Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Twenty.
She was just about to turn away, to look across the concourse and wonder whether anyone else was waiting for a person who would forever alter their lives by merely getting off a plane. But before she could turn, she saw a blur of motion near the tunnel entrance. And suddenly a male flight attendant exited next to a brown-haired boy with green eyes and honey-colored skin. He was smaller than she'd pictured him, but he was only seven, after all. In the days leading up to his visit, the boy had taken on a larger-than-life image in her mind.
But the most striking thing about him was his face: There was no question he was Connor's son.
Michele wasn't sure where to look. At the boy and his uncanny resemblance to Connor, the boy who was absolutely her husband's, or at Connor and the reaction he had to be feeling. In the end she tore her eyes from the child and watched her husband, watched the way he took a quick step forward, then stopped himself.
He wants to run to the boy. If I wasn't here he'd have the child in his arms in less than a minute. She turned back to the boy and saw the flight attendant notice them.
“Is he with you?”
“Yes,” she heard Connor say. “We're here for him.”
The words felt like daggers in Michele's soul.
The attendant walked the boy to them. Connor showed his pilot's identification and signed a release form. This time Michele looked at the boy, and a soft gasp filled her throat.
He didn't only look like Connor; he looked like Connor's father. She had expected that, when she saw the boy, she would find herself looking into the face of the woman who'd lured Connor into a one-night stand. Instead, the face was as familiar as it was beautiful. The same face she'd smiled at a million times, the one she woke up next to and looked at across the dining room table.
The only possible resemblance to his mother was his eyes. Piercing green eyes lit up his face and made a stark contrast against his tanned skin and dark hair. His mother must've been breathtaking.
The flight attendant finished his work and left them alone.
“Max?” Connor stooped down and held out his hand. “I'm Mr. Evans, your mom's friend.”
The boy reached out and shook Connor's hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Something about hearing the boy's voice shot a crack through Michele's tough exterior. He sounded sweeter than an angel, and it took everything in her to remember that he wasn't just any other boy. He was her husband's illegitimate child. She stiffened and cleared her voice. “I'm Mrs. Evans.” She nodded at the boy but stopped short of holding out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, ma'am.”
Connor's voice was tight, pinched with a kind of glad emotion that only made Michele more angry. “Did you eat dinner yet?”
“Yes, sir. On the plane.”
“Well”—Connor straightened—“we're happy you could come, Max.”
Michele shifted her attention back to her husband. His face was masked in nonchalance, but beneath that mask she saw a sort of awe, a light he couldn't hide. Hatred flooded her soul again. She had seen Connor look that way only three other times in her life. When they faced each other at the front of a church fourteen years earlier, when Elizabeth was born, and when Susan entered the world.
The fact that he felt that way now knocked the wind from her and nearly dropped her to the airport floor, even as passengers streamed by them. How dare he give a look like that to a boy he'd only just met? As if his arrival was packed with as much emotional meaning as any of those previous events? She leaned back on her heels to keep from falling.
As she did, Connor reached out his hand to the child and smiled at him. “Come on, Max. Let's get your suitcase.”
Her body moved despite the fact that her heart had crashed to the ground somewhere back at the gate. The concourse was crowded, and though Michele tried to stay even with Connor and the boy, several times the foot traffic kept her a few feet behind, as though there wasn't room for all of them to walk the path together.
The irony slapped her in the face. Of course there wasn't room for all three of them. Not on the concourse, and not in life. And sometime in the very near future Connor would have to decide who was going to stay.
Her or the boy.
They reached the luggage carousel and Connor leaned close to the boy again. “You remember what your bag looks like?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy looked up at Connor and blinked. “Long and blue with a zipper on the middle. A ruffle bag, I think.”
Michele watched Connor stifle a grin. “A duffel bag?”
“Right. That's it. That's the name Ramey called it.”
Michele dropped her arms to her side and stared at them. Connor was in another world, as if he and the boy were the only two people on earth. Already he was bonding with the boy, becoming friends, finding humor in the things he said.
Connor looked at her and motioned her closer. “Help us find Max's bag, okay?”
The boy looked up, and for the first time his eyes held hers. It didn't matter that he looked like Connor; his eyes were his mother's. She had no doubt. Looking into them now made her feel like the woman was standing next to her, linking arms with Connor and laughing at her for ever trusting him.
She blinked and managed the slightest smile in the boy's direction. “Yes, of course.” Her eyes darted from the boy's face to the moving belt and the luggage that was just starting to spill onto it. “A blue duffel bag.”
The boy looked, too, and after a few minutes he pointed. “There it is! I see it!” He took a step closer, but Connor took gentle hold of his shoulder and stopped him.
“I'll get it.” He reached over and pulled the bag easily up and onto his shoulder.
As he did, Michele caught sight of the tag fastened to the black nylon handle. In big, black letters it said simply, Kiahna Siefert, Western Island Air.
The label was the last and greatest blow … the surefire explosion that ripped through her soul and told her the truth. Her husband had fathered a child with another woman.
