’d lain awake and fantasized about an emotional reunion. Idiot.
“Well, you certainly know your cetaceans,” she replied, still in that overbright tone reminiscent of her mother’s garden-club voice.
“Have you decided on a topic?”
“Topic? Oh, you’re talking about my thesis.” She didn’t mean anything to him. Never had. “I’ve got some ideas I was going to discuss with Dr. Campbell.”
“I guess you’ll be discussing them with me, instead.”
It hit her then. She was not only talking to Spencer, she would soon see him. And not only see him, but work with him on a daily basis. Meg groped for a chair and lowered herself into it. Davis spooned oatmeal into his mouth and watched her, wide-eyed. Patrick set a cup of coffee in front of her.
“So you’ll be my honors supervisor?”
“If you have no objection.”
“Do I have a choice?” She laughed to show she was joking, but it sounded thin.
“Not if you want to work with killer whales.”
Nothing was going to stop her from working with killer whales. Not even Spencer Valiella. Then she thought about why he’d said that, the reason he was there at all. Dr. Campbell had been the only-marine mammalogist in the department. “Won’t Dr. Campbell be coming back to work?”
“The doctors don’t know yet how permanent the damage is. Right now, he’s got some paralysis down his right side, but he’s recovering well. I only expect to be here until Christmas.”
“Oh.” Dear God. Did she feel hope or disappointment? Where Spencer was concerned she’d known too much of both.
“Meg, why are you doing your honors now? Seven years later?”
The answer was sitting there at the kitchen table,. licking milky droplets from the side of his mouth. She was going to have to tell him about Davis. But it wasn’t something she could blurt over the phone. After all this time of wishing he could know his son, and vice versa, she was suddenly terrified of them meeting.
“I guess we’d better make a time to discuss my thesis,” she said, evading his question. “I’ll be up at the university today to register.”
“I just got into town. I need some sleep before I can think coherently. How about this afternoon in Doc’s office? Say, three o’clock?”
“Two o’clock would be better. I’ve, uh, got something I have to pick up around three.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
The phone slipped from her cold fingers into its cradle. She wiped a hand across her forehead and felt the perspiration. She was not disappointed he hadn’t declared his long-lost love.
Over at the sink, Patrick was rinsing his bowl. “What was that all about?” he said. “And don’t you tell me ‘nothing’ sweetcheeks, because I know it’s something. Something big.”
She frowned and tilted her head toward Davis. “Later.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “Say no more. But I’ll be home early tonight and I’ll expect a full report.”
Meg rose shakily. “Time to wash up, Davis. We’re late.”
To her relief, her son complied without argument for once and went roaring down the hall doing his White Rabbit impression. “I’m late. I’m late. For a very important date. I’m late....”
CHAPTER TWO
SPENCER TURNED LEFT off the ring road that circled the campus and swung into the faculty parking lot tucked behind the biology building. He parked away from the handful of other cars that dotted the lot and sat there a moment, picturing himself as a permanent member of the department. If. Doc decided to take early retirement, Spencer’d have a good shot at the job.
But when he tried to imagine coming here every day, month after month, year after year, the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. He had to fight the urge to restart the car and head down to the bay with his kayak. To be on the water, alone with the cormorants and the killer whales and the thing inside him that kept him moving.
Spencer pulled his keys out of the ignition. It was too late to run. He’d committed himself, if only temporarily. He threw on a black suit jacket over his T-shirt and jeans and grabbed his battered leather briefcase from the back seat. Kicking the door shut behind him, he strolled along the path to the biology building.
Spencer pushed through the heavy glass doors. Doc’s office was on his immediate right, but he continued down the wide empty corridor, his footsteps echoing as he walked past doors that led to classrooms or labs or offices. His eyes narrowed and the hall seemed to swarm with ghosts of students past, as distant and separate from him now as they were then.
At the end of the corridor he turned right and continued along the L-shaped passage. From somewhere came the sound of a radio. The classroom to his left jogged more memories. Thursday afternoons and Meg McKenzie.
He paused in the open doorway, his gaze seeking out the second table from the back. He saw her there, thick blond hair curving around an oval chin. Trying to keep her face straight and her perfect nose in the air while he told some outrageous story just to hear her laugh. He wondered if she’d realized how hard he’d tried to impress her.
Spencer pushed away from the doorjamb. She’d probably married a stockbroker and lived in Uplands, just down the road from Mommy and Daddy.
“May I help you, young man?” a pompous male voice said from behind him. “Classes don’t start for two weeks.”
Spencer recognized the department head’s plummy English tones from their phone conversations. He turned to the portly figure in the pristine white lab coat and full gray beard. “Dr. Randolph Ashton-Whyte, I presume.” He held out his hand. “Spencer Valiella.”
Ashton-Whyte’s bushy gray eyebrows climbed his forehead as he took in Spencer’s clothes and wayward hair. Slowly he extended his own hand. “A...pleasure to meet you, Dr. Valiella”
“Likewise. ‘Spencer’ will do.”
“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Angus. He spoke so highly of you I expected—” Ashton-Whyte. broke off and patted the row of pens in the breast pocket of his lab coat as if assuring himself they were still there and all was still right with the world.
Spencer grinned. He could just imagine what this tight-ass had expected. “Doc told me all about you, too.”
The department head rubbed his hands together, his manner brisk and important. “Now that you’re here, come along to my office. We have paperwork that needs to be completed.”
Spencer glanced at his watch. “My honors student will be along shortly. And I want to get my gear stowed away in the lab.”
Ashton-Whyte smiled coldly. “Ah, but for that you’ll need the keys to Dr. Campbell’s office and lab.”
“Got ’em right here.” Spencer pulled the key ring from his pocket and jangled it in front of Ashton-Whyte. “Never got around to returning them when I left.”
He grinned, just to let Ashton-Whyte know what kind of reprehensible character he’d hired. Spencer blamed his father for his habit of baiting what Ray still referred to as the establishment. He and Ray saw eye to eye on a lot of things.
Ashton-Whyte’s lips tightened, causing his mustache to meet his beard in a double row of raised bristles. “Well, do stop by and fill out the forms when it’s convenient, won’t you, old chap? We’ll need your details—” he paused significantly “—before we can put you on the payroll.” Then he spun on his heel and strode off, white coat flapping, confident, no doubt, he’d had the last word.
Spencer chuckled to himself and retraced his steps to Doc’s lab. As he put the key into the lock, again a weird feeling came over him, as though the last seven years had somehow been leading to this day—when he’d step into the shoes of his mentor. He shook his head. Crazy New Age stuff was his mother’s thing, not his.
He swung open the door. The familiar smell of a biology laboratory hit him. Its pungent bouquet of chemical reagents, marine organisms, cleaning fluids and old books felt like home. Especially to him, a man with no other home.
He’d expected to walk into the untidy disorganized lab of yesteryear. To his surprise, the workbenches and shelves were scrubbed, the glassware clean and put away, and plastic covers protected the microscopes. A new computer with a wide-screen monitor sat on a side table with a digital audio tape recorder next to it for analysis of killer whale vocalizations.
Spencer walked around the central workbench to open Doc’s office. A desk faced one wall with a table catercorner along the window and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on his immediate left. The window slanted outward at the base and overlooked the biology pond, where an endless succession of first-year students dipped their nets to study pond organisms.
He dropped his briefcase and went back to the car for the box containing the hydrophone equipment he used to collect and record killer whale calls. It was old and pretty basic, dating from his honors year when Doc had “retired” it from his own use. Catch 22: if Spencer wanted new equipment, he had to get a research grant and stay in one spot. He’d thought about that on more than one occasion and always decided it wasn’t worth it.
Another trip to the parking lot brought in his collection of killer whale teeth and bones. He was arranging these in a glass-fronted cabinet when he heard a knock at the door.
Meg. She was early.
His heart hammering, he turned.
Through the doorway came a young man of Asian extraction, not more than nineteen or twenty years old. He wore gray slacks and a crisp white shirt with a narrow tie, which he’d loosened. He moved quickly and his gaze darted from Spencer to the bone collection.
“Hi,” Spencer said. “Can I help you?” Some lost soul from the faculty of business, no doubt.
“I am Lee Cheung.” He strode forward and pumped Spencer’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Var...r..ierr...a.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Very hard name for Chinese to say.”
“You can call me Spencer. How do you know me?”
“I am Dr. Campbell’s research assistant. He did not tell you about me?” Lee grinned and shook his head. “Doc and I collected data over summer from stationary hydrophones. My job will continue, yes?”
“I guess. I don’t know what arrangements have been made for transferring Doc’s grant monies to me.” Another thing he’d have to take up with Ashton-Whyte. Spencer dropped the empty box he was holding to the floor and flattened it with the soles of his boots.
Lee flipped his briefcase up on the lab bench and popped open the lid. “If you would like to review transcript of my last year’s biology grades—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Spencer said, amazed anyone would carry that information around. Still, Angus Campbell surrounded himself only with people who had a consuming passion for killer whales. Besides that, there was something very engaging about Lee’s wide smile and enthusiasm.
“Tell you what, Lee. I’ll hire you out of my own pocket if necessary—as long as you’re not in a hurry for a paycheck—until I can see about Doc’s money situation.”
“Okeydokey, thank you very much.” Lee reached out and pumped Spencer’s hand again. “I appreciate your confidence.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Doc. Now, I’ve got a trunkful of equipment and books to bring in. Want to give me a hand?”
Together they brought in the rest of the boxes and equipment, and with astonishing speed and efficiency, Lee organized everything. Two o’clock approached and Spencer glanced at his watch with increasing frequency. To distract himself, he went down the hall and got a coffee from the vending machines located in the lounge area at the corner of the L. The staff room probably had better coffee, but he might encounter Ashton-Whyte and say something really rude.
He was walking slowly back to the lab, sipping his coffee, when he felt the change in air pressure and the gust of air that accompanied the opening of the heavy front door.
In slow motion he turned around—and there was Meg. Blue eyes startled. Textbooks clutched to her chest Looking as unprepared as he was to meet unexpectedly. Time became fluid and the present turned into the past. So many things they hadn’t said. She looked different. She looked good. Her hair had grown. But...jeans and a T-shirt? Where were her designer duds?
“Hi.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Hi.” Self-conscious, Meg pushed her hair over her shoulder. She’d stopped ten feet away from Spencer and couldn’t seem to close the distance. She made herself keep her eyes on his face, keep the smile on hers. His youthful features had matured into sharp cheekbones and a strongly defined chin. Warm coloring, warm smile. His hair was shorter, but still wind-tossed.
He was real. Not a dream. Not a fantasy. Real as the flutter in her stomach. And she still wanted him.
“Come on to the lab,” he said.
She made her legs move, willing her heart to stop beating so furiously. She was on the verge of tears. Or hysterical laughter. Why did the moment have to be so fraught? Couldn’t they just say a big hello and give each other a hug for old time’s sake? Why did he look so serious? After all, he didn’t know about Davis. Oh, God He didn’t know about Davis.
And then they were at the door to the lab and he halted abruptly to let her go first. She ran into him, her cheek grazing the fine wool of his jacket. “Sorry.”
He put a hand out but stopped short of touching her. Meg shrank back. It was too awful. “I don’t think we can do this,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
“Yes, we can.” His dark eyes were the color of shadowed seawater reflecting fir trees. They sucked her into their depths. “You never did tell me why you’re finishing your degree only now.”
She wanted to tell him. The explanation was on the tip of her tongue. But seeing him made her even more confused than she’d been seven years ago. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
From inside the lab came a discreet cough.
Spencer pushed open the door. “Lee. This is Meg McKenzie, my...honors student. Meg, this is Lee. Research assistant.”
“Hi, Lee.”
Lee’s lidded glance flashed swiftly between them. “Okay if I leave now?” he said to Spencer. “I have to get to bookstore for my texts. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early.”
Spencer smiled. “Not too early. But yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Dr. Val..i—” He broke off, laughing at himself.
“Please, just call me Spencer.”
“Okay, Dr. Spencer.” Lee gave him a relieved grin. “See you later,” he added to Meg, and moved quickly past her.
“Bye.” Meg watched him go out the glass doors and run down the steps. Only when he’d disappeared from sight did she turn back to Spencer. Suddenly the hall seemed emptier, the two of them very much alone.
“You’ve grown your hair.” He reached out again and this time his fingertips touched a few strands of the thick ash-blond hair that hung almost to her waist. Static electricity raced from his fingers right to the roots, sending a shockwave tingling along her scalp.
“It’s easier than styling it,” she said lightly, backing away from his touch. In other words, cheaper. Her life had changed in so many ways. She had changed. Undoubtedly he had, too. She realized she’d been living with a fantasy image of him all these years. Maybe they had nothing left in common.
Except for Davis.
And the killer whales.
And the chemistry that still bubbled and fizzed between them like some apocalyptic experiment in a mad professor’s laboratory. Or was that all in her mind?
Spencer gestured for her to precede him into the lab. She stepped past him and found herself breathing deeply for the scent of the ocean that used to linger in his hair, on his skin. But she wasn’t close enough. And wouldn’t get close enough.
She moved farther into the lab, glancing around. She’d seen most of the equipment when she’d met with Dr. Campbell over the summer to talk about her honors thesis, but Spencer had added his possessions. Gravitating to the glass-fronted case where killer whale teeth and bones had been laid out on black felt, she said, “Are you staying out at the cottage?”
“Yes...” He paused as though about to say more. Then didn’t.
She bent to inspect the lower shelf, searching for the baby killer whale tooth she’d found while diving off Saltspring Island. It was no longer in his collection. Disappointment kept her gazing at the teeth longer than she wanted to.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked, holding up his cup. “The taste hasn’t improved over the years, but it’s hot. Well, lukewarm, actually.”
Meg straightened, forced a smile. “No, thanks.”
He nodded and moved past her to his office, giving her a wide berth.
Why was he so wary? They’d been friends, after all. Like odd socks, but still a pair. Or had that night on Saltspring rendered null and void all that preceded it? They’d never had a chance to talk after that. They’d paddled back to Victoria the next morning ahead of a squall, locked in silence. If only she hadn’t said what she’d said, maybe his subsequent flight wouldn’t have been so swift. And maybe he wouldn’t now be acting as if nothing had ever happened between them.
“Have a seat.”
Meg sank into the safety of the padded vinyl visitor’s chair that nestled in front of the overflowing bookshelf. She just caught sight of one title, The Tao of Physics, when from the corner of her eye she saw Spencer’s lean denim-clad thigh glide by. And then he was sitting in his own chair, swirling around to face her. He leaned back, looking very casual. Or did that controlled stillness mean he was tense, not just intense, as he’d always been?
