Sure, she'd talked about a family back in the days when they'd both been young and full of dreams, but that was more than fifteen years ago now. And even then she'd been cautious, hiding behind "someday."
If he had half a brain, he'd be worried.
Pulling a rabbit out of a hat was nothing compared to pulling a full-grown five-year-old boy out of thin air.
But he still felt so good, so hopeful.
His future stretched out before him like the flat part of the Expressway in front of a '69 Camaro.
It didn't even matter that he wasn't a kid anymore, or that his Camaro had given way to a Jeep – or even that at the center of his future was a little boy Sandra didn't know existed.
She'd said, "I don't scare easily."
Good thing she didn't, because he was starting to sweat bullets.
#
Michael went back into the studio and resumed work on the hawk. Apparently his mysterious phone call was still the prime topic of conversation, and Julio and Bobby kept up a steady stream of low-grade teasing that normally would have driven him up the wall.
That afternoon he just grinned and continued to chip away at the limestone, paying no attention to the sly look on Leon's face as he carved a valentine heart on the left ear of one of his McKay gargoyle specials.
The head of the hawk was fully articulated by the time he left for the airport. His fingers itched to free the shoulders and the curve of the wings, but if he hit traffic through the tunnel, he'd be late meeting David's flight.
His heart felt as if it had been embedded in a chunk of rock just like the hawk, and Sandra's phone call had set it free.
Wouldn't Leon and the others have a field day with that? But, damn, he was fired up with excitement. His body hummed with the need to work, to create, to try to express some of the wild feelings that were racing through him.
Maybe he would bring Davey back to the cathedral. While his son was learning to toss a pot with Annie, he could sneak back into the construction shed and try to work off some of this manic energy.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook behind his work table, a plain black-leather job that Annie and her crew had transformed with their oil paints into a walking advertisement for Altar Ego and the cathedral. Designer jeans did nothing for him, but this was something else again.
"Catch you later." He rapped his knuckles on Leon's table as he headed for the door. "I'm picking up my kid at Newark."
Traffic was light, and he made it to the airport with time to spare. He grabbed a cup of coffee at one of the self-service cafeterias, then watched two inept baggage handlers try to figure out how to stuff some poor sucker's Italian suits back into his busted Vuitton suitcase.
Finally Flight 826 from Tampa-St. Pete rolled up to the jetway, and the passengers disembarked. Old men in pastel leisure suits paraded next to second wives with diamonds the size of walnuts, and brains to match. Businessmen in three-piece suits trooped out, clutching their pagers and Wall Street Journals.
Servicemen.
Girl Scouts.
Tourists.
Everything but a little blond kid in a Yankees T-shirt who somehow managed to make Michael feel he must have done one thing right in his life to deserve him.
Finally the plane was empty. Panic began to do ugly things inside his belly, and he collared a ticket agent near the gate counter.
Flight 826," he said, aware of how he must look to her with his ecclesiastical Hell's-Angels jacket and his wild Irish hair. "Is that everyone?"
She took a long look at him, as if sizing him up for potential terrorist tendencies. "Are you waiting for someone from that flight, sir?"
No. I get my kicks watching people come in from Tampa. "My son was supposed to be on that flight."
She flashed him a professional smile and brought the passenger list up on the computer screen. "Name?"
He hoped she didn't see the cold sweat breaking out around his forehead. "David. David McKay. He's five years old, about this high, probably wearing a T-shirt, though knowing his grandparents he – "
Shut up, jackass.
The agent had quit listening to him as soon as he gave David's name. He sounded like the worst kind of overprotective parent, and he knew it, but in a world where missing kids stared out at you every morning from the back of a milk carton, how could any sane parent not panic?
She looked up from the screen. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no David McKay on the passenger list."
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You're sure? It's McKay. M-C-K-A-Y."
Her professional manner softened. "I'm positive, sir. Perhaps you'd like to check with my supervisor. She might be able to help you further."
She gave him directions to the main office on the second level, but he barely heard her. He felt as if he were trapped in one of those monstrous wind tunnels, surrounded by the scream of engines and waves of heat.
Maybe he had the flight number wrong. Maybe he'd misunderstood Margaret's flat twang, and Davey was coming in at La Guardia. Damn it, the kid could be standing there in the middle of that insanity, wondering where his father was.
He turned to race back to ask the agent to look into it for him. Then he thought he heard his name over the loudspeaker.
He stopped and waited. Crowds of people, yammering in French and Spanish and Italian and a thousand Chinese dialects, flooded past him. Then he heard it again.
"Would Mr. Michael McKay please dial one? Michael McKay, please dial one."
He lurched toward the nearest red wall phone. His mind seemed to be freezing over, brain cell by brain cell. By the time he dialed one, he was wondering if he'd even be able to talk.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm Michael McKay."
"Ah, yes. You're to please call Arthur Bentley in Tampa. His number is – "
"I know the number." He hung up the phone and stared at the wall in front of him.
If he'd been scared before, he was terrified now. The invisible chain of love that linked a parent and child tightened around his chest and made it hard to breathe.