Connor caught Max's hand in his once more, and Michele knew.
Whatever decision was yet to come, for the most part it had already been made. If the future held room for only two of them, then she would need to start thinking about where she was going to live. Because she knew Connor Evans better than she knew herself.
And the way he held that little boy's hand, he wasn't ever going to let go.
SIXTEEN
Connor's heart was killing him.
Wracked with a series of wildly varying emotions in a way he'd never experienced before, he was beyond exhausted long before the three of them pulled out of the airport and back onto the highway.
The scene that had just played out was destroying his wife; it had to be. And because of that, he was desperate with grief. But at the same time … at the same time a myriad of brilliant colors was going off in his mind. Colors he'd never even imagined before this day. The reason for them was simple.
He had a son.
All he could do as they headed home was replay the way he'd felt back at the airport, again and again and again.
From the moment he laid eyes on Max, he knew the boy was his. The child was strong and healthy and striking, just the way Marv Ogle had said he would be. And the resemblance to Connor was amazing. Same strong jaw, same dimpled chin, same forehead.
As Max came closer, Connor felt himself falling hard for the boy, allowing the child entrance into a very select place in his heart. A place from which there would be no return, whether Max stayed with them or not.
But it wasn't until he took his son's hand in his that he felt it. A connection different than anything he'd ever known. It was part remorse, part rejoicing. For here was a son he'd missed without knowing it. Missed Max's birth and his first smile, his first steps and early days of preschool. Connor hadn't been there to marvel over his son's first attempt at writing his name, nor had he been there to watch him take his first at-bat in ba
seball.
Those moments, all of them, were gone forever.
But the rejoicing came in knowing that, because of some twist of fate, they'd found each other. Now, if Connor had any influence on Michele, he would never let his son go.
Connor checked the rearview mirror and met Max's eyes. The boy gave him a shy smile. “Florida looks like Hawaii.”
“Yes, I guess it does.” Connor grinned back at him and cast a quick look at Michele. The comment hit its mark. She turned and looked out her window, refusing to take part in the conversation.
Five minutes passed, and the tension in the car felt thicker than glue. He turned on the radio and punched a series of buttons and zipped past one commercial after another until Lee Greenwood's “God Bless the USA” filled the car.
Max didn't say anything, but Connor watched him in the mirror, checking on him every few seconds. It occurred to Connor what a good job Kiahna had done with their son. He was painfully polite, and more than a little shy. Connor figured the shy thing had more to do with the situation than Max's real personality. If Max and Michele didn't want to talk, Connor would. He rambled on about the girls and their camping trip, trying to sound as normal as possible. Still, the tension remained.
They arrived home in thirty minutes, and Connor hesitated before getting out of the car. It was only seven o'clock. The girls would be up, anxious to meet the son of Daddy's friend. He'd sat them down earlier in the week and told them about Max, that he was coming for two weeks and that he'd join them on their vacation.
Neither of the girls seemed bothered by the idea, though they wondered if he'd have his own sleeping bag for the trip. Susan wanted to know if he liked climbing trees, and Elizabeth wondered if he was old enough to ride a bike in the street. He still hadn't seen the fear and doubt Michele was certain they were feeling.
Either way the moment at hand was a big one.
Michele climbed out in silence and went inside without saying a word. That left Connor and Max in the garage, making sure he had his blue duffel bag. Before they went inside, Max looked at him, his eyes wide. “Is this house all yours?”
Connor wasn't sure what the boy meant. “Well, not really. It belongs to my wife and daughters, too.”
“Yes, but …” He looked over his shoulder at the garage and back at the entrance to the house. “It's so big. I thought maybe … maybe other families lived here, too.”
“Nope.” Connor kept his tone even. The boy had probably lived most of his life in near poverty, all because he hadn't had a father to help out. He smiled at Max and took his hand again. “Just us.” They stepped inside and walked through the utility room toward the main living room. “Ready to meet the girls?”
Max nodded. “Ready.”
They were waiting on the sofa together. Connor had hoped Michele would be with them, but she was nowhere around. When the girls spotted them, they stood and took a few steps forward.
Elizabeth dropped her eyes to the place where Connor held Max's hand, and instantly he let go. As he did, her expression changed and the sweet smile that was so typical of her personality flashed on her face. “Hi … you must be Max.”
He nodded. “Hi.”
Susan skipped the formalities. She took a few quick steps in his direction and then motioned toward the stairs. “Wanna see my new Lego set?”
Max's eyes grew wide. “You have Legos?”
“Sure. Not all girls play with dolls, you know.” Her lighthearted laughter broke the tension, and the threesome started to move away.
Then, as though he'd only just remembered where he was, Max stopped and looked at Connor. “Is it okay? If I go up and play with them?”
Warmth beyond description filled the center of Connor's being. These were his three children. Playing together for the first time. He struggled to find his voice. “Yes, Max. Go play.”
He listened to their silly chatter as they headed up the stairs.
“How was your plane ride?” The voice was Elizabeth's, less childlike, and more to the point. “I hate the turbulence.”