Under his dark suit jacket, which looked like Armani, but knowing Spencer was probably Salvation Army, he wore a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Then she noticed something new. A thin black leather cord around his sun-browned neck, the ends of which disappeared under the curve of white cotton. She remembered the smooth hard heat of the chest beneath...
“...killer whale communication,” he was saying. “I’ve been working with the transient population for the past five years, first in the Puget Sound area, then down around Monterey.”
Meg nodded, relaxing a little. “It’s interesting how few calls and whistles they make compared to resident killer whales.”
Spencer’s eyebrows rose. “You’re familiar with my research?”
“When I decided to finish my degree, I caught up on the literature.” She could see the unasked questions in his eyes and ignored them.
“Then you must also be aware of Deeke’s recent findings on intra-pod communication.”
She nodded. “They gave me an idea for my thesis...” She stopped. In spite of reading all the journal articles she could get her hands on, she still felt out of touch. What she’d been about to say might be completely off the wall.
“What is it?” He leaned back a little farther and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee.
“Well, I just wonder...what are they saying to each other?” Please don’t laugh at me.
Spencer gazed at her for a moment in silence. “The repetitive staccato clicks they make are used as a form of echolocation to forage for prey and for navigation—as I’m sure you know,” he said. “Pulsed calls and whistles are used for social communication. Keeping tabs on members of the pod when they’re out of sight of each other.”
He must think she was crazy. Except that she knew him. Knew he must have wondered the same thing. “But don’t some calls occur more often in some circumstances, such as resting or socializing?” she said.
“True, but so far no one has established a definitive connection between call type and behavior that would suggest certain calls had a specific meaning.”
“Yes, I know,” she said heavily. Her idea was too far-out.
“However, I don’t think it’s impossible that we’ll eventually be able to decode their communications,” he said carefully. “You’d have to listen to their sounds in the context of their daily lives and closely monitor behavior. Given the limited scope of an honors thesis, maybe you should confine your study to one small aspect of killer whale communication. In that context, I would support such a project if that’s what you’re interested in.”
Was she interested! But wait. This was her degree they were talking about. The opportunity for which she’d scrimped and saved for seven years. If she blew her honors thesis because Spencer agreed to what someone else on her supervisory panel would consider crackpot research, she wasn’t sure she’d have the heart, or the resources, to try again.
“Have you got funding to do this type of research?” she asked. Spencer, she knew, never hesitated to go out on a limb, but if the Natural Science and Engineering Research Council was willing to believe in him, she supposed she could.
“I don’t have funding of any kind at the moment, but you’ll have access to Doc Campbell’s grant money.” He grinned, showing white, slightly overlapping front teeth. A smile that had once thrown her heart into palpitations. And still did. “Sometimes you’ve just got to take a chance, princess.”
Princess. She’d almost forgotten that detestable yet somehow endearing nickname. “My name is Meg,” she reminded him severely.
“Sorry,” he replied, looking totally unrepentant. “Not very politically correct of me.”
“It’s hard to adjust to us not both being students—to you being a prof and me being under you.” Meg immediately blushed at her choice of words.
Spencer swiveled to the window as though he wanted to leap out. “It feels strange for me, too. Can we just skip the professor-student thing and be two people interested in killer whales? The way we used to be?”
Was that what they used to be? “Sure, I guess so.”
“Good.” He spun back. “Do you still have your kayak?”
“Yes, but I haven’t used it in a while.” Like seven years.
“Get it out, check it for leaks.” Spencer got to his feet. “We’ll pay a visit to Kitasu and the rest of her maternal group. Are you doing anything tomorrow? We could catch the early ferry to Saltspring, drive up to Southey Point and paddle out from there.”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, rising. She’d have to ask Patrick to take Davis to day care in the morning. She’d accounted for afternoon care but not for earlymorning starts.
He gazed at her quizzically. “Mornings bad for you? I suppose you’re working.”
“No. Yes. It’s just that I need time. I have things to...arrange.”
“Okay, but we really should get in a preliminary look-see before classes start and things get busy for both of us.”
She turned to walk out ahead of him. “What will you be teaching—Marine Mammals?”
“Yes. Plus a unit of first-year biology and a course in the philosophy of science. It’s a graduate-level course, but you’re welcome to sit in on it.”
“I’d like that.”
“It’s in the evening. Wednesdays.”
“Oh. Evenings are hard for me, too.”
He paused a beat. “Are you married, Meg? Or living with someone?”
“No!” It was so not what she’d been afraid of his asking, she jumped. And probably looked guilty as hell, anyway. “Are...are you?”
He shook his head and laughed. “Me? Not likely.”
Of course not. How could she be so foolish? More foolish still that the news he was free made her heart go flip-flop.
“Can we leave the kayaking till Saturday?” she asked. Patrick would be on maneuvers all weekend, but this Saturday was the Uplands Garden Club open house and garden sale. Her mother would be busy from early morning till evening, which meant her father, who avoided the annual event as he would a plague of aphids, could look after Davis. He didn’t get many opportunities to spend time with his grandson, but when he did, he jumped at them.
“That should be fine. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
Uh-oh, complications already. “My kayak is at my parents’ place. You know where that is.” She started to back out of the office. “I’d better run. I’ll see you Saturday. Bye.”
She left without waiting for a farewell from him. She’d learned not to.
WHEN MEG GOT TO the ring road, instead of turning toward Esquimalt and the California-style bungalow she shared with Patrick, she pointed her Toyota toward Cadboro Bay Road. If she hurried, she had just enough time to drop by her parents’ house to check out the kayak before picking up Davis.
Stone gates guarded the entrance to the parklike estates of Uplands. Meg rubbed her temples as she drove through, aware of the tension already starting to mount. She hoped her mother wasn’t home. Helen never lost an opportunity to inform Meg that dropping out of university at the age of twenty-one to become a single mother had ruined her life. What Helen really meant was that Meg had ruined her life. Oh, the shame of having to tell her garden club friends that her daughter lived in Esquimalt. God forbid she would ever consider visiting her and Davis there.
Meg had learned to live with her mother’s disapproval, but what really hurt was the way Helen couldn’t warm to Davis. She was a control freak, and Davis was someone she couldn’t control. Rather than learn how to deal with his behavior, Helen shunned his company. It was hard for her little boy to understand. And harder still for Meg to forgive.
She turned into the long curving driveway flanked by a high box hedge. It was all so clichéd it would have been boring except that this was her family. She missed the big Sunday dinners with her three brothers and their families and the holiday gatherings she now avoided because she couldn’t stand having to constantly defend her life. Or to protect her son from feeling slighted by his grandmother.
Thank goodness for Daddy. He wasn’t terribly happy with the way her life had turned out, either, but at least he tried to let her live it her own way. And although he’d never thought Spencer good enough for his only daughter, he loved his grandson and treated him accordingly.
The elegant white three-story house came into view, afternoon sun glinting off the mullioned windows. Meg pulled up in front of the portico and got out She glanced at the conservatory but couldn’t see her mother’s slim figure moving among the plants.
Daddy was home, though, practicing his putting on the side lawn, his salt-and-pepper head bent in concentration. Meg waited till he’d made his shot, then called out. Roger McKenzie’s handsome face broke into a smile. Dropping his golf club into the bag, he strode across the lawn to envelop her in a hug. “Meggie! How’s my little girl?”
“Twenty-eight and all grown up,” Meg teased as she hugged him back.
Roger glanced hopefully at the car. “Is Davis with you?”
“No. I just came from the university.” Dam, why did she go and open that line of conversation?
“Have they found you a new supervisor yet?”
“Yes. An expert on killer whales from Monterey.” Daddy would have to know sometime that Spencer was back, but right now she didn’t have the time or the emotional energy to discuss it. The fact that Spencer didn’t even know he was a father had never absolved him of guilt in Roger’s eyes. “We’re going kayaking on the weekend to locate the group of killer whales I’m going to work on,” she went on. “I came to see if my kayak still floats.”
“Andrew used it a few times over the summer. I said he could. Didn’t think you’d mind. He said he replaced the ‘spray skirt’ because the neoprene rubber had deteriorated in spots.”
“That’s great. There’s nothing worse than getting soaked from the waist down because a leaky spray skirt lets water into the cockpit. Let’s go have a look.”
They went in through the open section of the fourcar garage. In the far slot sat Roger’s restored Model-A Ford next to his silver 500 SEL Mercedes. Helen’s smaller, cream-colored Mercedes was absent. The rest of the garage was given over to sporting equipment—skis and tennis rackets, snowboards and sailboards, golf clubs and archery sets.
Meg’s single-seater Orca kayak had been taken down from the overhead beams and was propped on wooden blocks at the back of the garage. She ran a hand down the shiny red fiberglass hull, then lifted the new spray skirt to inspect it. “Looks okay.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Roger said. “You know how finicky your brother is.”
“I’ll be sure to call and thank him for using my stuff,” Meg replied with a grin, and walked to the stern to test the rudder movement. “Where’s Mother?”
Roger’s voice became deliberately casual. “She’s looking after Cassie and Tristan a couple of afternoons a week. Maybe you haven’t heard—Anne’s gone back to work, part-time.”
Cassie and Tristan were Meg’s niece and baby nephew. Meg bit her lip, hoping the physical pain would override the inner pain. It wasn’t that she wanted to use her mother as a baby-sitting service, but never once had Helen offered to look after Davis. The few times Meg had asked, Helen had always been too busy. Finally Meg had stopped asking. Helen sent expensive and inappropriate gifts for Davis’s birthday and at Christmas, but Meg could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d gone out of her way to see her grandson.
“I’d better go,” she said. “I’ve got to pick up Davis at day care. He hates it when I’m late.”
“Is he excited about starting school?” Roger asked as he walked her back to her car.
“One minute he can’t wait and the next he’s not so sure.” Meg opened her door. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you be able to look after him on Saturday while I’m kayaking?”
“Sure! He can caddy for me.” Roger put his arm around her. “We don’t see enough of him, darling.”
Meg gripped her father’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “You know Mother and I can’t be in the same room for more than ten minutes without fighting.”
“Your mother is just proud and stubborn—like her daughter. She does love you, Meggie.”
Funny kind of love. “Bye, Dad,” she said, giving him another hug. “I’ll see you Saturday morning. Early.”
It wasn’t until she’d turned her car out of the driveway and onto the road that she remembered Spencer would be picking her up at her parents’ house at roughly the same time she’d be dropping Davis off. She had to decide fast what, if anything, she was going to tell Spencer about his son.
CHAPTER THREE
SPENCER SPOTTED the dusty Econoline van in the driveway and grinned. Ray was back.
He parked and ran up the steps, his jacket slung over his shoulder. The afternoon had warmed up and the front door was open to let in the sunshine. Through it came smells of cooking and the brassy sound of a blues band.
Spencer climbed onto the porch steps. He could see his dad moving around in the kitchen dressed in black leather pants and a dark blue shirt. He was singing along with the music, and when he stopped to play a riff on an air guitar, his body vibrated right up to his graying ponytail.
“Ray!” Spencer pushed through the screen door and dropped his jacket on the couch on his way into the kitchen.
“Spence, my man!” Ray came around the counter, arms extended, ebullient as ever. “Is this a coincidence or what?”
Spencer met his dad in a back-slapping embrace. “Sooner or later we had to land here at the same time. Sorry I missed you this morning.”
“I ran into an old buddy of mine in Victoria last night. We tied one on and I spent the night on his couch. When I got back to the cottage this afternoon and saw your note, I went right out and got us some grub and a bottle of Kentucky’s finest.” Ray moved back into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll pour you one.”
“Great.” Spencer walked over to the fridge and took a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. He dropped them into a glass and Ray sloshed in a healthy shot of Jack Daniel’s. “How long has it been since ’Frisco? Two years? Three?”
“Four, I think.” Ray grinned, his black eyes crinkling, and added more bourbon to his glass. “It’s a good thing we meet occasionally by chance.”
They raised their drinks, glasses clinking. The bourbon hit Spencer’s empty stomach like a fireball. The spreading warmth blended with the gutsy music and his father’s positive vibes. Let the good times roll.
“So when did you get into town?” Spencer asked, leaning against the counter.
“Coupla weeks ago.” Ray set his glass down to wrap a potato in tin foil. He did another one and tossed them in the oven. “What brings you up north? I thought you never stayed in the same place twice.”
“Not if I can help it. I’m teaching up at the university.”
“Coming back to your old haunts and teaching, which I know you don’t like as much as research. You’re changing, Spence. Here’s to it.” He lifted his glass.
Spencer shook his head. “Just doing a favor for my old prof is all.”
“Adults go through stages same as kids,” Ray said. “Some changes are harder than others.”
Spencer laughed. “Come off it, Ray, you haven’t changed a bit.” He opened the fridge door and peered in. The shelves, bare this morning, were now full. “What are you making? I’m starving.”
“The finest New York steaks money can buy. Outside New York, that is. I was there, let’s see, two years ago. Had a few gigs lined up, so off we went.” He brushed his palms together, one hand sweeping off in a curving arc. “What a life.”
“I attended a conference in New York last April,” Spencer said, grabbing an apple from the bottom rack.
“Crazy town. I love it.” Ray unwrapped the steaks from the butcher’s paper. “Did you get to any clubs?”
“One or two. Heard a few old tunes by my namesake.” He crunched into crisp green skin. “I like their style of bluesy rock and roll, but do you know how hard it is to go through life as Spencer Davis Valiella? People either think it sounds affected or that Davis Valiella should be hyphenated.” Grimacing, he recalled his encounter with Ashton-Whyte. “I don’t care for hyphenated names.”
“It was cool at the time. Hey, I still like it.”
“Ah, forget it, Ray, I’m just razzing you. I sure appreciate you buying all this food. I’m living on credit till they put me on the payroll here. Or until my money arrives from Monterey.” He gestured with the hand holding the apple. “How come banks require weeks to electronically transfer money when it only takes a split second to send an e-mail?”
“You got me, man.” Ray’s smile wavered. “No money, eh? What a bummer.”
“So how’s your new band working out?”
“Fantastic!” Ray widened his smile, but something flickered in his eyes. He turned to the counter hesitantly, as though trying to remember what he was looking for.
“Your last CD was great, but it was a while ago,” Spencer said. “I’m looking forward to the next. When’s it coming out?”
“Uh...soon.” Ray grabbed the bottle of bourbon. “Here, let me top you up.”
“Thanks. Whoa, easy.”
Ray splashed some more into his own glass and put the bottle down. “Enough about me. What’s going on in your life?”
