The Return of Caine O'Halloran

by JoAnn Ross

  Caine shrugged. "We all gotta go some time." He lighted the cigarette and inhaled the acrid smoke into his lungs.

  "True enough."

  She was down to a pair of black bikini panties. Rising from the bed, she walked over to the window, drew the smoke-stained orange drapes, then stopped in front of him. Plucking the cigarette from his lips, she took a long drag.

  "But why do you want to waste time smoking when we could be setting that water bed on fire?"

  Telling himself it was what he wanted, Caine jabbed the cigarette out in a nearby ceramic ashtray shaped like a fish and pulled her down onto the mattress, creating another wild tidal wave.

  Micki was eager and talented, and everything a man could want in a bed partner.

  So why the hell did his mutinous body betray him?

  Caine's erection had softened like a deflated balloon and no amount of feminine coaxing could achieve success.

  "That's okay," she assured him with what Caine considered inordinately good cheer a long time later. "It happens to everyone."

  "Not to me." Frustrated, Caine muttered a low pungent curse.

  He told himself that it was the depressing diagnosis he'd received from that Seattle doctor Nora had referred him to that had him in such a funk. Or the fact that the baseball season was in full swing without him on the mound. The beer he'd drunk, perhaps. Or the dreary weather.

  Even as he made his way through the litany of possible excuses, Caine had a nagging feeling that the reason for his uncharacteristic inability to perform was that the woman stretched out so invitingly beside him on the water bed wasn't his ex-wife.

  What the hell was Nora doing to his mind?

  6

  For MORE than A WEEK, Caine had avoided his family. Since he'd always thought of himself as the O'Halloran success story, the idea of returning home as a failure was anything but appealing.

  Finally, however, knowing it was time—past time—to face them, he drove to his parents' house. He was almost relieved that no one was home. His next stop—the one he dreaded most—was his grandparents' home.

  The old clapboard house was unchanged. The siding was still the faded grayish blue of a February sky, the porch railing as white as the snow that remained in patches beneath the dark green conifers surrounding the house.

  Caine's grandfather, clad in a pair of dark blue overalls, a blue-and-black plaid shirt, a blue down-filled vest and a black watch cap, was sitting in a rocker on the porch, a pipestem jammed into the comer of his mouth.

  Appearing unsurprised by the sight of a sleek black sports car pulling up in front of his home, he pushed himself out of the chair and came to stand by the railing.

  Caine cut the engine and gazed through the tinted windows at his grandfather. When he was a boy, Caine had considered his grandfather the biggest, strongest man in the world. Even Paul Bunyan couldn't have whipped his "Pap," Caine remembered thinking.

  He remembered this man's shoulders as being as straight and wide as an ax handle. And the sure, majestic way Devlin O'Halloran moved had reminded Caine of a ship coming into harbor.

  But now, taking in his grandfather's stooped shoulders, Caine was forced, once again, to realize that the world hadn't stopped turning just because Caine O'Halloran had gone away.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and climbed out of the low-slung car.

  "Hi, Pappy." Caine stood at the bottom of the porch steps.

  "'Bout time you decided to pay your old Pap a visit," the deep, wonderfully familiar voice growled. "I was beginnin' to think I was gonna have to keel over to get you to come home."

  When Caine was five years old, he'd run to his grandfather, seeking sanctuary after breaking Mrs. Nelson's front window with a ball that had gone higher and farther them any ball he'd ever hit before.

  As he climbed the front steps on this spring morning, he breathed in the familiar scents of Old Spice aftershave, cherry tobacco, hair tonic and the distant whiff of camphor his grandmother used to prevent moths from eating holes in her husband's beloved wool shirts, and realized that once again, he'd come to his grandfather seeking refuge.

  "We heard you were back," Devlin O'Halloran said. "Looks like the rumor mill was well greased this time. That car does kinda remind me of a Batmobile."

  Devlin's broad hands—hands capable of the delicate task of tying a fly to the end of a fishing line—took hold of Caine's arms as he gave him a long look.

