by Steve Gannon
“At lunch?”
“Yeah,” Taylor laughed. “Demonstrate this good memory of yours.”
I thought back, recalling our conversation. “You said that you grew up in Salmon, Idaho, and got married at eighteen, right out of high school. After that you worked as a secretary to put your husband Mark through college and law school. Later you went back to school yourself, earned your undergraduate degree, and attended Chapman Law. After graduation you joined Mark at a law firm in Burbank.”
Taylor stared in amazement.
“Want me to go on?
“No, that’s enough. You’re a strange guy, Kane.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Fifteen minutes later we pulled to a stop in front of Taylor’s Santa Monica condo, an attractive, two-story residence a few blocks off the beach. Taylor slid out of the Suburban and circled to my side of the car. As I opened my window to say goodnight, she leaned in and twisted off the ignition. “C’mon in for a sec,” she said, slightly slurring her words. “I was serious when I said I wanted you to meet my kitty, and I meant that in a strictly feline sense,” she added, giggling. “At least walk me to the door.”
“Okay, if only to make certain you don’t fall down on the way,” I joked, thinking that Taylor’s margaritas were definitely catching up with her.
After climbing from the Suburban, I accompanied Taylor to her front entry. Mounted beside the door, I noticed a mailbox that read “Blackadar.”
“Taylor was my married name,” said Taylor, noting my glance at the mailbox. “I still use Taylor at work, but otherwise I go by my family name. Come on in and meet Chuck.”
“Thanks, Taylor, but I’ve gotta be going.”
“Jeez, Kane. It’ll just take a minute,” Taylor insisted, fishing a set of keys from her purse.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Let’s go meet Chuck.”
Inside, Taylor’s condo was neat and tidy, with the exception of several colorful kayaks and a clutch of double-bladed paddles stacked against a far wall. I paused in the entry, inspecting a photo of a kayaker punching through an impossibly huge wave—paddle digging for purchase, whitewater flying everywhere. “You?” I asked.
Taylor nodded. “My dad taught me to paddle when I was a kid. My granddad, who was a pioneer in the sport, taught him. You could say class-five whitewater runs in our blood.”
Curious, I picked up an odd metal gauntlet propped in the corner. The strange sculpture resembled a hand with outspread fingers, the digits curling downward as if grasping an invisible grapefruit. Engraved at the base were the words:
North Fork Championship VII
Elite Division: Second Place
Sara Blackadar
“What’s this thing?” I asked.
“The brown claw?” Taylor laughed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t ask. It’s a kayaker thing.” Then, bending over, she scooped up a huge orange cat that had ambled over to greet us. “Here, meet Chuck.”
“Hey, Chuck,” I said, stroking the soft fur beneath the cat’s chin. “You sure are a big boy.”
“He’s a Maine Coon, one of the largest of the domesticated breeds. He’s a lover, too,” Taylor said affectionately, returning Chuck to the floor.
Standing in the condo’s small entry, I suddenly grew conscious of Taylor’s nearness. As Chuck strolled off into the living room, Taylor moved even closer. “I’d offer you something to drink, but you don’t drink,” she said shyly.
“Yeah, well—”
Taylor placed a finger to my lips. Then, circling me with her arms, she moved closer still. I felt her thighs touching mine, her breasts lightly pressing against my chest. “It’s nice being with someone taller than I am,” she said.
I could smell the sweet scent of her hair, a fragrance reminiscent of cinnamon. “Taylor . . .”
“Shhh,” she whispered, bringing her lips to mine. Caught off guard yet making no effort to resist, I felt myself beginning to respond. With a shiver of desire, Taylor parted her lips and kissed me again, her mouth soft and warm on mine. Gradually at first, and then with increasing intimacy, she began moving against me, her hands exploring as she felt my need growing to match hers.