Spencer took a sip of his drink. Should he tell Ray about Meg? Would he mention her if she meant nothing to him? He decided he would. “Talk about coincidences. My honors student is a girl I knew from before. Meg McKenzie.” Her name fell self-consciously off his tongue.
“Hey, I remember meeting her. Blond, sassy smile—right? That’s great. You won’t want to hang with your old man all the time.” Ray slid a cast-iron frying pan onto the stove.
“I doubt I’ll be seeing her socially. The university frowns on fraternization between faculty and students.” It was a good excuse, anyway.
Ray poured cooking oil into the pan and turned on the heat. “I could see it if you’re talking about an old fart like me hittin’ on some sweet young thing, but you and Meg are about the same age.”
Spencer found he didn’t want to talk about Meg, after all. “Do you ever see Mom?”
Ray’s ever-present grin faded.
Damn. Surely he could have come up with something better than that to change topics.
“I called her to say hello before I came north,” Ray said.
“I went through San Clemente around Christmas last year,” Spencer said. “She seemed fine then.”
Ray rolled the oil around the pan. “She’s doing great. Big house, rich hubby. Most importantly, she’s happy. And I’m happy for her. You don’t have to pussyfoot around my feelings.”
Spencer nodded skeptically.
Ray laughed and spread his arms. “Hell, it’s been over twenty years. I haven’t exactly been alone all that time. How do you like your steak?
“Medium-rare.” Spencer eyed his father over the rim of his glass. Ray was always up, but tonight there was something a little manic about him.
Ray threw the steaks in the pan where they sizzled and sputtered in the hot oil. Spencer got plates out of the cupboard and carried them to the small wooden table tucked against the wall. A bentwood chair sat on either side. “How about giving me a preview of your new CD after dinner?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear your old man play. Let’s take a run into Victoria. We could hit some clubs, catch up with each other.”
“I still haven’t caught up with my sleep. I was planning on an early night.” Spencer got knives and forks out of the drawer and returned to the table. With his back to Ray, he laid out the cutlery. “What do you say? Just a tune or three right here.”
Silence.
Spencer straightened, turned. “Ray?”
The sober expression on his father’s face made the bourbon churn in his stomach.
Over the sound of the sizzling steaks, Ray said quietly, “I can’t play for you. I pawned my guitar to buy the food.”
Spencer felt the world shift on its axis. Ray had pawned his guitar? It was like the Pope giving up religion. “No way.”
“The band went bust,” Ray said, suddenly looking years older than fifty-two. “I haven’t worked in almost a year. I only came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
MEG CAME THROUGH THE DOOR of the bungalow, textbooks piled in her arms. In the kitchen Patrick sang in his hearty baritone, “‘I am the ruler of the King’s navy,’” then switched to a falsetto for the chorus, “‘Yes, he is the ruler of the King’s navy.’”
“Can I watch TV, Mom? Thanks.” Davis took off for the living room and in less time than it took her to shout, “Keep the volume down,” she could hear Daffy Duck lisping his way to destruction, and Davis chuckling like a maniac.
Meg kicked the door shut and shuffled into the dining area of the kitchen to set her pile of books on the table. Patrick had changed out of his uniform and into linen slacks and a matching taupe shirt. He’d donned an apron and was at that moment waving a carrot baton in front of Noel’s cage. Noel cocked his head to one side and squawked, “Na-vy!”
Meg took in Patrick’s grin. “You got the promotion!”
“It’s not official...but I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”
“Oo-ooh, that’s so great,” Meg squealed, and ran around to hug him. “What will be your official title?”
“Lieutenant Patrick Warren, at your service,” he replied with a snappy salute and clicking heels.
“Very impressive.” Containing a smile, she stepped back to study him, one finger laid alongside her cheek. “But don’t you think the frilly pink apron rather mars the effect?”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.” Patrick went back to the kitchen counter and began tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. “There’s just one teensy-weensy little thing you should know.”
“What’s that?” Meg eyed him narrowly. Patrick’s teensy-weensy little things generally turned out to be the size of battleships.
“I might have given the selection panel the impression I was married. With a son.”
“Patrick! How are you going to pull that off? And why? I thought it was against navy rules to harass people for their sexual orientation.”
“That’s official policy, sweetcheeks. Sure, I could win a case if it came up, but after all the trouble I go to being discreet, I don’t want the publicity. Daddy would not be amused.”
“He’s some high-mucka-muck in the navy, isn’t he?”
“My dear, he’s practically an admiral.”
“How amused is he going to be when he hears you’ve got a family you haven’t bothered to mention?”
“He’s based in Ottawa. Gossip doesn’t travel that far east. A harassment suit would.” Patrick ripped at the lettuce as though storming the beaches.
“Patrick, does your father know?”
“I told him a couple years ago. He hasn’t disowned me or anything, but he doesn’t like it spread around.”
“Oh. Well, okay, I’ll be your cover. Those navy types aren’t going to come poking around the house, are they?”
Patrick flapped a hand. “I doubt it. But if anyone calls whose voice you don’t recognize, can you throw in a reference to ‘my husband, Patrick’?”
“I’ll try to remember,” Meg said, and reached for a carrot stick.
“Those are for Davis,” he said, slapping her hand away. “So how did it go at the university?”
Meg let her shoulders sag. “Emotionally exhausting. Terrifying. Weird.”
“And you haven’t even started classes yet.” He pushed an open bottle of chardonnay across the counter. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and tell me all about it. I’ve been prostrate with curiosity about your mysterious phone call.”
Meg got herself a glass of wine and sat on the bar stool across the counter from Patrick. “That was my new honors supervisor who called.”
Patrick stopped tearing lettuce. “Go on. Is he a hunk?”
“You could say that. But mainly, he’s Davis’s—”
“Mom, when’s dinner?”
Meg gave a start. Drops of cool wine spilled over her fingers. “Davis! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking, I was just walking,” Davis said with an expression of bewildered hurt. “Is it dinnertime yet?”
“Almost,” Patrick said. “How about setting some plates on the table, champ? That way dinner will happen a lot quicker.”
“Okay.” On his way to the cupboard, Davis paused at the recycling bin to pick up a plastic yogurt lid. Forgetting about the plates, he wandered around the kitchen, swooping the lid through the air. “Bweep. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
“Davis,” Meg said. “The table.”
“I’m a UFO. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
Meg exchanged a glance with Patrick. Some days were better than others. Unfortunately Davis’s bad days often seemed to coincide with hers. She got up and pulled a stack of plates out of the cupboard. “Earth to Davis,” she said in her best automaton voice. “Transport circular space stations to planet Table.”
“Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.” Davis took the plates.
They got through dinner. Then Davis’s bath and bedtime story and the ritual arranging of his toys around the edge of his bed. Then the bedtime song. Twice. When he was finally tucked in, Meg remembered they hadn’t played catch. Well, she wasn’t foolish enough to mention it now.
She returned to the kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of decaf from Patrick.
“So, where were we?” Patrick sat opposite Meg at the table and added a spoonful of sugar crystals to his coffee.
Meg ran a thumb around the rim of her cup. “My supervisor is Spencer Valiella—Davis’s father.”
Patrick ceased stirring his coffee. “No!”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to explain the complications. She’d told Patrick the whole story years ago, ruining his best silk shirt with her tears in the process. But she hadn’t cried over Spencer in years. And she refused to start again now.
“So how do you feel about this?” Patrick asked.
Meg sipped her coffee. “Confused. Worried. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to tell the man,” Patrick said firmly. “Right away, before you start lying about it.”
“I’ve been lying by omission for years.”
“And feeling guilty about it, right?”
She couldn’t deny it. “Spencer’s got his own life. How’s he going to feel if he suddenly finds out he’s got a kid?”
“Good question. Tell him and find out. For all you know, he might be thrilled.” Patrick paused. “Do you still love him?”
“I haven’t seen him in seven years. In all that time he’s never so much as sent me a postcard.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Meg ran a hand down her hair and pulled up a fistful of ends for inspection. The chemistry between her and Spencer had to do with lust, not love. “No, of course I don’t love him.”
“Hmm.” Patrick sounded unconvinced.
She made a face. “He’s probably already planning where he’ll be going after he leaves here. A son would be an inconvenience.”
“You’re not giving him credit.”
“Okay, I agree Spencer has a right to know. But I have a right to protect my child from hurt. Do you have any idea what it would do to Davis to meet his father only to have him leave again? As he will.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Anyway, a part-time father is better than none.”
“The last thing I need is him popping in and out of my life every six months.”
“You’re not over him.”
“I don’t know,” Meg wailed, and propped her head in her hands. “Everything’s finally coming together for me. Davis is about to start school and he’s got more than enough to adjust to right now. You know how hard transitions are for him.”
Patrick wagged a finger at her. “You’re rationalizing . This Spencer character should be paying support, if nothing else.”
Meg gazed wearily at her friend. “I know he would if I asked. But I made the decision to have Davis. Nobody else. I can do it on my own. And get my degree.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, darling. I’m not your mother.” Patrick lifted his cup with slender fingers and drank.
“The problem will be keeping the two of them apart,” Meg went on. “I’m dropping Davis off at my dad’s on Saturday while Spencer and I go kayaking. One look at Davis and Spencer will know he’s—” Meg froze, her head tilted toward the hallway. “Did you hear something?”
Patrick put his cup down quietly. “No.”
She got up and tiptoed into the hall. Crouched behind the door was Davis. Meg went cold all over. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“How long have you been sitting there?”
“I don’t know.”
She took him by the hand and tugged him gently to his feet. It was hard to be cross when she knew the medication made him wakeful, but she felt sick thinking about what he might have heard. “You’ve got to get used to early nights, honey. When school starts, we’ll have to be up early.”
“Can I stay up for a while?”
“No.” She led him back down the hall to his bedroom. “Did you hear what Patrick and I were talking about?” She hoped her interest sounded casual.
“Kayaking. Can I come? Please?” Davis tugged on her hand. “I’ve always wanted to go kayaking.”
Relief made her knees weak. He must not have heard the whole conversation. “This Saturday Grandpa’s taking you golfing with him. Remember I told you about it in the car?”
“Oh, yeah,” Davis said happily as he climbed back into bed. “I like Grandpa. He lets me keep the tees.”
“Good night, honey.” Meg placed a kiss on his forehead.
“Can I have my song?”
“You had it already.”
“Can I have another one?”
“No. Good night. And stay in bed.”
DAVIS WATCHED HIS MOM close the door. His eyes remained open, adjusting to the darkness. Mom had said the guy she was going kayaking with was named Spencer. His dad was named Spencer. But if this man was his dad, Mom would have told him. Grown-ups acted real dumb sometimes. And sometimes they lied. But not Mom. She never lied to him. And she wouldn’t keep something that big a secret.
Gradually Davis’s eyes drifted shut despite his best efforts to keep them open. Images floated through his head. There was water all around, and islands, like when he and Mom went on the ferry. Only he wasn’t looking down at the water from above. He was in a kayak. A two-seater. A man sat behind him, paddling. Davis couldn’t see the man’s face, but somehow he knew it was his dad. Drops flew off the paddle blades as they rose and fell, splashing on Davis’s cheeks. His father’s strong strokes were taking them toward the tall black fins of the killer whales. Davis drifted deeper toward unconsciousness. Just before he went under, he saw Tommy’s face floating mysteriously above the kayak. Davis smiled at him. See, Tommy, I do too have a dad.
SPENCER PAUSED outside Doc’s room in the cardiac unit. Now that he was here he almost didn’t want to go in and see his mentor diminished. One fallen idol was bad enough.
But when he’d come by the other day, Doc had been asleep. So Spencer put on a smile and strode into the room. “Hey, Doc.”
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.”
She smiled at that. He’d forgotten the way her smile could warm him deep down inside. There’d been other women, before and since, though right now he couldn’t recall a single one. But who had Meg McKenzie become? One minute she wore her maturity like she used to wear silk blouses, with confidence and style. The next minute she was a mass of nerves, as jumpy as a spooked cat.
They cruised down the highway to Swartz Bay, hitting every green light from Elk Lake on. “It’s times like this you’ve just gotta believe in a supreme being,” Spencer said, one hand draped across the top of the wheel.
“Oh?” Meg replied with a sarcastic grin. “You mean, he’s turning the lights green so Spencer Valiella won’t have to slow down?”
He grinned. “She is making sure Meg McKenzie catches her ferry.” He paused. “It is still McKenzie, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She frowned at him. “I told you I wasn’t married.”
“Right.” Then who was the guy who’d answered her phone this morning when Spencer had called to let her know which ferry he was aiming to catch? He’d sounded sleepy, as though he’d reached over to the bedside table to pick up the receiver. “Got a boyfriend?”
“Is that any of your business?”
“Guess not.”
They came over the rise and into the vast paved area comprising row upon row of lanes filling with cars lining up for the ferries. Spencer curved off into the one leading to the ticket booth for Fulford Harbor on Saltspring Island. As the attendant handed over their tickets, she expressed some doubt as to whether they would make this sailing.
“We’ll make it,” Spencer assured her. He sped down the appropriate lane, careered around a curve and zipped over the ramp even as the warning buzzer was sounding for the seamen to cast off. The Camaro hit the steel deck with a deafening ka-thunk. The muffler sounded like thunder in the echo chamber of the car deck until he cut the engine. The ferry gave three short and one long blasts of the horn, and they were under way.
Spencer turned to Meg with a self-satisfied grin.
She rolled her eyes. “I need a coffee.”
They went upstairs to the cafeteria and got coffee to go.
“Outside,” Spencer said, and led the way to the bow where the wind blew their hair straight back and the green shapes of the Gulf Islands were spread out before them. Blue water, blue sky, glaucous-winged gulls wheeling overhead, and the majestic white prow of the Queen of Nanaimo as she came around the point.
Spencer leaned against the rail and drank in the fresh salt air. Being on the water always put him in a more mellow mood. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here.”
“You never would have known if you hadn’t come back.”
He glanced at Meg. She’d spoken lightly, yet he sensed a change in her mood, too, only she’d gotten serious. Still, there was history between them and her words meant something whether he acknowledged them or not. “I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”
A swift glance, as blue as the sky. And then she was clutching her foam cup so hard it bent. “You hurt me,” she said quietly. “I thought we were friends.”
“We were friends.” The sudden tensing of her mouth told him he’d hurt her again, unwittingly. God, he was inadequate when it came to the spoken word. He tried to catch her eye and communicate his caring. But she wouldn’t look at him.
“Were you happy at all when you lived here before, Spencer?”
He was surprised at the question. Surprised at himself for not knowing the answer. “Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re happy until you go back to a place and see what feelings it evokes.”
“That is the statement of someone completely out of touch with their emotions.” A loose strand of hair blew across her face and she brushed it away. “So, what feelings does Victoria evoke in you?”