  "Also heard them Olson boys made mincemeat of your face." His still-bright blue eyes searched Caine's features. "Your grandmother'll be happy to see that you don't look near as bad as folks are sayin'."

  "Bruises fade."

  "That they do," Devlin agreed. "So, bow'd she look to you?"

  "Who?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, boy. I was talking about your wife, the doctor."

  "She's my ex-wife."

  "Bull." Devlin brushed Caine's words away as if they were a pesky fly. "Unless the Pope's gone on the television this morning and changed the rules while I've been sittin' here whittlin', the Church still doesn't cotton to divorce. So, the way I see it, the woman's still your wife."

  "The way the state of New York sees it, Tiffany's my wife."

  "From what I hear, not for long."

  Although he'd yet to find anything humorous in his second wife's defection, Caine threw back his head, looked up at the bright blue sky and laughed. "News travels fast."

  "Always has, around here," the older man agreed laconically. "And I'm sorry about you and that redheaded model, but I reckon that's what you get for marry in' a woman named after a jewelry store."

  "I reckon you're right, Pappy."

  His grandfather had always been able to coax a smile from him, even when things looked darkest. Nearly always, Caine corrected, remembering a time when even this man hadn't been able to lift the black cloud that had settled over him like a shroud.

  "Heard you were out to the cemetery. Matty Johnson was raking the leaves off his wife's restin' place when he saw you puttin' flowers on Dylan's grave. Said he was gettin' ready to go over and welcome you back to town, when Nora showed up."

  There was a question in the old man's voice that Caine knew he could not ignore. "We hadn't planned to meet. I guess my showing up unexpectedly triggered some old memories for her."

  "That's what your grandmother and I figured. So?"

  "So, what?"

  "So, you two gonna be seein' each other regular?"

  "It's a small town. We're bound to run into each other. And I've got an appointment to have some stitches taken out."

  "Let me see."

  Caine bent his head.

  "She did a right fine job," Devlin allowed with surprise. "I remember your mother trying to teach that girl how to quilt. Finally gave up when she kept stitchin' her finger and bleedin' all over the squares."

  "I guess she got better."

  "Seems she did," Devlin agreed. "You eat breakfast?"

  "Not yet. I figured I'd stop by the Timberline for coffee and one of Ingrid's Viking omelets after visiting you and Gram."

  "And break your grandmother's heart? She made flapjack batter this morning and there's a jar of rhubarb sauce waitin' on the table with your name on it."

  Ceiine grinned. His grandfather might look older, but some things, blessedly, remained the same. "Suddenly, I'm starving."

  Devlin put his arm around Caine's shoulder and ushered him through the screen door into the kitchen.

  "Your grandmother must be taking a nap," Devlin said.

  "So early?" Caine glanced up at the copper teakettle clock over the stove. "It's only eight o'clock."

  "She was up early. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair, Caine. I'll go check on her."

  Devlin was smiling, but Caine heard concern in his grandfather's voice. 'Is everything okay?"

  "Just dandy." For the first time Caine could remember, his grandfather refused to look him in the eye. "Sit yourself down. I'll be back in two
shakes of a lamb's tail."

  Caine poured a cup of coffee from the dented aluminum coffeepot on the stove and took a careful sip. It was hot and dark and strong with a just a hint of chicory that hearkened back to Maggie OTHalloran's New Orleans roots.

  The table was covered with the oilcloth that dated back to a time before Caine was bom. The kitchen radio—an ancient tube model—was timed to a big-band station, adding to the feeling that his grandparents' house had been frozen in time.

  "She just drifted off," Devlin said, returning just as the Chattanooga choo-choo left Pennsylvania station. "I didn't think you'd want me to wake her."

  "Of course not. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

  "Your grandmother's not a young woman, Caine. She gets a mite more tired these days. Same as the rest of us old codgers."

  "Maybe I'd better have those flapjacks some other time."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Devlin argued. "You stay put and I'll rustle them up before you can say Jack Sprat."

  He moved toward the stove with the deliberate shuffle of a man of enormous energy trapped in an aging, stiff body. Caine wasn't about to sit by while a man nearly three times his age waited on him.