“Yeah. Me, too. But this one was great. Not too bumpy.”
“Hey, guess what?” Susan wasn't about to let Elizabeth have the upper hand in the conversation.
Connor felt a pang at his daughters' determination to make Max feel welcome. How would they feel if they knew the truth?
Susan was rambling. “And then I also have Lego sets that make a plane and a spaceship.” Her voice faded as she must've run ahead of the others, intent on showing Max her entire Lego collection.
“Wow, could I play with it?”
Their voices grew too distant for him to make out. Only then did he remember to exhale. He needed to find Michele, needed to talk to her and see what she was feeling, why she left the family and went up to her room. Why couldn't she have made even a little effort that night? But first he had something to do.
He crept into his office and opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet. Tucked behind a dozen manila files was a small stack of three picture frames he'd hidden years ago. He pulled them out, careful not to bump them on the cabinet. Then he looked at the one on top. It was a picture of him and his father, taken at his graduation from West Point. The photo was always one of his favorites because his father looked so proud of him.
He studied it now, studied the way his arm hung loosely around his father's shoulders. The way his other hand was linked to his dad's in a handshake to mark the moment. He pulled the frame closer, looked intently at his father's eyes. There had been no sign back then, no hint that one day the two of them would walk away from each other forever.
No sign except the obvious.
His father had often been proud of Connor's accomplishments, but he couldn't remember once when the man had been proud of him as a person. Proud just to call him his son. A memory began to take shape, one from the year before their falling out. Connor had been helping Elizabeth walk along a gravel path through his parents' backyard garden at the ranch in Cambria.
“What are you doing out there?” His father had barked the words from a distance, his hands on his hips.
Connor remembered smiling, wishing his father would smile back. When the man's mouth remained slack, Connor spoke up. “Helping my little girl take a walk, Dad. Wanna join us?”
“You'll spoil her, Connor. She's two years old; she can walk by herself.” He walked away, shaking his head and muttering something about independence and knowing when to let go.
The thoughts that ran through Connor's head that afternoon were the same ones that ran through his head now. How could it be right to build independence in a relationship with a two-year-old? Didn't love factor into the formula anywhere? And wasn't that why he hadn't ever felt close to his father? Independent, yes. But close … definitely not.
Connor pushed the memory aside and set the picture back in his filing cabinet. Next was a photo of his entire family, taken either his sophomore or junior year in high school. His mother was in the center, the way she'd been when she was alive. Her smile was vibrant and alive, reaching his heart even through the grainy finish of a yellowed photograph. On either side of her sat his three sisters, each of them younger than he and only a year or so apart. In the back, tall and proud, stood his father and him.
The photographer that day had suggested that Connor sit beside his oldest sister. Two children on one side of their mother, two on the other. But Connor's father wouldn't hear of it.
“Connor's a man, not a child,” he snapped. “He'll be in the back with me.”
The words seemed as strange now as they had back then. Connor's a man, not a child? How old could he have been, sixteen? Seventeen at the most? What was wrong with being a kid, anyway? And maybe that was another problem with him and his father. The man had never looked at Connor the way Connor had looked at Max an hour earlier.
That look of love and adoration and awe all mixed up and shining from his father's eyes was something Connor had never known, even in the best of times.
Pride, yes, but love and adoration and awe, no.
He studied the eyes again, looked at the way his sisters seemed somewhat stiff and uptight. They were happy girls, all of them. And they'd grown up to have nice families, sweet children. But back then they had feared their father, no doubt. Yes, he could be the life of the party, whipping up a batch of ice cream, organizing a game of croquet. But he was the sergeant, the one in control at every gathering. For the picture, he had ordered everyone to do exactly as the photographer said, and in minutes he turned their normally cheerful dispositions into a front of fear and high expectation.
How different might the portrait have looked if he'd simply taken his place and let the natural light in the eyes of his children shine through?
Connor looked more closely. Of all the eyes in the photo, his own were the hardest to read. If he was remembering right, that day had been difficult for him. Right before the portrait sitting, Connor's best friend had moved across town with his family.
He might've been sixteen, but he remembered how his heart had broken in two when Mike Estes pulled away in his family's van. All he'd wanted was to find a quiet place in the woods, somewhere to sit and think for a few hours. Instead, they had to get ready for the picture.
His father pulled him aside before the family gathered outside on the lawn and warned him about his attitude. “I'll have none of this moping around stuff.” He straightened his jacket and dusted a bit of white fuzz off Connor's sleeve. “You'll be happy for the picture, and afterwards we'll change out of our clothes and make some ice cream.” He hesitated. “Friends come and go in life, Connor. Get over it.”
Connor stared at the photo, searching his old man's eyes. Is that how you feel now, Dad? People come and go in life, and get over it?
Sadness flooded his heart, because the answer was obvious. Of course that's how his father felt. Otherwise he would've found a reason to call by now, whether he'd changed his mind about the money or not. His silence over the years was further proof that he had never really connected with Connor in the first place.
Oceans Apart Page 14