Mysterious illnesses, out-of-control cars, the stranger on the street corner – every nighttime fear there was bore down on him.
He dialed the right number on his third try. His former father-in-law answered the phone, his voice beautifully modulated, carefully controlled. The perfect Dale Carnegie graduate.
"Where's David?" Michael roared. "Is he all right?"
There was a pause. His right hand began to shake. Why had he ever given up smoking?
"Is that you, Michael?"
Who the hell else? "Yes," Michael managed, fighting to control his anger. "I'm at the aiport. What in hell happened to David?"
Art's genteel chuckle made Michael's left hand curl into a fist. "You sound upset, Michael. Good Lord, Margaret and I never meant to alarm you this way."
"I'll ask you one more time. Where is my son?" He put the emphasis on the last two words and hoped they'd find their target.
Art's tone was a shade cooler. "Why, he's at the Baxter boy's birthday party."
Michael sagged against the Plexiglas ledge. "He's okay?"
"Of course he is."
"Then why the hell wasn't he on that plane?"
Another well-rehearsed chuckle from Art Bentley. "Funny thing. Margaret was just packing up David's valise when Connie Baxter came by to borrow some birthday candles and, well, one thing just led to another."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he's at the party. Lord knows, the poor boy hasn't had a great deal of pleasure of late, Michael. Surely you don't begrudge him the opportunity to play with children his own age."
Take it slow. There's more going on here than just a birthday party.
"School reopens tomorrow, Art. I think that's more important than a party." What do you really want, you son of a bitch?
"You sound angry." Somehow it seemed more a taunt than a statement.
"I'm not angry at all, Art. I know you and Margaret are co
ncerned about David, and I appreciate that. But I'm his father, and I believe his schooling comes first."
"Our mistake, my boy." Art's affability was back in place. "It never occurred to us that the schools would reopen so soon after those dangerous killer hurricanes."
Michael's fist connected with the phone book that was dangling from a metal chain attached to the ledge. "They were dangerous," he said, "but they weren't killers. You underestimate Long Islanders, Art. We're a tough group."
"Point well taken, Michael." Another pause. "We're planning to send David home Thursday morning."
"No good. He'll miss too much school."
"He's five years old, Michael. Certainly he'd be better off with his grandparents than in some cold, impersonal daycare center."
"David is enrolled in a fully accredited kindergarten, Art, not a day-care center." Explanations shouldn't be necessary. "I want him home tomorrow."
"We made an appointment with the optometrist for him tomorrow."
"His eyes are fine, Art. I had them checked before he registered for school."
"Margaret and I are only trying to help you, Michael. After all, you are a single parent with a demanding job, and – "
"Tomorrow," Michael broke in. "There's a 9 a.m. flight out of Tampa-St. Pete that goes straight to La Guardia. I want David on it."
"I don't care for that tone of voice, Michael."
"Then we're even, because I don't care for the game you're playing, Art."
"We're only thinking of David. He needs friends."
"He has friends," Michael said. "At school."
"We can't work something out? A few more days in the sunshine would certainly be good for the boy."
"A few more days at school will be even better. Tomorrow, Art." Michael made no attempt this time to disguise his anger. "I mean it."
"Margaret told me you wouldn't be flexible about sharing David with us, but I was so sure you would." A low, melodramatic sigh eased through the wires. "You disappoint me, Michael. I had hoped we could be civilized about this."
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. "Is that a threat?"
Art laughed. "Still the same Irish temper. You do jump to conclusions, my boy. All I'm saying is that I had hoped you would be more flexible when it came to visitation rights."
"Visitation isn't your right, Art, it's a privilege. If you remember, I have full custody of my son."
Art suddenly dropped his Toastmaster-of-the-Year demeanor. "He's our only link to Diana. We'll do anything we have to in order to preserve that."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning we're not afraid to fight for David."
"You'll lose," Michael said slowly. "That's the one thing you can be sure of."
"We'll see about that. Margaret and I can offer David much more than you realize, Michael. A judge may find that difficult to ignore."
"Flight 22, 9 a.m." Michael's words were as sharp as gunfire, and twice as deadly. "He'd better be on it."
Inside Michael McKay was the same streetfighting kid from the streets of New York who hadn't been good enough for the Bentleys' darling daughter.
If Art and Margaret were looking for a battle, they would get more than they bargained on.
He hung up the phone. His blood pounded in his ears as if he'd just finished an eight-mile run on a hot day. The terminal was too noisy, too crowded; the walls seemed to be closing in on him.
He elbowed his way past a crowd of college kids waiting for a flight up to Harvard, maneuvered around a cluster of nuns near the Delta counter, then sprinted for the exit.
What he needed was to surround himself with the other things that were important to him. He needed to ground himself, he needed to be in the place that made him happiest.
But this time it wasn't the workshop at St. Matthew's that he sought.
He drove past the cathedral, past the place and people that had kept him going all these months, and headed toward Long Island and Sandra Patterson.
#
"Snap to, Patterson."
Sandra jumped at the sound of Ed Gregory's voice, and spilled her coffee across the mortgage memorandum she was drafting.