  "How about we team up?"

  "I reckon that'll be okay," Devlin replied. "But don't you dare tell your grandmother. She'd have my hide if she found out I put you to work the minute you walked in the door."

  "Mum's the word," Caine agreed.

  They worked in companionable silence. Caine cooked the pancakes in an iron skillet in the center of the wood stove Maggie insisted cooked better than any gas or electric one, while Devlin fried bacon in the electric frying pan.

  In the background, Glenn Miller was "in the mood," followed by Erskine Hawkins swinging in the Savoy Ballroom with "Tuxedo Junction." The batter began bubbling around the edges of the silver-dollar-size cakes.

  "So what're you gonna do about getting Nora back?"

  "What makes you think I want her back?" Caine flipped the pancakes.

  "If you don't, you're a damn fool."

  "Still beating around the bush, aren't you?"

  "In case you hadn't noticed, boy, I'm gettin' to be an old man. The way I figure it, I don't have time to be subtle"

  The pancakes were a golden brown. Caine piled them on a plate, put the plate in the warming oven, and began spooning more batter into the pan.

  "I've got too much to work out without trying to rekindle cold ashes from a failed marriage," Caine muttered. Having his grandfather bring up his love life reminded him all too vividly of the other night's humiliating sexual failure.

  The old man piled the bacon onto a platter, then shuffled over to the table and placed it in the middle of the oilcloth.

  "You and Nora started out kinda rocky," Devlin allowed.

  Caine watched him struggling with the lid of the preserve jar and had to force himself not to rush in to help. "We ended that way, too," Caine reminded him.

  Devlin shrugged. "Every marriage goes through a few rough patches. You gonna turn those or let 'em bum?"

  Caine flipped the round cakes just in time.

  He was relieved when his grandfather appeared willing to drop the subject while they shared a companionable breakfast.

  "It's good to have you back, Caine," Devlin said, spooning the dark red rhubarb sauce over their pancakes.

  "You've no idea how good it is to be back." Caine took a bite and remembered what heaven tasted like.

  "There's been a lot of changes here on the peninsula," Devlin complained. "We're gettin' more overrun with tourists every day... the kind of folks that look like they just stepped off the pages of one of them L. L. Bean or Eddie Bauer catalogs.

  "Used to be you could leave your tackle in your boat— can't do that anymore. Remember the first time I took you fishing?"

  "We were out for seven days, trolling for salmon."

  He'd been five at the time, but Caine could remember the cold winds, the churning waves and the orange floats as if it were yesterday. The memory was so vivid that when he took a bite of bacon, Caine was almost surprised that it didn't taste of fish.

  "I was as sick as a dog the entire time."

  "You were a mite green around the gills," Devlin confirmed. "I told your daddy that we'd better find you another occupation because it was obvious that you weren't bom with the O'Halloran sea legs. Next day he bought you your first baseball."

  He stabbed a piece of pancake with his fork and chewed thoughtfully. "Funny how things work out. Who would've guessed that you'd grow up to be a big-league baseball star and end up in the Hall of Fame alongside Ruth and DiMaggio and Cobb?"

  "You can't get voted into the Hall of Fame until you've been retired for five years. And I'm not ready to retire."

  "Your daddy said the same thing," Devlin observed. "What with all the government quotas, a string of bad weather, and foreigners working the waters, the fishing business has gotten so bad it looks like your daddy might have to give up The Bountiful."

  "I went by the docks to see The Bountiful yesterday," Caine told him. He'd been surprised by the number of streamlined sport-fishing craft, painted red and blue and yellow, with sickeningly cute names and long whip antennae, that had taken over many of the old fishing-boat slips. "But they told me she was out to sea."

  "Your daddy got himself a two-week charter. A bunch of insurance guys from Seattle won some kinda sales contest.

  "That's one of those funny twists of fate. For a while, things were lookin' so bad we thought your daddy would have to turn The Bountiful over to the bank and go work on the beach."