A rush of blood pounding in my ears, I surrendered to the sweetness of Taylor’s embrace. Raking her fingers across my back, she again found my mouth with hers. She felt smooth and sleek in my arms, and this time I returned her kiss, wanting more. Nevertheless, though desire flowed through me like molten iron, I knew I wasn’t ready. The long months since Catheryn’s death, months of heartache and isolation, had left me unprepared for something new, something like this with Taylor. She deserved more than I was able to offer, and I knew that.
As for me . . . it was just too soon. And I knew that, too.
“I can’t do this,” I said, gently pushing her away.
“Why not? What did I do?”
“It’s not you. There’s something I haven’t told you—”
“Of course it’s me,” Taylor said angrily. “It’s always me. Actually, I’m getting used to rejection. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it probably won’t be the last.”
“Taylor, it’s not that. Since I lost Catheryn—”
“That would be Catheryn, your long-suffering wife?” Taylor interrupted, her tone turning resentful. “The one you loved so much that you cheated on her with newscaster Lauren what’s-her-name? And now you don’t want to have anything to do with me because of feelings you still have for your poor, deserted wife? Don’t bullshit me, Kane. What’s the real reason? You don’t drink and I got tipsy tonight. Is that it?”
“Catheryn and I weren’t divorced, Taylor.”
“But I thought . . .” Taylor hesitated. Then, her tone hardening, “You told me you used to be married, but of course you lied about that, too. You’re still married, aren’t you? Damn you, Kane. You’re just like every other—”
“Catheryn was murdered.”
“What?”
“She was struck by a bullet meant for me.”
Taylor paled. “Oh, my God,” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “I remember now. The L.A. Sniper case. That was you?”
I nodded.
“Oh, Jesus. I . . . I’m sorry,” said Taylor, tears starting in her eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean what I said about your wife. I’m so sorry, Kane. I drink too much when I get nervous, like tonight. I’m such an ass—”
“Stop, Taylor,” I said gently. “This wasn’t your fault. I should have told you.”
“Yes, but—”
“I should have told you. I just didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I understand,” Taylor mumbled. “Who would? I can’t imagine losing someone like that. I’m so sorry about shooting off my mouth, Kane. I was embarrassed and . . . and ashamed of throwing myself at you. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t take rejection very well. But that’s no excuse,” she added bitterly, her tears now flowing.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not okay,” she said, fighting to get herself under control. “God, I’m a mess.”
I hesitated, unprepared for Taylor’s emotional meltdown. Nevertheless, I understood that her previous rancor had been at least partially inspired by the margaritas, and her apology seemed heartfelt. Once again revising my opinion of Agent Taylor, I clumsily took her in my arms and held her until her shoulders stopped shaking.
“It’s okay, Taylor,” I repeated.
After a long moment she pulled away. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“What?”
“I’d like to start over, if that’s possible,” she said, attempting to palm away her tears. “Can we forget this happened?”
I nodded. “Already done. And Taylor?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for going out on a limb for me with the Bureau. I owe you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. Then, with a sad smile, “Maybe I can collect on that someday.”
Ch
apter 33
Freudian slip, eh?’ the guy says to his buddy. ‘Hmm. So what exactly did you say to your wife?’” Nate smiled, enjoying his own joke to a degree routinely unwarranted by his teenaged material. Nevertheless, everyone at the dinner table, including me, waited for the punch line.
“Looking embarrassed, the guy’s buddy shrugs and says, ‘Well, I meant to ask Martha to pass the peas,’” Nate continued, beginning to giggle. “‘Instead what came out was, ‘You rotten bitch, you ruined my life!’”
I busted up. So did Allison, nearly choking on a mouthful of Grandma Dorothy’s chili. Dorothy, who didn’t approve of rough language, especially at the dinner table, tried not to join in, her frown of censure making it all the more difficult for the rest of us not to laugh.
“It’s not nice calling a woman a bitch, Nate,” Dorothy admonished, having trouble maintaining a serious expression herself.
Nate grinned. “So why is everyone laughing?”