She hadn’t asked about Saltspring, although they were nearing the island. That would have been too loaded a question. But the edge to her voice told him she meant what feelings did she evoke. He’d repressed those feelings for so long he wasn’t sure he could define them. He only knew she shouldn’t expect too much from him. “I don’t know. Guess I’m still out of touch.”
She was silent, watching the timber-and-glass houses perched on the island’s steep shoreline slip past.
He didn’t want her to want something he couldn’t give her. But to say so would be presumptuous. “I’ve applied to Bergen for a research position.”
“Bergen? You mean in Norway?”
“Yes, at the marine research institute there. The position may come up before the year is over.”
She nodded. “I thought it would be something like that.”
When the announcement telling passengers to return to their vehicles came on, Spencer was relieved. He tossed his empty cup into a bin and held the door open for Meg. Her hair whipped around his bare elbow, anchoring her to him for a moment. Their eyes met as she pulled it away. There was sadness in her gaze.
Spencer hated himself for putting it there.
THE DEEP BLUE WATER off the north end of Saltspring Island sparkled invitingly. Meg stood on the edge of the cobble beach while her kayak rocked gently in the shallows at her feet. In spite of the warmth of the sun, a cool breeze blew over the water and she was glad of her fleece pullover.
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Joan Kilby
A LITTLE SECRETThe first time he left without telling herThe second time she asked him to go…Meg McKenzie, a marine biology student with a passion for killer whales, is shocked to discover that Spencer Valiella is her thesis supervisor. Spencer is an old flame–the love of her life, actually, and, although he doesn't know it, the father of her son. They met and fell in love one summer while Meg was an undergraduate student…but then Spencer left.To the surprise of neither Meg nor Spencer, the intense feelings they had for each ofhter still exist, and when Spencer learns Meg had his child, they grow even stronger.But old demons plague him–that restlessness, that yearning, that need to be unattached. In spite of Spencer's great love for her and their son, Meg knows he has to leave.It takes a terrifying experience for Spencer to see that living with Meg and his son, loving and caring for them with abandon, is what will truly make him free.
“Saying I love you—it’s like a promise,” Spencer told Meg (#u2d8c3c8e-0d38-58fa-ba6d-fb2c6266a465)Letter to Reader (#ub13cdbce-8296-51d3-a1ce-37aa9618fbc7)Title Page (#u4dba858f-2232-5208-b4c4-b33d80c1de3e)Dedication (#u23dc8d16-b608-537a-9a48-3bfa6f8a8f3f)ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#u81bed955-c323-5caf-8c26-f1263344ebd3)PROLOGUE (#u907715da-d756-5aeb-8f00-c9f939749743)CHAPTER ONE (#u9a97f4cc-09b2-5b2d-bd0f-94abf65bcf52)CHAPTER TWO (#uc07000ef-6134-5826-b05d-eb9b1e489678)CHAPTER THREE (#ua75f80f7-41b3-5243-a453-7aed7498df0c)CHAPTER FOUR (#u2933d025-c72a-5063-834c-e5d8f2558f31)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Saying I love you—it’s like a promise,” Spencer told Meg
“But making promises I can’t keep is worse than any lie.”
“Cant or won’t?” she asked bitterly.
“I don’t want to stay in one place. I don’t want a house in the suburbs. It’s all too safe. Too much sameness. The monotony, the boredom scare me.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said.
His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. “I’ve never forgotten you, Meg. I dream about you. When I was in California I’d look up at the night sky and think, these same stars are shining down on Meg. When I was on the water, I felt the ocean currents connecting us even though we were apart. When we’re together, I want to be with you. I want to make love to you....”
The ache inside her was part physical need, part emotional connection that defied time and logic. But could she handle a relationship on his terms? Yes, she could, she would, yes, yes—
Davis. She’d forgotten what her involvement with Spencer could do to her son...their son, though Spencer still didn’t know it. Her blood cooled Her eyes opened. She pushed on Spencer’s shoulders, clumsily trying to move him off her.
“I can’t do this, Spencer.” Another meteorite blazed across the sky and was gone. “I’ve had enough. Please take me home.”
Dear Reader,
Before I became a writer, I was a marine biologist. Although Spencer’s Child is a fictional story with fictional characters, I drew upon my experiences living and working on the west coast of British Columbia to give it authenticity. I never studied killer whales, but in researching this book I’ve learned so much about these wonderful animals I almost wish I had one.
Through the Vancouver Aquarium, I became the proud adoptive parent of Takush, a northern resident killer whale. The names of the whales Spencer and Meg work with are taken from records of whales identified on the B.C. coast, although the whales don’t all belong to the same pod in real life.
As for my characters, Spencer is one of my favorite kinds of hero—a brilliant but flawed loner, untamable and unattainable. Loving such a man could haunt a woman all her life—especially when she’s borne his child. It was a great pleasure for me to create a heroine, Meg, whose vulnerability is balanced by inner strength, and whose abiding love ultimately heals Spencer and brings them together, forever, with all the joy they so richly deserve.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Joan Kilby
Spencer’s Child
Joan Kilby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my father, for instilling in me the belief that I could
accomplish anything I set my heart on and making sure I
had the discipline to achieve my goals.
And to Nan, for giving me the gift of time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Volker Deeke for sharing his expert
knowledge in the field of killer whale bioacoustics and for
patiently answering my many questions.
Meg Pocklington (who has the same name as my heroine
purely by coincidence!) of the Vancouver Aquarium was
of great assistance in helping me gather information on
killer whales.
Any technical errors are mine.
PROLOGUE
MEG PEERED THROUGH her microscope at the marine polychaete curled on its side in the petri dish. With one hand she held open the identification guide to marine invertebrates of the Pacific Northwest; with the other she used a probe to count the bristles arranged in paired sets on each segment. She’d almost finished when the chair next to hers scraped back and someone dropped into the empty seat.
Her concentration broken, Meg glanced up. And her heart beat a little faster.
Spencer Valiella. His brown hair was long and unkempt, as though permanently ruffled by the wind that blew in off the Pacific. He wore khaki pants and a faded black sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out. On the crest of his tanned biceps rode the tattoo of a leaping killer whale.
No one knew much about Spencer. He was a loner. Also a fourth-year honors student here at the University of Victoria and reputed to be brilliant. Yet not the kind of boy her parents would approve of. But she’d noticed him around the building, found him wildly attractive and now he was sitting right beside her.
“His,” she said. “I’m Meg.”
“Spencer.” Barely glancing her way, he hauled his beat-up leather satchel onto the table and began to rummage inside.
Her gaze slid back to the killer whale tattoo. She’d been fascinated with the sleek black-and-white marine mammals ever since she was eight years old and one had leaped straight out of the water not fifty feet from her father’s cabin cruiser. She’d gone into biology with the sole intention of studying them.
“Are you sure you’re in the right class?” she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. “This is Marine Invertebrates 301—a third-year course.”
His features were clean and straight, his sea-green eyes so dark that when she gazed into them she swore she could hear things that went bump in the night.
He took in her styled blond hair, miniskirt and designer top and smiled briefly. “I’m where I have to be, princess.”
Meg turned up her nose and pretended interest in the worm.
Spencer pulled a laboratory manual out of his satchel. A folded square of paper came out with it and slid across the table. From the corner of her eye, Meg saw it coming and stopped it with her hand. She recognized the pale greens and blues and dotted curving lines of a navigation chart.
“Are you into boating?” she asked, sliding it back. “My dad has a cabin cruiser. We go over to Port Townsend all the time.”
“I have a kayak.”
For a second she thought he was being apologetic. But the look that accompanied his words withered that notion and made her cheeks flush. Spencer Valiella was not impressed by clothes or looks or wealth. Meg had brains, too, but she doubted he was interested enough to find out.
He tucked the chart back into his satchel and leaned closer to her microscope. “What have you got there—a polychaete?”
He seemed oblivious to the fact that his knee was now touching hers. She found it hard to focus on anything but the heat generated by the point of contact. Or the wild clean scent of salt air on his skin. “I’m almost finished the ID,” she said without looking up. “You can have the worm when I’m done.”
With a flick of his finger, Spencer turned the worm onto its dorsal surface. “Abarenicola pacifica.”
Meg blinked. It had taken her twenty minutes just to get the family name. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“How many segments is it supposed to have?”
“Twenty,” he said, sounding bored. “Three pairs of branched gills containing hemoglobin on the anterior segment.”
“Wait a minute.” She flipped through the pages of the identification key to the species’ descriptions. “You’re right.”
Meg wrote the name in her notebook beside her pencil illustration of the worm. “Thanks,” she said, and gave him her most brilliant smile. “I’m interested in killer whales, too. Are you studying them for your honors thesis?”
One corner of his mouth curved slowly upward. Above his high cheekbones, his dark eyes gleamed. “Only one thing you need to know about me, princess. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”
“Oh, really.” She started to close her notebook, annoyed with herself now for even trying to get through to the guy.
“Wait a minute.” He reached for the notebook and took a closer look at her drawing of the worm, which was accurate and detailed, down to the very last segment and bristle. “This is good.”
Pride put a bloom in her cheeks. She whipped her notebook away and stuffed it into her bag. She didn’t need approval from Spencer Valiella.
With the eraser end of a pencil, he pushed back the lock of hair that hid her face. “I’m studying communication between maternal groups of resident killer whales, Meg.”
Reluctantly, yet irresistibly, she raised her eyes to his.
“I’ll take you along sometime if you’re seriously interested,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she replied as casually as she could. “I’m interested.”
CHAPTER ONE
FROM THE TOP FLOOR of his rented house. Spencer gazed out over the tiled roofs of Monterey Bay. Beyond the rocky shore lay the Pacific, blue and wrinkled, darker in patches where kelp forests swayed beneath the surface. The ocean stretched northward, its currents linking this temporary home with another he’d known in Victoria, British Columbia.
In his thirty-one years Spencer had moved thirty-five times. Victoria was one place he’d sworn never to return to. He still thought about Meg. Still felt the tug on his soul across the miles, across the years. A tug he’d resisted seven years ago and finally fled.
But Doc Campbell, his honors supervisor, had just suffered a stroke. Doc, his good friend and mentor, wanted Spencer to take over his marine mammals class until he could return to work. Christmas, at the latest, Doc had promised. The plea had been followed up by a formal request from Randolph Ashton-Whyte, the head of the biology department.
Spencer paced the sparsely furnished living room. His postdoctoral fellowship at the Monterey Aquarium had wound to a close. He’d applied for another research position in Bergen, Norway, but it could be months before he got word on that.
He didn’t want to go back to Victoria and memories of Meg. But for Doc he’d do it.
Two days later Spencer roared through Victoria in his beat-up Camaro with the California plates and muffler fall of holes. He had a kayak strapped to the roof rack, and the back end was loaded down with boxes of books, electronic gear and the few personal effects he’d hung on to over the years. He’d come straight up from Monterey, driving all day and all night, stopping only for gas and coffee and microwaved burritos that tasted like the cardboard they were served in.
It was eight in the morning when Spencer turned onto the potholed ribbon of asphalt that led to his father Ray’s beach cottage in Sooke, west of Victoria. A patchwork of brightly colored wooden houses lined the beach. Across the road, towering Douglas firs spilled their resiny scent into the mid-August heat where it mingled with the salt of the ocean. Spencer rolled down the window and his fingers tapped out the bass of an old Queen song on the hot black roof of the Camaro.
He slowed as he came around the bend, an eye out for the cottage his father had bought twenty years ago with the proceeds from the sale of his first record album. Ray’s flirtation with domesticity had been brief, coinciding with the birth of Spencer’s younger sister, Janis, and lasting only until the next big gig lured him across the continent. Except for the two years Spencer had spent at the university, the cottage had been inhabited off and on by itinerant musician friends of his father’s. His mother had split long ago, taking Janis and Spencer south to her native San Clemente, where she’d eventually settled down with, of all people, an investment banker. Spencer guessed he couldn’t blame her. Some people needed stability.
Around a bend he spotted the mailbox carved from driftwood and slowed to pull into the gravel driveway beside the tiny wooden house with peeling blue paint. The yard was overgrown with weeds and a wind chime of oyster shells clattered in the breeze that drifted around the porch.
He unfolded his limbs from the car and sucked the strong salt air deep into his lungs. Across the grass-strewn sand dunes, the ocean beckoned. The seemingly limitless expanse made him breathe easier. Home. The thought made him laugh. Like the tortoise, his home was on his back. Or more precisely, in the Camaro.
Yawning from lack of sleep, he pulled his duffel bag and laptop computer from the trunk and deposited them on the porch. The house appeared to be empty, as he’d hoped. He reached into a side pocket of the duffel for his key ring. Not the one with the brass killer whale that held his car keys, but the plain steel circle that held the keys to the cottage. And the keys to Doc’s laboratory and office. He’d never returned those when he left. If he believed in fate, he might have thought it was because he was meant to return.
Spencer opened the torn screen door and put the key in the lock knowing it wasn’t fate that had made him hang on to the keys. The research vessel he’d worked on that last summer had set sail early to follow a bumper salmon run that was drawing the killer whales north of their usual habitat. He hadn’t had time to drop off the keys. Or to say goodbye to... anyone.
The screen door banged shut behind him. Inside, the cottage wore the somnolent air of endless summer that seemed to inhabit all beach houses. Before his mother’s defection to southern climes, she’d hung curtains of sand-colored handwoven cloth shot with strands of aqua. The detritus of beach-combing expeditions littered the windowsills: shells, bits of twisted and polished driftwood, colored glass fishing floats washed ashore after perhaps decades at sea.
The plain board floor creaked beneath his feet, the sound muffled by a large oval rag rug. He crossed to the far wall, drawn by an enlarged black-and-white photo of Subpod C3: Kitasu, the matriarch; Geetla and Joker, her two grown sons; and Takush, her daughter. Takush was old enough to have a calf of her own by now. Spencer could still recognize individual killer whales by the shape and size of their dorsal fins and the scars on their sleek black-and-white hides. They seemed more like old friends than the subjects of his honors thesis.
He wondered if their dialect of calls and whistles had altered in the years he’d been gone. He planned to paddle out to see them for old time’s sake, but there was no point starting a research program when he’d be leaving again so soon. Doc had sounded robust in spite of his slurred speech when Spencer had called the hospital from Seattle. He’d surely be back by Christmas.