"Damn it, Ed!" She blotted up the brown liquid with a paper napkin, and frowned at the pale brown stain creeping across the top page.
"I've been talking to you the last five minutes. Where've you been?"
"Sorry." She passed her hands across her eyes. Fluorescent lights always gave her a headache. "What were you saying?"
"Those damned hurricanes really set us back. We're going to have to put in a lot of hours around here if we're going to make the regional review next month." He leaned over her desk and glanced at the mountains of ledger sheets. "You do good work, Patterson." He gave her one of his best smiles. "Now if you can just keep doing it eighteen hours a day until the review, we've got it made."
Sandra stifled a yawn. "She'd come to work directly from visiting her mother, and had worked straight through dinner. The office was quiet except for the sound of Ilene McGrath's printer clacking away three doors down.
Everyone with half a brain had called it quits for the night and it was painfully obvious where that observation left her.
She pushed her glasses to the top of her head and stood up.
"That's it, Ed. It's late, I'm exhausted, and I'm starving."
He grabbed her wrist and checked her watch. "Nine-thirty," he said. "You couldn't push it another hour? We could finish the Andersen acquisition."
"Forget it."
Ed's eyes widened. "You don't sound like yourself."
Her laugh was shaky with fatigue. For the last few days she'd been living on the edge of her emotions, and it had finally taken its toll.
"I don't feel like myself, Ed. I'm wiped out. What I need is a Lean Cuisine and a date with my Sealy Posturepedic."
"Is that an invitation?"
"Somehow I can't imagine you being happy with Lean Cuisine. You've always been more the steak-and-potatoes type to me."
"What about the Sealy?" His tone was light, but Sandra sensed he meant every word.
She shook her head. "I've always been a believer in that old chestnut about mixing business with pleasure. It never works out.
"Times are changing. The workplace is where people get to know one another. It beats happy hour."
"Sorry, Ed. I like you too much as a boss to take a chance."
He sat on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over his chest. "You know, I've never really understood you, Patterson, not even after all these years. You're not like any other woman I've worked with."
She picked up her sweater from the coat rack near the window."Should I take that as a compliment?"
"I haven't decided yet. I've known you almost nine years, and I still don't know one damned thing about you."
This was turning out to be the strangest day. Ed Gregory had never expressed the slightest interest in knowing anything about her private life despite his occasional half-hearted overture.
"What do you want to know?" she asked, slipping her arms into her sweater. "My resume is an open book."
An odd look passed across his face. "You've come a hell of a long way," he said, his voice gruffer than usual. "Don't go screwing up on me now."
The muscles across her shoulders and back stiffened. She took a deep breath in an effort to control her anxiety.
"If you're dissatisfied with my work, Ed, tell me. I don't want any surprises later on."
"Your work's been great. That's not the problem."
"Then what is?"
His right forefinger disappeared into his thatch of brown hair as he scratched his scalp. "Damned if I can explain it, but I have the feeling those storms did more than cave in your roof."
Sandra wasn't a fool. Ed was talking about Michael, and they both knew it.
She forced a calm, professional smile. "Everything's under control."
"Glad to hear it. You're on your way, Patterson. I'd hate to see you get sidetracked by any unnec
essary home improvements."
It was a low blow, but since they were speaking elliptically she had to let it pass. He had already glimpsed more of her personal life than she would have liked, including her mother's illness.
"Don't worry, Ed. You'll get your eighteen hours a day."
She couldn't control the edge of anger in her voice, and Ed apparently felt its sting."
"Did I sound like that big a bastard?"
"Yes," she said, looping her pocketbook over her shoulder. "The Board of Directors would be proud of you."
"There are big things ahead of you, Patterson. This transfer is only the beginning."
She drew in her breath sharply, "I'm in line for something else?" Not now. Oh, God, please not now.
For so many reasons, she finally wanted to stay put.
"Have dinner with me, and I'll fill you in on the latest developments."
She shook her head and headed toward the door. "Maybe when the power's back on. I'm afraid you've already tipped your hand tonight."
He stepped into the doorway, blocking her exit. "Not even White Castle?"
She aimed a look at him. "A little White Castle goes a long way, Ed. I thought you knew that." Not this time, Gregory. This belongs only to me.
"That's what I like to hear," he said, and moved out of her way.
She walked down the hall, conscious of the fact that he watched her until she rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
Whatever happened between her and Michael, it was going to happen without an audience.
US-National already had most of her life. She'd be damned if they got it all.
Once again her mother's words came back to her, and she wondered just how much Elinor really knew.
#
Sandra's front porch light was on, so Michael knew the power was back. The workmen he'd hired had cleared her driveway, but her car was nowhere in sight. Huge piles of broken tree limbs and split branches were stacked haphazardly all over the front and side yards, waiting to be split into firewood.
For a long while he sat on the top step of her redwood deck, listening to a symphony of chain saws from nearby yards and letting the salt breeze from the Sound wash over him. He'd come to Sandra's house in a state of high emotion, a powerful mixture of need and anger and hope that had his adrenaline pumping hard and fast.
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