Of course Dorothy had no answer for that, after which she surrendered to the moment and joined the rest of us in Nate’s light-hearted humor.
“Good one, kid,” I chuckled. “It’s great to see you happy again.”
“Amen to that,” said Allison.
“Thanks,” said Nate. “I am feeling better. Must be Grandma’s chili. You should get the recipe, Dad.”
It had been several days since I had visited Dr. Berns. Since then I’d tried to find an appropriate time to talk with Nate about the issues Berns had raised, but the opportunity had never presented itself. With a sense of relief, I realized that maybe that particular conversation would no longer be necessary.
“I’d be happy to write down the recipe for you, Dan,” Dorothy offered. “Appropriately enough, I call it, ‘Grandma Dorothy’s Famous Chili.’”
“You know that ‘Grandma Dorothy’s Famous Chili’ will become ‘Dan Kane’s Famous Chili’ as soon as he’s cooked it a few times, right?” Nate pointed out.
“Yes, but we’ll know, won’t we?” Dorothy replied with a smile. “Would you like some more, Nate?”
“Thanks, I’m stuffed.”
“Me, too,” said Allison.
“Seriously, though,” Nate continued. “I know that everyone has been worried about me, and I’m really sorry about that. Things are going to be better, I promise. Dad, I’m going to see about getting back on the Vikings baseball team, and I plan to start hitting the books at school again, too. The SAT college exams are coming up, and I plan to ace them.”
“Excellent,” I said, relieved to see the old Nate back once more. “While you’re at it, how about straightening up your room?”
“It’s on the list, Dad.”
“Hey, I have some news,” Allison jumped in, sending our freewheeling conversation spinning in another direction. “Mike is getting a few days off from work. He’s coming home tomorrow.”
“That’s great, Ali,” I said. “How’s the shoot going?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Allison replied. “They’re several days ahead of schedule, which is unusual on a big project like that. By the way, Mike said that Tom Grant, who’s starring in the film, asked how you were and sends his best.” Allison regarded me curiously. “How do you happen to know an Academy Award-winning movie star?”
“I know everyone in this town worth knowing.”
“Seriously, how did you meet Tom Grant?”
I shrugged. “We have something in common. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“I have some news, too,” Dorothy announced. “Travis called today. He says he’s going to accept a few of the concert dates he was offered. Trav met with his program advisor at Juilliard, and as long as Trav maintains his grades and his current course schedule, he can still perform. He’s going to be playing with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in May. Maybe we could attend?”
“Maybe,” I replied.
“May doesn’t work for me,” said Allison, placing a hand on her abdomen. “I have an important event scheduled for then myself.”
“Of course,” said Dorothy. Then, glancing at me, “Now that your terrorist case is over, I’ll be returning to Santa Barbara soon, but would it be all right if I came back in May for the birthing?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Dorothy. And I’m sure Ali could use your help.”
“Thank you, Dan.”
“Speaking of the terrorist case,” Allison jumped in, “anything new on that, Dad?”
“Nope.”
“With the investigation all wrapped up, the only thing left now is to discover the identity of the LAPD’s ‘mystery hero,’” Allison persisted. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Nope,” I repeated.
“Well, Brent says it’s just a matter of time.” Allison regarded me closely. “There’s something you’re not saying. What?”
I shrugged. “Does every female on this planet think she knows what’s going on in my head?”
“You’re not that complicated,” Allison laughed. “C’mon, give.”
“Okay, there is one thing, but don’t quote me on this,” I conceded. “You might want to rethink the case being all wrapped up, as you put it. If I were you, I’d hold off on popping the Champagne.”
“Duly noted,” said Allison. “So what about the ‘mystery hero?’ Anything you can give me on that?”
Allison, please stop,” Dorothy intervened. “The dinner table isn’t the place to discuss a murder investigation.” Then, pointedly changing the subject, “Trav also told me that the apartment he and McKenzie are sharing is working out well. Maybe we’ll see grandchildren coming from that direction as well. I certainly hope so. I like that girl.”
