Finding Their Son

by Debra Salonen

  “Can you believe it? He lives in Seaside,” Eli exclaimed, skimming down the map on the screen. “That’s only a few hours south of here.”

  “Well, his mother does,” Char said, her excitement noticeably more restrained than Eli’s. “You know yourself that family dynamics change when a woman remarries.”

  He paced to the window of their hotel room. They’d checked in four hours earlier, but the street six stories below seemed as busy as it had at noon. “True. But according to the father’s bio, Damien has two younger siblings. And he’s only seventeen. I’d put money on him still living with his mother, even if there is a new dad in the picture.”

  Char had read aloud from Colonel Martelli’s obituary, which had been published online in his hometown newspaper. There’d been a fuzzy photo of the fallen war hero’s burial in Arlington National Cemetery. A mother and her brood all in black. The tallest of the children was the same height as the woman.

  “Do you have a current number for her?” Char asked.

  She was sitting at the corner desk, her attention focused on the laptop. Her voice seemed strained.

  They’d traded places back and forth all afternoon. Him on the laptop pursuing leads, her on the cell phone making calls. He’d watched her sweet talk and cajole, laugh and fume. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d had to walk into the bathroom to escape the attraction he felt toward her.

  Like now. A part of him—a very foolish part—wanted to walk across the room and pull her into his arms. To celebrate. They’d done what they set out to do. They’d cracked the bureaucratic code. They’d found their child—or had a general idea of where and who he was. Weren’t they entitled to a couple of high fives and hugs? Maybe a kiss or two?

  That was what he wanted. What he did was nothing. Because, damn it, Char deserved better than an emotional basket case looking for any port in a storm. He was a boatload of hazardous waste material rudderless on the crest of a tsunami.

  Either that or you’re a durn coward.

  “No,” he said sharply. Not that voice again.

  She looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “Okay. But Johnson is a pretty common name. Do I start at the top of the list and work my way down?”

  “We could try one of the social networking sites. They’re really popular with teens. Damien might have a page.”

  He pushed away from the window and paced to the middle of the room. “Is there a minibar?” he asked, walking to the double doors of a modern black enamel wardrobe.

  Her left eyebrow arched questioningly. He knew that look. His grandmother had been a master of it. Without uttering a word she could make him stop dead in his tracks, usually keeping him from doing something he’d later regret.

  “Fine. Where’s the water you bought?”

  They’d made several stops on their trek to the hotel. At a chain pharmacy, Char taught him the tricks of traveling on a budget. “Distilled water is cheaper and better for you,” she’d said, handing him a plastic gallon jug. “Compare that to four bottles of fancy label springwater.”

  He’d tucked the memory away to share with his daughters…if he ever got the chance.

  “In the bathroom, next to the glasses,” she told him. “I filled the ice bucket while you were on the phone with your friend.”

  As soon as they’d set up Char’s laptop, Eli had called in a favor from an old pal, Travis Turner. The two had met in the Marines. Travis, a self-proclaimed white honky from Baaaston, and Eli, the mysterious red man who pretty much kept to himself, had been rivals first, friends second. Travis was now employed by the Department of Defense.

  Eli had prefaced his questions with, “Don’t ask, amigo, but I promise you this is personal and not a matter of national security.”

  Within an hour, Eli had a list of possible names. A list that included one Anthony Martelli, U.S.A.F. (deceased).

  Eli walked into the adjoining room. He almost embarrassed himself by losing the battle with the wrapper on the sealed plastic cup, but he managed to get the cellophane off by ripping it with this teeth. Three giant gulps later, his nerves were starting to settle. Until he looked in the mirror and saw Char watching him.

  “What’s going on, Eli?”

  “I’m not sure I want to do this,” he admitted. He hadn’t even realized the truth of the words until he said them out loud.

  “Do what?”

  “Contact the mom.”

  Char threw out her hands in a what-are-you-talking-about gesture. “We have to go through her. If we show up in Seaside…Oceanside…whatever side and try to find him without talking to her first, we fall into the stalker camp. Not a place I want to be.”

  He leaned his butt against the tile counter. The hotel was a lot nicer than he’d expected for the price. Char called it a boutique hotel and claimed she got excellent rates because she knew how to bargain. She knew a lot of things he didn’t know. But he knew what it was like to learn that the child you loved with all your heart belonged to someone else.

  “This lady didn’t do anything wrong. She doesn’t deserve to have this bombshell dropped on her.”

  Char entered the room and grabbed a plastic cup. With one smooth tearing action, she removed the cover and filled it with water from the jug. “I can see your point, but you’re implying that we’re a bad thing. Like locust or the plague. Why can’t we be beneficial? You said yourself that blending families has its challenges.”

  She had a point, but he couldn’t let go of the memory of the moment when E.J. uttered those terrible words: “You’re not my dad.”