Dropping his duffel bag next to a low bookshelf crammed with tattered paperbacks, Spencer carried his laptop into the kitchen. His head was fuzzy with fatigue but he wanted to check his e-mail—the closest thing he had to a permanent address—before he hit the sack for a few z’s. He set the laptop on the table, plugged it in, then attached the modem to the phone jack on the wall beside the fridge. As he flicked the switch he realized belatedly there might not be any electricity or phone connection. To his surprise, numbers flashed across the screen as the system booted up. He dialed his service provider in California, waiting for the dialog box that would tell him he couldn’t connect...
Brrrinnng.
So the phone was on, too. He hit “receive messages” and got up to look around while the in-box filled.
A used coffee cup sat in the sink. An empty milk carton peeked out of the garbage bin. Damn. Someone was here, after all.
Spencer strode back to the living room and stood at the entrance to the short hall where the two bedrooms were. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Silence.
He knocked softly on the door to the main bedroom and when there was still no answer, pushed it open. The bed was a tangle of thin wool blankets and forest-green sheets. A pile of dirty clothes sat on the floor beside the open closet.
Who was staying here? And where were they now?
Then Spencer noticed the battered guitar case propped against the wall behind the door. The medley of souvenir stickers from cities across the continent spoke of decades of life on the road. He knew that guitar case. A grin spread across his face. His father was in town. He hadn’t seen Ray for a few years, not since he’d driven down to San Francisco from Seattle to catch the Brass Monkeys in concert. Ray had been riding high, a new record deal and a promotional tour in the offing.
Spencer had a flash of memory of doing schoolwork in a bus seat while music blared and his father and the guys in the band played cards or wrote songs. As a kid, he’d loved going on the road with them. Pulling out of the hotel parking lot at dawn, a new city every night, the excitement of the unknown—all were magnified in his young mind. As an adult he still got a kick out of moving on. As if maybe this time he was going to find the Holy Grail, whatever that was. Victoria was a step backward, but seeing Ray would make the trip worthwhile.
Where the hell was he? Spencer shut the door to his father’s room and went back to the kitchen. Ray would turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile, at the top of his in-box was a message from the head of the biology department at University of Victoria.
Dr. Valiella,
Did I mention that Angus Campbell has an honors student? Please give her a call ASAP. Her name is Meg McKenzie, phone number...
Spencer rocked back in his chair, his pulse thrumming. Meg. Could this be his Meg McKenzie? No way. She’d only been one year behind him. She would have finished her degree long ago and gone on to either graduate studies or a job somewhere.
Spencer got up to pace across to the window overlooking the tiny backyard. Meg’s image, tucked away in his subconscious, surged forth. Impish smile, bright eyes the blue of a robin’s egg, hair the color of sunlight. The memory of her laughter rang in his ears, the careless confident laughter of a girl possessed of talent, brains and wealth.
He shut his eyes and the blackness behind his lids pulsed with pinpricks of light. They were the stars above a campsite on Saltspring Island. Sleeping bags zipped together, bare limbs entwined. The wonder of their first time together.
And their last. For a few short hours he’d been able to give her what she wanted.
If only she hadn’t said what she’d said.
He’d known then he’d never be able to give her what she needed.
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. It was years ago. Time he forgot about her.
But he had to call.
His hand hovered over the phone. Even if it was Meg, she might not remember him. The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her busy social schedule.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.
ABOVE THE INCESSANT squawk of Noel, her son’s golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing telephone. She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis’s bedroom. His cry of frustration stabbed straight to the “mother” center of her brain. God, she hoped this was only a phase. But it was one phase after another.
With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms. As she passed the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the roar of the shower. At least Patrick’s noise was cheerful.
She paused in her son’s doorway. Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt. At the sight of her, his cries rose a decibel.
“Mom! It won’t do up.” Angry tears spurted from his dark green eyes. Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best. and the worst, period of her life.
“Come here, sweetie.” Meg dropped to her knees and held out her arms. From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.
A lock of straight brown hair fell over Davis’s scowling forehead, but he didn’t budge. Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.
With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through. “I did it!”
“Do you know why it was so hard?” Meg asked, her tone carefully matter-of fact. “Your shirt is inside out.”
“I know that.” He started to jam another button through its hole. His smooth olive skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.
Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out. “Now, show me again how you can do up those buttons.”
A few minutes later Davis’s buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.
Meg pulled him into a hug. Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had to be learned over and over again. He could build complex Lego structures without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who’d done three years of university biology. But he couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds at a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as soon as they were given.
He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn’t love him desperately, she’d surely have strangled him before he’d turned three. But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.
“Put your pants on,” she said, handing him a pair of navy corduroys.
Davis grasped the pants by the elasticized waist and raised a leg. He lost his balance, so he moved to lean against the bed. He got one leg in, then paused to study a fly cleaning its forelegs on the windowsill.
Meg waited. “Your pants, honey. Davis. Davis.”
“What?” His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.
“Your pants.” She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life. She, who at the best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.
Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys. Then, “Oh.” He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the waistband around his skinny hips. When he got them on, he kept on hopping. “Look at me, I’m a bunny.”
Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.
He squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous. “I don’t want to go to day care. Kids are mean to me.”
Meg’s heart sank. She’d been afraid of this even though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she’d be discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime. How much worse would it be when he went to school? “There’s nothing wrong with having to take medicine.”
“It’s not that,” he said, his small hands clenched into fists. “Tommy said...he...I couldn’t go to...to big kids’ school if I didn’t have a daddy.”
“Oh, Davis.” Meg gathered her son into her arms. Over his shoulder, she glanced at her watch. He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was going to be on time to register for classes at the university. But even though they’d been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions. Maybe it was her sensitivity. Or maybe it was guilt. She just wished she had better answers.
“You do have a daddy,” she said. “He’s just not like other dads. He’s...special.”
“Because he studies killer whales?” Davis jiggled his legs.
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?” He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.
“He’s...” A lover. A loner. A modern-day Ulysses. He’s a genius. A bastard. And my poor heart’s desire. “He can take the peel off an entire orange in just one strip.”
“Really? Wow.” Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due. “But why doesn’t he...you know?”
“What?”
“Live with us. Doesn’t he like us?” Davis dropped the car and picked up a toy sword. He began banging it on the floor.
“This isn’t his home, sweetheart, you know that—Please stop banging. I don’t think he’s ever had a real home. But if he knew about you, I know he’d love you just as much as I do.” She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she often did, if that was true.
“How come you didn’t tell him about me?” There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice. Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.
She took the sword off him. He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it, instead.
“I tried to tell him, years ago. I...couldn’t get through.”
The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore radio. But when she’d realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat. Then, when she was eight months along, she’d called him in Seattle where he was doing his masters degree. Before she could mention the baby, he’d started talking about scholarships and a Ph.D. at a prestigious university. It wasn’t the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that had been a consideration. It was the excitement in his voice when he talked about moving on. New location, new research topic, new everything. Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly. Meg had guts but apparently not enough.
It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby. Nor was it his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role model. None of it was his fault. And all of it was.
Not a day went by when she didn’t think of him. Not a trip to the university when she didn’t look for him around every corner even though she knew he’d left the country years ago. Hopeless. Futile. Pathetic. It was a good thing she was over him.
The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves. “Stop.”
“I want to learn to play baseball,” Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the bat. “Tommy’s dad plays catch with him.”
“I’ll teach you. When we get home tonight we’ll toss the ball around, okay?” She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet. “It’s just you and me, kid, better get used to it. Come on. Your oatmeal is almost ready.”
“First I’m going to see Charlie.”
Charlie, the lizard. Meg watched Davis race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks flapping loosely in front of his toes. Pull up your socks, she wanted to. shout, but didn’t. The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice but to pull them up, figuratively speaking. Please, God, give my boy an understanding teacher.
She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick sailed into the kitchen. His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a knife-edge. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Davis all right?”
“He’s fine. Just a minor skirmish with his buttons.”
“Good. Now, how do I look?” Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched. “I’ve got an interview with the selection committee today, and I’m that far away from promotion.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.
“You look terrific.” She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie a little straighter. “I just love a man in uniform.”
“So do I, sweetie. So do I,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Meg laughed. “You’re terrible. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably slit your little wrists.” Patrick turned as Davis came into the kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands. “I’m in the galley tonight, champ. What would you like for dinner?”
“Hot dogs!” Davis opened his hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.
Patrick planted his fists on his hips. “You simply must expand your repertoire, mister. But discipline’s your mom’s department. Hot dogs, it is. I’ll make Caesar salad for us.” he added to Meg.
“Patrick You know I’m trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all.”
Patrick turned puppy-dog eyes on her. They always made her cave. As he well knew.
“Oh, all right. Since you’re cooking, you get to choose.”
They might as well be married the way they argued over Davis’s upbringing. She had the final say of course, but she couldn’t squash all of Patrick’s many indulgences.
“Davis,” she said, turning to her son, “get Charlie out of your collar and back in his cage. Then run and wash your hands. You don’t want lizard slime in your oatmeal.”
“Lizards aren’t slimy, Mom. Sheesh!” But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion. Just to let her know he was complying under duress.
Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away. “Keep going,” she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.
Patrick clucked his tongue as he put the kettle on to boil. “Ease up on the boy,” he said, measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger. “Watching his every move like a hawk won’t teach him self-reliance.”
Meg dropped a handful of raisins into the oatmeal and turned down the heat. “Oh, Patrick, you know what he’s like.”
“Vividly. But you can’t be the earth, moon and stars to the child. You need a break before school starts. Why don’t you let me look after him for a couple of days while you pamper yourself with a weekend at the Empress Hotel?”
“You know I can’t afford that.”
Even if she could afford a weekend at the Empress, she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Patrick’s life-style; he was just way too lenient. Davis constantly pushed the limits. He needed a firm hand. He needed stability, continuity and routine. He needed to know where he stood every moment of the day. She could just imagine how spun out her son would be after a couple of days with Patrick giving him whatever his heart desired. If only she could call on her mother.... But there was no use wishing.
The telephone began to ring again.
Meg reached for the cordless phone and, still stirring the oatmeal, tucked it under her chin while she opened the fridge to get some milk. “Hello?”
Noel hopped out of his open cage above the kitchen counter and onto her shoulder. “Hello?” he squawked in her other ear.
“Get away.” She brushed at the bird and it flew to the top of the fridge. “Sorry, not you,” she said into the receiver. Behind her she could hear Davis rummaging through the cupboard. The kettle began to hiss. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
A man cleared his throat. “May I speak to Meg McKenzie?”
Her hand froze on the wooden spoon. Spencer. She’d know his deep voice anywhere, anytime. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen seemed to swirl. The sounds around her faded away. Without warning she was snatched from the mundane activities of breakfast and dropped, like a stone through water, into the past. She was sinking, fast.
“Who is this?” she whispered hoarsely, buying time. What could he be calling for now, after all these years?
“Spencer...” He paused. “Spencer Valiella.”
A prickling chill ran from behind her ears and down her arms. Glancing up, she saw Patrick’s round hazel eyes regarding her avidly. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face, which she was sure must be pale.
“Dr. Ashton-Whyte from the university asked me to call you,” Spencer went on, as though speaking to a stranger. “I’m taking over Dr. Campbell’s position—I assume you know he had a stroke?”
His words caused a roaring in her ears. Spencer, it’s me you’re talking to. “Yes. I—I went to see him in the hospital.”
There was a pause, then he said slowly, “I used to know a Meg McKenzie—about seven years ago. She did the best biological illustrations I’ve ever seen.”
He did remember. If she shut her eyes she could almost imagine she was hearing his voice in the dark—
“Mom! Can I have my oatmeal? I’m starving.”
Davis. Meg felt her spine go cold. Spinning around, she held a finger against her lips to shush him, then hurried over to spoon oatmeal into his bowl.
With her free hand pressed to her other ear, she walked back into the kitchen and said quietly into the receiver, “Thank you. Spencer.”
Silence while she listened to the sound of her thudding heart and shallow breath.
“Meg,” he said at last, “so it is you. I couldn’t believe it at first. How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Unexpectedly anger coursed through her, bringing the blood back to her cheeks. She was not fine. He’d made love to her, then left town without even saying goodbye.
“I had no idea you would be taking over Dr. Campbell’s position,” she said, covering her anger with an artificially bright voice, taking refuge from hurt by reverting to her preppy self of seven years ago. Before Davis. Before poverty. Before the falling out with her mother.
“I’ve kept in touch with Doc over the years,” Spencer said. “He knew I was available and suggested to Ashton-Whyte I’d be suitable for the job. I’ll be an assistant professor, not a full professor like Doc, but I can live with that.”
He’d kept in touch with Dr. Campbell. But not with her. Meg gripped the telephone, trying not to weep with anger and frustration and hurt. When she thought of all the nights she’d lain awake and fantasized about an emotional reunion. Idiot.
“Well, you certainly know your cetaceans,” she replied, still in that overbright tone reminiscent of her mother’s garden-club voice.
“Have you decided on a topic?”
“Topic? Oh, you’re talking about my thesis.” She didn’t mean anything to him. Never had. “I’ve got some ideas I was going to discuss with Dr. Campbell.”
“I guess you’ll be discussing them with me, instead.”
It hit her then. She was not only talking to Spencer, she would soon see him. And not only see him, but work with him on a daily basis. Meg groped for a chair and lowered herself into it. Davis spooned oatmeal into his mouth and watched her, wide-eyed. Patrick set a cup of coffee in front of her.
“So you’ll be my honors supervisor?”
“If you have no objection.”
“Do I have a choice?” She laughed to show she was joking, but it sounded thin.
“Not if you want to work with killer whales.”
Nothing was going to stop her from working with killer whales. Not even Spencer Valiella. Then she thought about why he’d said that, the reason he was there at all. Dr. Campbell had been the only-marine mammalogist in the department. “Won’t Dr. Campbell be coming back to work?”
“The doctors don’t know yet how permanent the damage is. Right now, he’s got some paralysis down his right side, but he’s recovering well. I only expect to be here until Christmas.”
“Oh.” Dear God. Did she feel hope or disappointment? Where Spencer was concerned she’d known too much of both.
“Meg, why are you doing your honors now? Seven years later?”
The answer was sitting there at the kitchen table,. licking milky droplets from the side of his mouth. She was going to have to tell him about Davis. But it wasn’t something she could blurt over the phone. After all this time of wishing he could know his son, and vice versa, she was suddenly terrified of them meeting.
“I guess we’d better make a time to discuss my thesis,” she said, evading his question. “I’ll be up at the university today to register.”
“I just got into town. I need some sleep before I can think coherently. How about this afternoon in Doc’s office? Say, three o’clock?”
“Two o’clock would be better. I’ve, uh, got something I have to pick up around three.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
The phone slipped from her cold fingers into its cradle. She wiped a hand across her forehead and felt the perspiration. She was not disappointed he hadn’t declared his long-lost love.