“Me, too, Grandma,” Allison agreed. “Mac was my friend first, before Trav stole her away. As for babies . . . I wouldn’t get ahead of yourself on that.”
“This talk of babies is my cue to say goodnight,” said Nate.
“No dessert?” coaxed Dorothy. “We’re having peach cobbler and ice cream.”
“None for me,” Nate replied, rising from the table. “Like I said, I’m stuffed.”
“Actually, I should get going myself,” said Allison, also standing. “Early day tomorrow.”
I pushed back from the table as well. “Great meal, Dorothy. We’ll have the cobbler tomorrow. Thanks for cooking.”
“Yeah, thanks, Grandma,” said Nate, giving her a hug. Then, moving to Allison, he embraced her as well. “’Night, Ali.”
“Goodnight, Nate,” said Allison, unable to conceal her surprise. “I haven’t had one of those from you in quite a while. Feels good.”
“Yeah, it does, sis.”
Finally Nate moved to me. With an odd smile, he circled me with his arms and gave me a hug that seemed to last just a moment too long. “You know I love you, Dad,” he said quietly.
“I know that, Nate,” I replied, recalling that he had said those same words to me several weeks back. “I’ve always known that. I love you, too.”
*****
Twenty-five miles to the east, in a residential enclave in Hancock Park, the Nichols family was also finishing dinner. “Do you have anything on your schedule tomorrow, Blake?” asked Julie Nichols, regarding her screenwriter husband across the table. “If not, I was hoping you could join me for Max’s parent-teacher conferences at Harvard-Westlake.”
“It’s that time again?” said Blake. “I swear, between holidays, field trips, and parent-teacher conferences, do our children ever attend class? It seems like the more we pay to send them to expensive schools, the less time they actually spend going.”
“Seems like plenty of time to me,” grumbled Max, their seventeen-year-old son.
Ignoring Max’s comment, Julie continued. “Megan’s grades are fine, as always,” she said, smiling across the table at her daughter and thinking that although Megan was a year younger than Max, she had always seemed so much more mature. “But I’m worried about you, Mister,” Ju
lie went on, her smile morphing to a frown as she focused her attention on Max. “I plan on talking with all your teachers this time. Your counselor, too. If possible, I’d like you to be there with me, Blake.”
“Sorry,” said Blake. “I’m getting together with Brad tomorrow at Paramount. And I have a follow-up meeting later with Donna at Universal.”
“Why are you pitching your screenplay to Brad?” asked Julie. “I thought Donna was going to green-light it.”
“Things aren’t that easy anymore,” Blake replied. “Relationships and promises still count, but nowadays the numbers trump all, and Universal’s accountants are still poring over projections for the home entertainment market. Despite any promises from Donna, things won’t actually get done until the numbers are crunched. Can’t hurt to talk with Paramount in the meantime.”
“Marlborough’s parent-teacher conferences are next week,” Megan jumped in. “Think you can make it to those, Dad?”
“Maybe,” Blake answered.
“I hope so. I’d like you to meet my teachers,” said Megan. “Now if I may be excused, I’ll clear the table and do the dishes.”
“Really? Thanks, honey,” said Julie, regarding her daughter with surprise.
“What is it you want, Megan?” Blake asked suspiciously.
Just then the gate buzzer sounded.
“I’ll check that,” said Max, rising from the table.
“Can’t I offer to help around here without having some dark, ulterior motive?” asked Megan, feigning insult.
“Not really,” said Julie.
“Absolutely not,” added Blake.
“I’m hurt,” laughed Megan. Then, “Um, actually . . . I was wondering whether I could spend the night at Chiloe’s tomorrow. She’s having a sleepover.”
“No boys at Chiloe’s, right?” said Blake.
“Of course not, Dad.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” said Julie. Then, rising to help clear the table, “Who was at the gate, Max?”
“UPS delivery,” Max replied, calling from the entry. “I buzzed them in.”
Chapter 34