  “You’re a dad. You know you can’t shield your kids from every bad thing that might happen in their lives. Maybe the bad stuff builds character. Look at me—a bit crazy, but not completely wacko. And I had tons of moments growing up that would have made Dr. Phil puke.” She took a drink. “There was this one afternoon when my mom was in her room with her loser boyfriend, whom I loathed. I accidentally set the living-room carpet on fire and—this is where it turns ugly—Devon came running out of the bedroom naked.” Her face scrunched up in a way that epitomized disgust. “I honestly believed that men’s dicks were little red shriveled things that flapped around like the ear of a beagle.”

  “There’s an image,” he said, wincing.

  She took a step closer to him. “Fortunately,” she said, “you showed up at my aunt’s door a year or so later, and I got a more detailed, less-traumatic anatomy lesson.”

  He groaned and let his chin drop to his chest. “Glad I could help.”

  Her soft snicker was the only warning he had. “Me, too,” she said, suddenly right in front of him. She looked directly into his eyes. “If you hadn’t shown up that night, we wouldn’t be here now.” She paused to moisten her bottom lip. Sexy in an unpracticed way that went straight to his groin. “And, no matter what happens, Eli, I know this is where I’m supposed to be.”

  He could have argued with her. He had no idea where he was supposed to be. But did it matter? This is where he was. With her. And he’d been fighting this attraction he felt for her ever since that kiss in the parking lot.

  Was that yesterday? he asked himself. Why did it feel as though they’d been on this journey for weeks, if not years? Maybe they had been—only far, far apart. Now, they were together.

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Her body felt small but substantial, if that made any sense. He kissed her. Not fast and hard like the last time. Instead he savored her lips. Warm, wet from the water she’d drunk. Her bottom lip was fuller than the top. Her breath sweet and faintly minty.

  “I have to warn you,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “When Bobbi left, she called me an emotional black hole. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  She framed his face with her hands and smiled. “What do you get when you combine two emotional black holes together?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not an astronomer. I don’t know.”

  “Me, neither, but I’m pretty su
re it’ll be cosmic.”

  Was it possible to laugh and kiss at the same time? he wondered. Hay-yell, yes. Hop to it, boy.

  He froze, his lips an inch from hers. “There’s also a distinct possibility that I’m losing my mind.”

  “I’ll pick up any pieces I find along the way. Come on. Let’s give the city voyeurs something to blog about.”

  He had no idea what she meant by that comment, but he let her take his hand and lead in the direction of the two queen-size beds. The corner room had large, double-hung windows, offering a view of the old U.S. Mint across the street. Char had opened the blinds to welcome in the brilliant sunlight that she’d so brilliantly predicted.

  The sun had peaked hours ago and long shadows angled through the windows with a sultry golden color. She led him to the end of the bed but didn’t sit. Instead she walked to the desk where the laptop sat and purposefully closed the screen.

  “This isn’t about Damien,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Agreed?”

  Damien. A seventeen-year-old stranger made up of Char and him and the people who had loved and raised him.

  As if reading his mind once more, she smiled. “We can discuss whether or not to contact him over dinner. In the meantime, I say we work up an appetite.”

  His rational mind—the responsible cop who always did the right thing—hesitated. But honestly? What the hell good had that guy ever done for him? Screw responsible. He was going with his gut—or something damn close to his gut.

  He leaned back, resting his elbows on the mattress. “Don’t you want to close the blinds?”

  She slipped off her wool vest then pulled the hem of her black turtleneck sweater out of her jeans. “No, actually, I don’t. The last time I stayed here, I was one floor up on the other side of the building, but I remember thinking what I would have done if I hadn’t been alone.”

  She unsnapped the waistband of her pants and slowly lowered the zipper.

  Eli got hard from the sound. He shifted sideways so his arousal wasn’t quite as noticeable.

  She wiggled out of her jeans and neatly folded them over the back of the desk chair. Her socks disappeared without her even bending over.

  His mouth went dry when she turned to face him and started to peel her sweater upward. Pretty white belly. Not swimsuit-model flat. He liked her real woman shape. Her hips were rounded in a good way that fit her physique.

  She hesitated a heartbeat before pulling off the top completely, but once she had she dropped it unceremoniously and stood, arms at her side, waiting.

  He couldn’t move at first. He felt like a kid at Christmas who was given so many toys he didn’t know where to begin. But with a nudge from some inner coach, he cleared the distance between them like a predator falling on his prey. She didn’t flinch or show any sign of fear.

  Instead of kissing her lips, he lowered his mouth to her neck an inch or so above her shoulder and softly sank his teeth into her flesh. Not enough to break the skin, of course, but enough to brand her with his wolf touch.

  Wolf. His animal totem, his uncle had told him years and years ago. Some base, primitive part of his mind made room for that alter ego. He swept her into his arms, pleased by the way she fit against his heart. She wrapped one arm around his neck and held tight. The other gripped the material of his shirt.