  "I hadn't realized he was in financial trouble. Damn! Why didn't he tell me?"

  "It wasn't your problem."

  "But I made three million dollars last year."

  Devlin looked up with interest. "Newspapers said four point five."

  "The newspapers were wrong."

  "Still," Devlin mulled aloud, "three million is a right nice piece of change."

  "Enough to pay every debt my father could have racked up and buy a fleet of new boats." Caine's fingers curved tightly around the handle of his fork. "Dammit, he should have told me."

  "You had your own troubles, what with your injury and your marriage problems and all," his grandfather argued patiently. "We didn't want to worry you."

  Although Devlin didn't say it, Caine had the bleak feeling that the reason his family hadn't come to him for help was that they'd never considered him all that reliable. Although he knew his parents were proud of his achievements, he also knew that they found it difficult to view baseball as a real job.

  The OTIallorans were a hardy, unpretentious, salt-of-the-earth breed who'd always worked hard for every penny; he, on the other hand, was paid a virtual fortune to play a kids' game. Add to that a press corps that loved detailing his admittedly hedonistic life-style, and it was no wonder his parents had opted to handle their own financial problems.

  Caine shrugged. "I had a few curveballs thrown my way. Nothing I can't handle. Dad should have said something."

  '"Tweren't necessary. A few months ago your daddy turned the boat into a charter and Ellen signed on as cook. Thanks to city slickers with too much time and money on their hands, he's makin' more in a month than he did all last year. Which leads me to my next point."

  "What point is that?" Caine knew he sounded like a petulant twelve-year-old. Which wasn't surprising since, unfortunately, at the moment he felt like one.

  "That sometimes life takes funny turns and it looks as if things are goin' downhill, but if a fella's quick on the uptake, he can turn things around to his advantage.

  "Nothin'your daddy liked better than bein' out on that boat. And for a while, it looked like he was gonna have to give it up. But then he figured out this charter business and from what I can tell he's never been happier.

  "And your mama. Lord, that lady never worked for wages a day in her life, but you'd think she'd discovered heaven from the way she talks about all the pleasure she get
s from those city folkgobblin' up her vittles like they'd been starving.

  "So, why don't you quit feelin' sorry for yourself, Caine, and figure out how to make lemonade outta them lemons fate dealt you?"

  Caine squared his shoulders. "I'm not feeling sorry for myself."

  "Who's not feelin' sorry for himself?" a feminine voice asked. "Is that my Caine?" Maggie O'Halloran peered through her wire-framed glasses as she entered the kitchen.

  She was wearing a scarlet sweatshirt embossed with a trio of puffins sitting atop a rock and blue jeans that hung loosely, suggesting that she'd lost a great deal of weight recently. Her hair, once a flaming red, had faded to a soft tapestry of silver-and-pink.

  "Hiya, Gram."

  Caine pushed himself out of his chair, crossed the room and enfolded her in his arms. She was smaller than he remembered—the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest—and she seemed unusually frail.

  "God, it's good to see you."

  She tilted her head back. "Still using the Lord's name in vain, I see." There was a twinkle in her blue eyes.

  "What on earth are we gonna do with you, Caine O'Halloran?"

  "There's always the woodshed."

  She chuckled at that. "You were too big for a whup-ping when you were bom. Guess I'll have to give you a big hug instead."

  As she wrapped her arms around him, Caine couldn't help noticing that her strength wasn't what it once had been. He drank in the familiar scent of lilacs that had always surrounded her and tried to pretend that nothing had changed.

  "You're sure looking good, Gram," he said. He grinned at his grandfather over the top of her pastel curls. "You'd better watch out, Pappy, or one of those big Swede loggers is gonna steal this lady right out from under your nose."

  "Lars Nelson winked at her last Friday," Devlin allowed.

  "That wasn't a wink," Maggie argued. "The old man just has a tic in his left eye."

  "Sure looked like a wink to me," Devlin said. "I thought maybe he was lookin' for a refresher course on those flying lessons he took from you."

  "That was fifty years ago," Maggie informed Caine. "And your grandfather's still jealous."