Over at the sink, Patrick was rinsing his bowl. “What was that all about?” he said. “And don’t you tell me ‘nothing’ sweetcheeks, because I know it’s something. Something big.”
She frowned and tilted her head toward Davis. “Later.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “Say no more. But I’ll be home early tonight and I’ll expect a full report.”
Meg rose shakily. “Time to wash up, Davis. We’re late.”
To her relief, her son complied without argument for once and went roaring down the hall doing his White Rabbit impression. “I’m late. I’m late. For a very important date. I’m late....”
CHAPTER TWO
SPENCER TURNED LEFT off the ring road that circled the campus and swung into the faculty parking lot tucked behind the biology building. He parked away from the handful of other cars that dotted the lot and sat there a moment, picturing himself as a permanent member of the department. If. Doc decided to take early retirement, Spencer’d have a good shot at the job.
But when he tried to imagine coming here every day, month after month, year after year, the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. He had to fight the urge to restart the car and head down to the bay with his kayak. To be on the water, alone with the cormorants and the killer whales and the thing inside him that kept him moving.
Spencer pulled his keys out of the ignition. It was too late to run. He’d committed himself, if only temporarily. He threw on a black suit jacket over his T-shirt and jeans and grabbed his battered leather briefcase from the back seat. Kicking the door shut behind him, he strolled along the path to the biology building.
Spencer pushed through the heavy glass doors. Doc’s office was on his immediate right, but he continued down the wide empty corridor, his footsteps echoing as he walked past doors that led to classrooms or labs or offices. His eyes narrowed and the hall seemed to swarm with ghosts of students past, as distant and separate from him now as they were then.
At the end of the corridor he turned right and continued along the L-shaped passage. From somewhere came the sound of a radio. The classroom to his left jogged more memories. Thursday afternoons and Meg McKenzie.
He paused in the open doorway, his gaze seeking out the second table from the back. He saw her there, thick blond hair curving around an oval chin. Trying to keep her face straight and her perfect nose in the air while he told some outrageous story just to hear her laugh. He wondered if she’d realized how hard he’d tried to impress her.
Spencer pushed away from the doorjamb. She’d probably married a stockbroker and lived in Uplands, just down the road from Mommy and Daddy.
“May I help you, young man?” a pompous male voice said from behind him. “Classes don’t start for two weeks.”
Spencer recognized the department head’s plummy English tones from their phone conversations. He turned to the portly figure in the pristine white lab coat and full gray beard. “Dr. Randolph Ashton-Whyte, I presume.” He held out his hand. “Spencer Valiella.”
Ashton-Whyte’s bushy gray eyebrows climbed his forehead as he took in Spencer’s clothes and wayward hair. Slowly he extended his own hand. “A...pleasure to meet you, Dr. Valiella”
“Likewise. ‘Spencer’ will do.”
“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Angus. He spoke so highly of you I expected—” Ashton-Whyte. broke off and patted the row of pens in the breast pocket of his lab coat as if assuring himself they were still there and all was still right with the world.
Spencer grinned. He could just imagine what this tight-ass had expected. “Doc told me all about you, too.”
The department head rubbed his hands together, his manner brisk and important. “Now that you’re here, come along to my office. We have paperwork that needs to be completed.”
Spencer glanced at his watch. “My honors student will be along shortly. And I want to get my gear stowed away in the lab.”
Ashton-Whyte smiled coldly. “Ah, but for that you’ll need the keys to Dr. Campbell’s office and lab.”
“Got ’em right here.” Spencer pulled the key ring from his pocket and jangled it in front of Ashton-Whyte. “Never got around to returning them when I left.”
He grinned, just to let Ashton-Whyte know what kind of reprehensible character he’d hired. Spencer blamed his father for his habit of baiting what Ray still referred to as the establishment. He and Ray saw eye to eye on a lot of things.
Ashton-Whyte’s lips tightened, causing his mustache to meet his beard in a double row of raised bristles. “Well, do stop by and fill out the forms when it’s convenient, won’t you, old chap? We’ll need your details—” he paused significantly “—before we can put you on the payroll.” Then he spun on his heel and strode off, white coat flapping, confident, no doubt, he’d had the last word.
Spencer chuckled to himself and retraced his steps to Doc’s lab. As he put the key into the lock, again a weird feeling came over him, as though the last seven years had somehow been leading to this day—when he’d step into the shoes of his mentor. He shook his head. Crazy New Age stuff was his mother’s thing, not his.
He swung open the door. The familiar smell of a biology laboratory hit him. Its pungent bouquet of chemical reagents, marine organisms, cleaning fluids and old books felt like home. Especially to him, a man with no other home.
He’d expected to walk into the untidy disorganized lab of yesteryear. To his surprise, the workbenches and shelves were scrubbed, the glassware clean and put away, and plastic covers protected the microscopes. A new computer with a wide-screen monitor sat on a side table with a digital audio tape recorder next to it for analysis of killer whale vocalizations.
Spencer walked around the central workbench to open Doc’s office. A desk faced one wall with a table catercorner along the window and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on his immediate left. The window slanted outward at the base and overlooked the biology pond, where an endless succession of first-year students dipped their nets to study pond organisms.
He dropped his briefcase and went back to the car for the box containing the hydrophone equipment he used to collect and record killer whale calls. It was old and pretty basic, dating from his honors year when Doc had “retired” it from his own use. Catch 22: if Spencer wanted new equipment, he had to get a research grant and stay in one spot. He’d thought about that on more than one occasion and always decided it wasn’t worth it.
Another trip to the parking lot brought in his collection of killer whale teeth and bones. He was arranging these in a glass-fronted cabinet when he heard a knock at the door.
Meg. She was early.
His heart hammering, he turned.
Through the doorway came a young man of Asian extraction, not more than nineteen or twenty years old. He wore gray slacks and a crisp white shirt with a narrow tie, which he’d loosened. He moved quickly and his gaze darted from Spencer to the bone collection.
“Hi,” Spencer said. “Can I help you?” Some lost soul from the faculty of business, no doubt.
“I am Lee Cheung.” He strode forward and pumped Spencer’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Var...r..ierr...a.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Very hard name for Chinese to say.”
“You can call me Spencer. How do you know me?”
“I am Dr. Campbell’s research assistant. He did not tell you about me?” Lee grinned and shook his head. “Doc and I collected data over summer from stationary hydrophones. My job will continue, yes?”
“I guess. I don’t know what arrangements have been made for transferring Doc’s grant monies to me.” Another thing he’d have to take up with Ashton-Whyte. Spencer dropped the empty box he was holding to the floor and flattened it with the soles of his boots.
Lee flipped his briefcase up on the lab bench and popped open the lid. “If you would like to review transcript of my last year’s biology grades—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Spencer said, amazed anyone would carry that information around. Still, Angus Campbell surrounded himself only with people who had a consuming passion for killer whales. Besides that, there was something very engaging about Lee’s wide smile and enthusiasm.
“Tell you what, Lee. I’ll hire you out of my own pocket if necessary—as long as you’re not in a hurry for a paycheck—until I can see about Doc’s money situation.”
“Okeydokey, thank you very much.” Lee reached out and pumped Spencer’s hand again. “I appreciate your confidence.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Doc. Now, I’ve got a trunkful of equipment and books to bring in. Want to give me a hand?”
Together they brought in the rest of the boxes and equipment, and with astonishing speed and efficiency, Lee organized everything. Two o’clock approached and Spencer glanced at his watch with increasing frequency. To distract himself, he went down the hall and got a coffee from the vending machines located in the lounge area at the corner of the L. The staff room probably had better coffee, but he might encounter Ashton-Whyte and say something really rude.
He was walking slowly back to the lab, sipping his coffee, when he felt the change in air pressure and the gust of air that accompanied the opening of the heavy front door.
In slow motion he turned around—and there was Meg. Blue eyes startled. Textbooks clutched to her chest Looking as unprepared as he was to meet unexpectedly. Time became fluid and the present turned into the past. So many things they hadn’t said. She looked different. She looked good. Her hair had grown. But...jeans and a T-shirt? Where were her designer duds?
“Hi.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Hi.” Self-conscious, Meg pushed her hair over her shoulder. She’d stopped ten feet away from Spencer and couldn’t seem to close the distance. She made herself keep her eyes on his face, keep the smile on hers. His youthful features had matured into sharp cheekbones and a strongly defined chin. Warm coloring, warm smile. His hair was shorter, but still wind-tossed.
He was real. Not a dream. Not a fantasy. Real as the flutter in her stomach. And she still wanted him.
“Come on to the lab,” he said.
She made her legs move, willing her heart to stop beating so furiously. She was on the verge of tears. Or hysterical laughter. Why did the moment have to be so fraught? Couldn’t they just say a big hello and give each other a hug for old time’s sake? Why did he look so serious? After all, he didn’t know about Davis. Oh, God He didn’t know about Davis.
And then they were at the door to the lab and he halted abruptly to let her go first. She ran into him, her cheek grazing the fine wool of his jacket. “Sorry.”
He put a hand out but stopped short of touching her. Meg shrank back. It was too awful. “I don’t think we can do this,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
“Yes, we can.” His dark eyes were the color of shadowed seawater reflecting fir trees. They sucked her into their depths. “You never did tell me why you’re finishing your degree only now.”
She wanted to tell him. The explanation was on the tip of her tongue. But seeing him made her even more confused than she’d been seven years ago. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
From inside the lab came a discreet cough.
Spencer pushed open the door. “Lee. This is Meg McKenzie, my...honors student. Meg, this is Lee. Research assistant.”
“Hi, Lee.”
Lee’s lidded glance flashed swiftly between them. “Okay if I leave now?” he said to Spencer. “I have to get to bookstore for my texts. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early.”
Spencer smiled. “Not too early. But yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Dr. Val..i—” He broke off, laughing at himself.
“Please, just call me Spencer.”
“Okay, Dr. Spencer.” Lee gave him a relieved grin. “See you later,” he added to Meg, and moved quickly past her.
“Bye.” Meg watched him go out the glass doors and run down the steps. Only when he’d disappeared from sight did she turn back to Spencer. Suddenly the hall seemed emptier, the two of them very much alone.
“You’ve grown your hair.” He reached out again and this time his fingertips touched a few strands of the thick ash-blond hair that hung almost to her waist. Static electricity raced from his fingers right to the roots, sending a shockwave tingling along her scalp.
“It’s easier than styling it,” she said lightly, backing away from his touch. In other words, cheaper. Her life had changed in so many ways. She had changed. Undoubtedly he had, too. She realized she’d been living with a fantasy image of him all these years. Maybe they had nothing left in common.
Except for Davis.
And the killer whales.
And the chemistry that still bubbled and fizzed between them like some apocalyptic experiment in a mad professor’s laboratory. Or was that all in her mind?
Spencer gestured for her to precede him into the lab. She stepped past him and found herself breathing deeply for the scent of the ocean that used to linger in his hair, on his skin. But she wasn’t close enough. And wouldn’t get close enough.
She moved farther into the lab, glancing around. She’d seen most of the equipment when she’d met with Dr. Campbell over the summer to talk about her honors thesis, but Spencer had added his possessions. Gravitating to the glass-fronted case where killer whale teeth and bones had been laid out on black felt, she said, “Are you staying out at the cottage?”
“Yes...” He paused as though about to say more. Then didn’t.
She bent to inspect the lower shelf, searching for the baby killer whale tooth she’d found while diving off Saltspring Island. It was no longer in his collection. Disappointment kept her gazing at the teeth longer than she wanted to.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked, holding up his cup. “The taste hasn’t improved over the years, but it’s hot. Well, lukewarm, actually.”
Meg straightened, forced a smile. “No, thanks.”
He nodded and moved past her to his office, giving her a wide berth.
Why was he so wary? They’d been friends, after all. Like odd socks, but still a pair. Or had that night on Saltspring rendered null and void all that preceded it? They’d never had a chance to talk after that. They’d paddled back to Victoria the next morning ahead of a squall, locked in silence. If only she hadn’t said what she’d said, maybe his subsequent flight wouldn’t have been so swift. And maybe he wouldn’t now be acting as if nothing had ever happened between them.
“Have a seat.”
Meg sank into the safety of the padded vinyl visitor’s chair that nestled in front of the overflowing bookshelf. She just caught sight of one title, The Tao of Physics, when from the corner of her eye she saw Spencer’s lean denim-clad thigh glide by. And then he was sitting in his own chair, swirling around to face her. He leaned back, looking very casual. Or did that controlled stillness mean he was tense, not just intense, as he’d always been?
Under his dark suit jacket, which looked like Armani, but knowing Spencer was probably Salvation Army, he wore a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Then she noticed something new. A thin black leather cord around his sun-browned neck, the ends of which disappeared under the curve of white cotton. She remembered the smooth hard heat of the chest beneath...
“...killer whale communication,” he was saying. “I’ve been working with the transient population for the past five years, first in the Puget Sound area, then down around Monterey.”
Meg nodded, relaxing a little. “It’s interesting how few calls and whistles they make compared to resident killer whales.”
Spencer’s eyebrows rose. “You’re familiar with my research?”
“When I decided to finish my degree, I caught up on the literature.” She could see the unasked questions in his eyes and ignored them.
“Then you must also be aware of Deeke’s recent findings on intra-pod communication.”
She nodded. “They gave me an idea for my thesis...” She stopped. In spite of reading all the journal articles she could get her hands on, she still felt out of touch. What she’d been about to say might be completely off the wall.
“What is it?” He leaned back a little farther and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee.
“Well, I just wonder...what are they saying to each other?” Please don’t laugh at me.
Spencer gazed at her for a moment in silence. “The repetitive staccato clicks they make are used as a form of echolocation to forage for prey and for navigation—as I’m sure you know,” he said. “Pulsed calls and whistles are used for social communication. Keeping tabs on members of the pod when they’re out of sight of each other.”
He must think she was crazy. Except that she knew him. Knew he must have wondered the same thing. “But don’t some calls occur more often in some circumstances, such as resting or socializing?” she said.
“True, but so far no one has established a definitive connection between call type and behavior that would suggest certain calls had a specific meaning.”
“Yes, I know,” she said heavily. Her idea was too far-out.
“However, I don’t think it’s impossible that we’ll eventually be able to decode their communications,” he said carefully. “You’d have to listen to their sounds in the context of their daily lives and closely monitor behavior. Given the limited scope of an honors thesis, maybe you should confine your study to one small aspect of killer whale communication. In that context, I would support such a project if that’s what you’re interested in.”
Was she interested! But wait. This was her degree they were talking about. The opportunity for which she’d scrimped and saved for seven years. If she blew her honors thesis because Spencer agreed to what someone else on her supervisory panel would consider crackpot research, she wasn’t sure she’d have the heart, or the resources, to try again.
“Have you got funding to do this type of research?” she asked. Spencer, she knew, never hesitated to go out on a limb, but if the Natural Science and Engineering Research Council was willing to believe in him, she supposed she could.
“I don’t have funding of any kind at the moment, but you’ll have access to Doc Campbell’s grant money.” He grinned, showing white, slightly overlapping front teeth. A smile that had once thrown her heart into palpitations. And still did. “Sometimes you’ve just got to take a chance, princess.”
Princess. She’d almost forgotten that detestable yet somehow endearing nickname. “My name is Meg,” she reminded him severely.
“Sorry,” he replied, looking totally unrepentant. “Not very politically correct of me.”
“It’s hard to adjust to us not both being students—to you being a prof and me being under you.” Meg immediately blushed at her choice of words.
Spencer swiveled to the window as though he wanted to leap out. “It feels strange for me, too. Can we just skip the professor-student thing and be two people interested in killer whales? The way we used to be?”
Was that what they used to be? “Sure, I guess so.”
“Good.” He spun back. “Do you still have your kayak?”
“Yes, but I haven’t used it in a while.” Like seven years.
“Get it out, check it for leaks.” Spencer got to his feet. “We’ll pay a visit to Kitasu and the rest of her maternal group. Are you doing anything tomorrow? We could catch the early ferry to Saltspring, drive up to Southey Point and paddle out from there.”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, rising. She’d have to ask Patrick to take Davis to day care in the morning. She’d accounted for afternoon care but not for earlymorning starts.
He gazed at her quizzically. “Mornings bad for you? I suppose you’re working.”
“No. Yes. It’s just that I need time. I have things to...arrange.”
“Okay, but we really should get in a preliminary look-see before classes start and things get busy for both of us.”
She turned to walk out ahead of him. “What will you be teaching—Marine Mammals?”
“Yes. Plus a unit of first-year biology and a course in the philosophy of science. It’s a graduate-level course, but you’re welcome to sit in on it.”
“I’d like that.”
“It’s in the evening. Wednesdays.”
“Oh. Evenings are hard for me, too.”
He paused a beat. “Are you married, Meg? Or living with someone?”
“No!” It was so not what she’d been afraid of his asking, she jumped. And probably looked guilty as hell, anyway. “Are...are you?”
He shook his head and laughed. “Me? Not likely.”
Of course not. How could she be so foolish? More foolish still that the news he was free made her heart go flip-flop.
“Can we leave the kayaking till Saturday?” she asked. Patrick would be on maneuvers all weekend, but this Saturday was the Uplands Garden Club open house and garden sale. Her mother would be busy from early morning till evening, which meant her father, who avoided the annual event as he would a plague of aphids, could look after Davis. He didn’t get many opportunities to spend time with his grandson, but when he did, he jumped at them.
“That should be fine. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
Uh-oh, complications already. “My kayak is at my parents’ place. You know where that is.” She started to back out of the office. “I’d better run. I’ll see you Saturday. Bye.”
She left without waiting for a farewell from him. She’d learned not to.
WHEN MEG GOT TO the ring road, instead of turning toward Esquimalt and the California-style bungalow she shared with Patrick, she pointed her Toyota toward Cadboro Bay Road. If she hurried, she had just enough time to drop by her parents’ house to check out the kayak before picking up Davis.
Stone gates guarded the entrance to the parklike estates of Uplands. Meg rubbed her temples as she drove through, aware of the tension already starting to mount. She hoped her mother wasn’t home. Helen never lost an opportunity to inform Meg that dropping out of university at the age of twenty-one to become a single mother had ruined her life. What Helen really meant was that Meg had ruined her life. Oh, the shame of having to tell her garden club friends that her daughter lived in Esquimalt. God forbid she would ever consider visiting her and Davis there.
Meg had learned to live with her mother’s disapproval, but what really hurt was the way Helen couldn’t warm to Davis. She was a control freak, and Davis was someone she couldn’t control. Rather than learn how to deal with his behavior, Helen shunned his company. It was hard for her little boy to understand. And harder still for Meg to forgive.
She turned into the long curving driveway flanked by a high box hedge. It was all so clichéd it would have been boring except that this was her family. She missed the big Sunday dinners with her three brothers and their families and the holiday gatherings she now avoided because she couldn’t stand having to constantly defend her life. Or to protect her son from feeling slighted by his grandmother.
Thank goodness for Daddy. He wasn’t terribly happy with the way her life had turned out, either, but at least he tried to let her live it her own way. And although he’d never thought Spencer good enough for his only daughter, he loved his grandson and treated him accordingly.
The elegant white three-story house came into view, afternoon sun glinting off the mullioned windows. Meg pulled up in front of the portico and got out She glanced at the conservatory but couldn’t see her mother’s slim figure moving among the plants.
Daddy was home, though, practicing his putting on the side lawn, his salt-and-pepper head bent in concentration. Meg waited till he’d made his shot, then called out. Roger McKenzie’s handsome face broke into a smile. Dropping his golf club into the bag, he strode across the lawn to envelop her in a hug. “Meggie! How’s my little girl?”
“Twenty-eight and all grown up,” Meg teased as she hugged him back.
Roger glanced hopefully at the car. “Is Davis with you?”
“No. I just came from the university.” Dam, why did she go and open that line of conversation?
“Have they found you a new supervisor yet?”
“Yes. An expert on killer whales from Monterey.” Daddy would have to know sometime that Spencer was back, but right now she didn’t have the time or the emotional energy to discuss it. The fact that Spencer didn’t even know he was a father had never absolved him of guilt in Roger’s eyes. “We’re going kayaking on the weekend to locate the group of killer whales I’m going to work on,” she went on. “I came to see if my kayak still floats.”
“Andrew used it a few times over the summer. I said he could. Didn’t think you’d mind. He said he replaced the ‘spray skirt’ because the neoprene rubber had deteriorated in spots.”
“That’s great. There’s nothing worse than getting soaked from the waist down because a leaky spray skirt lets water into the cockpit. Let’s go have a look.”
They went in through the open section of the fourcar garage. In the far slot sat Roger’s restored Model-A Ford next to his silver 500 SEL Mercedes. Helen’s smaller, cream-colored Mercedes was absent. The rest of the garage was given over to sporting equipment—skis and tennis rackets, snowboards and sailboards, golf clubs and archery sets.
Meg’s single-seater Orca kayak had been taken down from the overhead beams and was propped on wooden blocks at the back of the garage. She ran a hand down the shiny red fiberglass hull, then lifted the new spray skirt to inspect it. “Looks okay.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Roger said. “You know how finicky your brother is.”
“I’ll be sure to call and thank him for using my stuff,” Meg replied with a grin, and walked to the stern to test the rudder movement. “Where’s Mother?”
Roger’s voice became deliberately casual. “She’s looking after Cassie and Tristan a couple of afternoons a week. Maybe you haven’t heard—Anne’s gone back to work, part-time.”
Cassie and Tristan were Meg’s niece and baby nephew. Meg bit her lip, hoping the physical pain would override the inner pain. It wasn’t that she wanted to use her mother as a baby-sitting service, but never once had Helen offered to look after Davis. The few times Meg had asked, Helen had always been too busy. Finally Meg had stopped asking. Helen sent expensive and inappropriate gifts for Davis’s birthday and at Christmas, but Meg could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d gone out of her way to see her grandson.
“I’d better go,” she said. “I’ve got to pick up Davis at day care. He hates it when I’m late.”
“Is he excited about starting school?” Roger asked as he walked her back to her car.
“One minute he can’t wait and the next he’s not so sure.” Meg opened her door. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you be able to look after him on Saturday while I’m kayaking?”
“Sure! He can caddy for me.” Roger put his arm around her. “We don’t see enough of him, darling.”
Meg gripped her father’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “You know Mother and I can’t be in the same room for more than ten minutes without fighting.”
“Your mother is just proud and stubborn—like her daughter. She does love you, Meggie.”
Funny kind of love. “Bye, Dad,” she said, giving him another hug. “I’ll see you Saturday morning. Early.”
It wasn’t until she’d turned her car out of the driveway and onto the road that she remembered Spencer would be picking her up at her parents’ house at roughly the same time she’d be dropping Davis off. She had to decide fast what, if anything, she was going to tell Spencer about his son.
CHAPTER THREE
SPENCER SPOTTED the dusty Econoline van in the driveway and grinned. Ray was back.
He parked and ran up the steps, his jacket slung over his shoulder. The afternoon had warmed up and the front door was open to let in the sunshine. Through it came smells of cooking and the brassy sound of a blues band.
Spencer climbed onto the porch steps. He could see his dad moving around in the kitchen dressed in black leather pants and a dark blue shirt. He was singing along with the music, and when he stopped to play a riff on an air guitar, his body vibrated right up to his graying ponytail.
“Ray!” Spencer pushed through the screen door and dropped his jacket on the couch on his way into the kitchen.
“Spence, my man!” Ray came around the counter, arms extended, ebullient as ever. “Is this a coincidence or what?”
Spencer met his dad in a back-slapping embrace. “Sooner or later we had to land here at the same time. Sorry I missed you this morning.”
“I ran into an old buddy of mine in Victoria last night. We tied one on and I spent the night on his couch. When I got back to the cottage this afternoon and saw your note, I went right out and got us some grub and a bottle of Kentucky’s finest.” Ray moved back into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll pour you one.”
“Great.” Spencer walked over to the fridge and took a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. He dropped them into a glass and Ray sloshed in a healthy shot of Jack Daniel’s. “How long has it been since ’Frisco? Two years? Three?”
“Four, I think.” Ray grinned, his black eyes crinkling, and added more bourbon to his glass. “It’s a good thing we meet occasionally by chance.”
They raised their drinks, glasses clinking. The bourbon hit Spencer’s empty stomach like a fireball. The spreading warmth blended with the gutsy music and his father’s positive vibes. Let the good times roll.
“So when did you get into town?” Spencer asked, leaning against the counter.
“Coupla weeks ago.” Ray set his glass down to wrap a potato in tin foil. He did another one and tossed them in the oven. “What brings you up north? I thought you never stayed in the same place twice.”
“Not if I can help it. I’m teaching up at the university.”
“Coming back to your old haunts and teaching, which I know you don’t like as much as research. You’re changing, Spence. Here’s to it.” He lifted his glass.
Spencer shook his head. “Just doing a favor for my old prof is all.”
“Adults go through stages same as kids,” Ray said. “Some changes are harder than others.”
Spencer laughed. “Come off it, Ray, you haven’t changed a bit.” He opened the fridge door and peered in. The shelves, bare this morning, were now full. “What are you making? I’m starving.”
“The finest New York steaks money can buy. Outside New York, that is. I was there, let’s see, two years ago. Had a few gigs lined up, so off we went.” He brushed his palms together, one hand sweeping off in a curving arc. “What a life.”
“I attended a conference in New York last April,” Spencer said, grabbing an apple from the bottom rack.
“Crazy town. I love it.” Ray unwrapped the steaks from the butcher’s paper. “Did you get to any clubs?”
“One or two. Heard a few old tunes by my namesake.” He crunched into crisp green skin. “I like their style of bluesy rock and roll, but do you know how hard it is to go through life as Spencer Davis Valiella? People either think it sounds affected or that Davis Valiella should be hyphenated.” Grimacing, he recalled his encounter with Ashton-Whyte. “I don’t care for hyphenated names.”
“It was cool at the time. Hey, I still like it.”
“Ah, forget it, Ray, I’m just razzing you. I sure appreciate you buying all this food. I’m living on credit till they put me on the payroll here. Or until my money arrives from Monterey.” He gestured with the hand holding the apple. “How come banks require weeks to electronically transfer money when it only takes a split second to send an e-mail?”
“You got me, man.” Ray’s smile wavered. “No money, eh? What a bummer.”
“So how’s your new band working out?”
“Fantastic!” Ray widened his smile, but something flickered in his eyes. He turned to the counter hesitantly, as though trying to remember what he was looking for.
“Your last CD was great, but it was a while ago,” Spencer said. “I’m looking forward to the next. When’s it coming out?”
“Uh...soon.” Ray grabbed the bottle of bourbon. “Here, let me top you up.”
“Thanks. Whoa, easy.”
Ray splashed some more into his own glass and put the bottle down. “Enough about me. What’s going on in your life?”
Spencer took a sip of his drink. Should he tell Ray about Meg? Would he mention her if she meant nothing to him? He decided he would. “Talk about coincidences. My honors student is a girl I knew from before. Meg McKenzie.” Her name fell self-consciously off his tongue.
“Hey, I remember meeting her. Blond, sassy smile—right? That’s great. You won’t want to hang with your old man all the time.” Ray slid a cast-iron frying pan onto the stove.
“I doubt I’ll be seeing her socially. The university frowns on fraternization between faculty and students.” It was a good excuse, anyway.
Ray poured cooking oil into the pan and turned on the heat. “I could see it if you’re talking about an old fart like me hittin’ on some sweet young thing, but you and Meg are about the same age.”
Spencer found he didn’t want to talk about Meg, after all. “Do you ever see Mom?”
Ray’s ever-present grin faded.
Damn. Surely he could have come up with something better than that to change topics.
“I called her to say hello before I came north,” Ray said.
“I went through San Clemente around Christmas last year,” Spencer said. “She seemed fine then.”
Ray rolled the oil around the pan. “She’s doing great. Big house, rich hubby. Most importantly, she’s happy. And I’m happy for her. You don’t have to pussyfoot around my feelings.”
Spencer nodded skeptically.
Ray laughed and spread his arms. “Hell, it’s been over twenty years. I haven’t exactly been alone all that time. How do you like your steak?
“Medium-rare.” Spencer eyed his father over the rim of his glass. Ray was always up, but tonight there was something a little manic about him.
Ray threw the steaks in the pan where they sizzled and sputtered in the hot oil. Spencer got plates out of the cupboard and carried them to the small wooden table tucked against the wall. A bentwood chair sat on either side. “How about giving me a preview of your new CD after dinner?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear your old man play. Let’s take a run into Victoria. We could hit some clubs, catch up with each other.”
“I still haven’t caught up with my sleep. I was planning on an early night.” Spencer got knives and forks out of the drawer and returned to the table. With his back to Ray, he laid out the cutlery. “What do you say? Just a tune or three right here.”
Silence.
Spencer straightened, turned. “Ray?”
The sober expression on his father’s face made the bourbon churn in his stomach.
Over the sound of the sizzling steaks, Ray said quietly, “I can’t play for you. I pawned my guitar to buy the food.”
Spencer felt the world shift on its axis. Ray had pawned his guitar? It was like the Pope giving up religion. “No way.”
“The band went bust,” Ray said, suddenly looking years older than fifty-two. “I haven’t worked in almost a year. I only came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
MEG CAME THROUGH THE DOOR of the bungalow, textbooks piled in her arms. In the kitchen Patrick sang in his hearty baritone, “‘I am the ruler of the King’s navy,’” then switched to a falsetto for the chorus, “‘Yes, he is the ruler of the King’s navy.’”
“Can I watch TV, Mom? Thanks.” Davis took off for the living room and in less time than it took her to shout, “Keep the volume down,” she could hear Daffy Duck lisping his way to destruction, and Davis chuckling like a maniac.
Meg kicked the door shut and shuffled into the dining area of the kitchen to set her pile of books on the table. Patrick had changed out of his uniform and into linen slacks and a matching taupe shirt. He’d donned an apron and was at that moment waving a carrot baton in front of Noel’s cage. Noel cocked his head to one side and squawked, “Na-vy!”
Meg took in Patrick’s grin. “You got the promotion!”
“It’s not official...but I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”
“Oo-ooh, that’s so great,” Meg squealed, and ran around to hug him. “What will be your official title?”
“Lieutenant Patrick Warren, at your service,” he replied with a snappy salute and clicking heels.
“Very impressive.” Containing a smile, she stepped back to study him, one finger laid alongside her cheek. “But don’t you think the frilly pink apron rather mars the effect?”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.” Patrick went back to the kitchen counter and began tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. “There’s just one teensy-weensy little thing you should know.”
“What’s that?” Meg eyed him narrowly. Patrick’s teensy-weensy little things generally turned out to be the size of battleships.
“I might have given the selection panel the impression I was married. With a son.”
“Patrick! How are you going to pull that off? And why? I thought it was against navy rules to harass people for their sexual orientation.”
“That’s official policy, sweetcheeks. Sure, I could win a case if it came up, but after all the trouble I go to being discreet, I don’t want the publicity. Daddy would not be amused.”
“He’s some high-mucka-muck in the navy, isn’t he?”
“My dear, he’s practically an admiral.”
“How amused is he going to be when he hears you’ve got a family you haven’t bothered to mention?”
“He’s based in Ottawa. Gossip doesn’t travel that far east. A harassment suit would.” Patrick ripped at the lettuce as though storming the beaches.
“Patrick, does your father know?”
“I told him a couple years ago. He hasn’t disowned me or anything, but he doesn’t like it spread around.”
“Oh. Well, okay, I’ll be your cover. Those navy types aren’t going to come poking around the house, are they?”
Patrick flapped a hand. “I doubt it. But if anyone calls whose voice you don’t recognize, can you throw in a reference to ‘my husband, Patrick’?”
“I’ll try to remember,” Meg said, and reached for a carrot stick.
“Those are for Davis,” he said, slapping her hand away. “So how did it go at the university?”
Meg let her shoulders sag. “Emotionally exhausting. Terrifying. Weird.”
“And you haven’t even started classes yet.” He pushed an open bottle of chardonnay across the counter. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and tell me all about it. I’ve been prostrate with curiosity about your mysterious phone call.”
Meg got herself a glass of wine and sat on the bar stool across the counter from Patrick. “That was my new honors supervisor who called.”
Patrick stopped tearing lettuce. “Go on. Is he a hunk?”
“You could say that. But mainly, he’s Davis’s—”
“Mom, when’s dinner?”
Meg gave a start. Drops of cool wine spilled over her fingers. “Davis! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking, I was just walking,” Davis said with an expression of bewildered hurt. “Is it dinnertime yet?”
“Almost,” Patrick said. “How about setting some plates on the table, champ? That way dinner will happen a lot quicker.”
“Okay.” On his way to the cupboard, Davis paused at the recycling bin to pick up a plastic yogurt lid. Forgetting about the plates, he wandered around the kitchen, swooping the lid through the air. “Bweep. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
“Davis,” Meg said. “The table.”
“I’m a UFO. Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.”
Meg exchanged a glance with Patrick. Some days were better than others. Unfortunately Davis’s bad days often seemed to coincide with hers. She got up and pulled a stack of plates out of the cupboard. “Earth to Davis,” she said in her best automaton voice. “Transport circular space stations to planet Table.”
“Bweep. Bweep. Bweep.” Davis took the plates.
They got through dinner. Then Davis’s bath and bedtime story and the ritual arranging of his toys around the edge of his bed. Then the bedtime song. Twice. When he was finally tucked in, Meg remembered they hadn’t played catch. Well, she wasn’t foolish enough to mention it now.
She returned to the kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of decaf from Patrick.
“So, where were we?” Patrick sat opposite Meg at the table and added a spoonful of sugar crystals to his coffee.
Meg ran a thumb around the rim of her cup. “My supervisor is Spencer Valiella—Davis’s father.”
Patrick ceased stirring his coffee. “No!”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to explain the complications. She’d told Patrick the whole story years ago, ruining his best silk shirt with her tears in the process. But she hadn’t cried over Spencer in years. And she refused to start again now.
“So how do you feel about this?” Patrick asked.
Meg sipped her coffee. “Confused. Worried. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to tell the man,” Patrick said firmly. “Right away, before you start lying about it.”
“I’ve been lying by omission for years.”
“And feeling guilty about it, right?”
She couldn’t deny it. “Spencer’s got his own life. How’s he going to feel if he suddenly finds out he’s got a kid?”
“Good question. Tell him and find out. For all you know, he might be thrilled.” Patrick paused. “Do you still love him?”
“I haven’t seen him in seven years. In all that time he’s never so much as sent me a postcard.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Meg ran a hand down her hair and pulled up a fistful of ends for inspection. The chemistry between her and Spencer had to do with lust, not love. “No, of course I don’t love him.”
“Hmm.” Patrick sounded unconvinced.
She made a face. “He’s probably already planning where he’ll be going after he leaves here. A son would be an inconvenience.”
“You’re not giving him credit.”
“Okay, I agree Spencer has a right to know. But I have a right to protect my child from hurt. Do you have any idea what it would do to Davis to meet his father only to have him leave again? As he will.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Anyway, a part-time father is better than none.”
“The last thing I need is him popping in and out of my life every six months.”
“You’re not over him.”
“I don’t know,” Meg wailed, and propped her head in her hands. “Everything’s finally coming together for me. Davis is about to start school and he’s got more than enough to adjust to right now. You know how hard transitions are for him.”
Patrick wagged a finger at her. “You’re rationalizing . This Spencer character should be paying support, if nothing else.”
Meg gazed wearily at her friend. “I know he would if I asked. But I made the decision to have Davis. Nobody else. I can do it on my own. And get my degree.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, darling. I’m not your mother.” Patrick lifted his cup with slender fingers and drank.
“The problem will be keeping the two of them apart,” Meg went on. “I’m dropping Davis off at my dad’s on Saturday while Spencer and I go kayaking. One look at Davis and Spencer will know he’s—” Meg froze, her head tilted toward the hallway. “Did you hear something?”
Patrick put his cup down quietly. “No.”
She got up and tiptoed into the hall. Crouched behind the door was Davis. Meg went cold all over. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“How long have you been sitting there?”
“I don’t know.”
She took him by the hand and tugged him gently to his feet. It was hard to be cross when she knew the medication made him wakeful, but she felt sick thinking about what he might have heard. “You’ve got to get used to early nights, honey. When school starts, we’ll have to be up early.”
“Can I stay up for a while?”
“No.” She led him back down the hall to his bedroom. “Did you hear what Patrick and I were talking about?” She hoped her interest sounded casual.
“Kayaking. Can I come? Please?” Davis tugged on her hand. “I’ve always wanted to go kayaking.”
Relief made her knees weak. He must not have heard the whole conversation. “This Saturday Grandpa’s taking you golfing with him. Remember I told you about it in the car?”
“Oh, yeah,” Davis said happily as he climbed back into bed. “I like Grandpa. He lets me keep the tees.”
“Good night, honey.” Meg placed a kiss on his forehead.
“Can I have my song?”
“You had it already.”
“Can I have another one?”
“No. Good night. And stay in bed.”
DAVIS WATCHED HIS MOM close the door. His eyes remained open, adjusting to the darkness. Mom had said the guy she was going kayaking with was named Spencer. His dad was named Spencer. But if this man was his dad, Mom would have told him. Grown-ups acted real dumb sometimes. And sometimes they lied. But not Mom. She never lied to him. And she wouldn’t keep something that big a secret.
Gradually Davis’s eyes drifted shut despite his best efforts to keep them open. Images floated through his head. There was water all around, and islands, like when he and Mom went on the ferry. Only he wasn’t looking down at the water from above. He was in a kayak. A two-seater. A man sat behind him, paddling. Davis couldn’t see the man’s face, but somehow he knew it was his dad. Drops flew off the paddle blades as they rose and fell, splashing on Davis’s cheeks. His father’s strong strokes were taking them toward the tall black fins of the killer whales. Davis drifted deeper toward unconsciousness. Just before he went under, he saw Tommy’s face floating mysteriously above the kayak. Davis smiled at him. See, Tommy, I do too have a dad.
SPENCER PAUSED outside Doc’s room in the cardiac unit. Now that he was here he almost didn’t want to go in and see his mentor diminished. One fallen idol was bad enough.
But when he’d come by the other day, Doc had been asleep. So Spencer put on a smile and strode into the room. “Hey, Doc.”
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.”
She smiled at that. He’d forgotten the way her smile could warm him deep down inside. There’d been other women, before and since, though right now he couldn’t recall a single one. But who had Meg McKenzie become? One minute she wore her maturity like she used to wear silk blouses, with confidence and style. The next minute she was a mass of nerves, as jumpy as a spooked cat.
They cruised down the highway to Swartz Bay, hitting every green light from Elk Lake on. “It’s times like this you’ve just gotta believe in a supreme being,” Spencer said, one hand draped across the top of the wheel.
“Oh?” Meg replied with a sarcastic grin. “You mean, he’s turning the lights green so Spencer Valiella won’t have to slow down?”
He grinned. “She is making sure Meg McKenzie catches her ferry.” He paused. “It is still McKenzie, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She frowned at him. “I told you I wasn’t married.”
“Right.” Then who was the guy who’d answered her phone this morning when Spencer had called to let her know which ferry he was aiming to catch? He’d sounded sleepy, as though he’d reached over to the bedside table to pick up the receiver. “Got a boyfriend?”
“Is that any of your business?”
“Guess not.”
They came over the rise and into the vast paved area comprising row upon row of lanes filling with cars lining up for the ferries. Spencer curved off into the one leading to the ticket booth for Fulford Harbor on Saltspring Island. As the attendant handed over their tickets, she expressed some doubt as to whether they would make this sailing.
“We’ll make it,” Spencer assured her. He sped down the appropriate lane, careered around a curve and zipped over the ramp even as the warning buzzer was sounding for the seamen to cast off. The Camaro hit the steel deck with a deafening ka-thunk. The muffler sounded like thunder in the echo chamber of the car deck until he cut the engine. The ferry gave three short and one long blasts of the horn, and they were under way.
Spencer turned to Meg with a self-satisfied grin.
She rolled her eyes. “I need a coffee.”
They went upstairs to the cafeteria and got coffee to go.
“Outside,” Spencer said, and led the way to the bow where the wind blew their hair straight back and the green shapes of the Gulf Islands were spread out before them. Blue water, blue sky, glaucous-winged gulls wheeling overhead, and the majestic white prow of the Queen of Nanaimo as she came around the point.
Spencer leaned against the rail and drank in the fresh salt air. Being on the water always put him in a more mellow mood. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here.”
“You never would have known if you hadn’t come back.”
He glanced at Meg. She’d spoken lightly, yet he sensed a change in her mood, too, only she’d gotten serious. Still, there was history between them and her words meant something whether he acknowledged them or not. “I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”
A swift glance, as blue as the sky. And then she was clutching her foam cup so hard it bent. “You hurt me,” she said quietly. “I thought we were friends.”
“We were friends.” The sudden tensing of her mouth told him he’d hurt her again, unwittingly. God, he was inadequate when it came to the spoken word. He tried to catch her eye and communicate his caring. But she wouldn’t look at him.
“Were you happy at all when you lived here before, Spencer?”
He was surprised at the question. Surprised at himself for not knowing the answer. “Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re happy until you go back to a place and see what feelings it evokes.”
“That is the statement of someone completely out of touch with their emotions.” A loose strand of hair blew across her face and she brushed it away. “So, what feelings does Victoria evoke in you?”
She hadn’t asked about Saltspring, although they were nearing the island. That would have been too loaded a question. But the edge to her voice told him she meant what feelings did she evoke. He’d repressed those feelings for so long he wasn’t sure he could define them. He only knew she shouldn’t expect too much from him. “I don’t know. Guess I’m still out of touch.”
She was silent, watching the timber-and-glass houses perched on the island’s steep shoreline slip past.
He didn’t want her to want something he couldn’t give her. But to say so would be presumptuous. “I’ve applied to Bergen for a research position.”
“Bergen? You mean in Norway?”
“Yes, at the marine research institute there. The position may come up before the year is over.”
She nodded. “I thought it would be something like that.”
When the announcement telling passengers to return to their vehicles came on, Spencer was relieved. He tossed his empty cup into a bin and held the door open for Meg. Her hair whipped around his bare elbow, anchoring her to him for a moment. Their eyes met as she pulled it away. There was sadness in her gaze.
Spencer hated himself for putting it there.
THE DEEP BLUE WATER off the north end of Saltspring Island sparkled invitingly. Meg stood on the edge of the cobble beach while her kayak rocked gently in the shallows at her feet. In spite of the warmth of the sun, a cool breeze blew over the water and she was glad of her fleece pullover.
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Joan Kilby
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A LITTLE SECRETThe first time he left without telling herThe second time she asked him to go…Meg McKenzie, a marine biology student with a passion for killer whales, is shocked to discover that Spencer Valiella is her thesis supervisor. Spencer is an old flame–the love of her life, actually, and, although he doesn′t know it, the father of her son. They met and fell in love one summer while Meg was an undergraduate student…but then Spencer left.To the surprise of neither Meg nor Spencer, the intense feelings they had for each ofhter still exist, and when Spencer learns Meg had his child, they grow even stronger.But old demons plague him–that restlessness, that yearning, that need to be unattached. In spite of Spencer′s great love for her and their son, Meg knows he has to leave.It takes a terrifying experience for Spencer to see that living with Meg and his son, loving and caring for them with abandon, is what will truly make him free.