  He carried her to the bed. Not the one she’d selected. He wasn’t putting on a show for anyone in this city. If people wanted to watch, they were going to have to work for it. That was as much of an edge as he needed. Good, old-fashioned lust was working just fine as an arousal factor.

  “Coward,” she said in his ear. Teasing, but breathless.

  He liked her breathless.

  “We’ll see who the coward is when you’re naked.”

  “I can’t wait.” She wiggled against him. Her breasts, squeezed as they were practically right below his nose, distracted him so much he nearly stumbled over his boots, which he’d kicked off earlier.

  He went down on one knee on the mattress. “You’re dangerous,” he said, kissing her.

  “I know,” she managed to mumble, despite kissing him back.

  Her tongue dueled with his a moment, further distracting him. “Are you going to put me down?”

  A flash of heat filled his face. For once, he was glad for his skin tone. “Yes, but I like you like this.”

  “Like a plate for your dining pleasure?” she asked, referring he supposed to the proximity of her breasts to his mouth. He was certain he detected an edge of cynicism in her voice. He guessed she didn’t appreciate her body as the work of art it was.

  “Close to my heart.”

  She pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes. “You mean that?”

  He did, but he only knew one way to prove it.

  He kissed her again, deeply, exploring the nuances of her mouth, the energy and teasing nature of her tongue. The contact opened him up in ways he’d thought were closed forever. Shut down by pain and disappointment.

  I could love this woman. Maybe I already do.

  The words came as a revelation, but he managed to keep them to himself. They barely knew each other. They might have made a kid together but that was a long time ago. And even then they’d been strangers. What was happening between them now was physical. For both of them. He was sure of it.

  I LOVE YOU, ELI.

  Char didn’t say the words. Only a fool would admit to a truth that had been a part of her unconscious thought for nearly two decades. The words had been written in indelible ink against pink lined paper in a girlish hand. And that was where they’d stay.

  Sex and love were not the same thing. Char’s mother had proven that over and over. And Char knew that motive and opportunity only applied in TV detective dramas after the fact. She and Eli were single adults. Well, he was almost single, if what he told her was the truth. So making love wouldn’t hurt anybody.

  ‘Cept maybe you, chickadee.

  She ground her jaw together to keep from shouting “Shut up.” Not exactly the most romantic of phrases.

  “Do you want to meet the girls?” she asked Eli. Anything to divert her whack-job mind.

  “Pardon?”

  She used her free hand to point to her breasts. “They don’t have individual names, but I do refer to them as the girls.”

  He looked faintly shocked.

  “Guys do the same thing. One of Mom’s boyfriends called his penis Mr. Johnson. Or Mister, for short. No pun intended.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe a little one.”

  His hoot coincided with her butt landing on the mattress. “Char Jones, you crack me up,” he said, leaning over as she reclined against the silky spread.

  She’d only been half serious about putting on a show for the neighbors. Sometimes she worried that having been exposed to her mother’s love life at such an impressionable age might have warped her, but since she was overly selective—her book club friends didn’t jokingly refer to Char’s home as “the convent” for nothing—she couldn’t claim any risky behavior. She was glad Eli had nixed her idea. His choice of bed seemed to signal respect, not prudishness.

  She wriggled backward, putting enough space between them that she could reach behind her back and unsnap her bra. She knew there would be lines across her shoulders from the wide straps and an indentation around her middle from the elastic that held every jiggling ounce of her in place. She let the chartreuse lace hang loosely, the flesh still contained by the built-in underwire.

  Eli stalked forward on hands and knees until he was once again above her. Dominating but not threatening. He moved with the grace of a wild animal on the prowl. There was a hint of danger in his Paul Newman blue eyes, but when he lowered his head, he went for her straps, not the obvious target.

  His nose nuzzled aside first one then the other. She’d learned a long time ago that pretty and functional didn’t come cheap, but she’d never been happier with her investment. His tongue tenderly followed the indentation left by the stra
p, as if trying to erase it.

  A flutter unlike anything she’d ever experienced danced in her belly and spread even lower. Her breath went shallow and fast. There was a distinct possibility that she going to have an orgasm without him even touching her magical mystery spot—as her mother called the area.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Recognizance. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.” He placed his left hand on the other side of her head and leaned across her. His neck was exposed, and inviting. She’d nearly lost it when he bit her. Was she brave enough…?

  Maybe, but first she needed to get his damn shirt off. She brought her hands between them and started unbuttoning the first of his Target purchases. She was glad he’d conceded and let her pick out higher-end choices. He arched his back to help her reach the lower buttons. A determined tug brought the tails of the shirt free.

  One shoulder, then the next.

  “Undershirt. I forgot,” she muttered, disappointed…and distracted. It was hard to keep her mind on undressing him when he planted tender, yummy kisses from her shoulder upward to her ear.

  Suddenly he sat back. “You’re right. I’m way overdressed.” He ripped off his black T-shirt, undid his belt and yanked off his pants. Either he wasn’t wearing underwear or it came off at the same time. Had they forgot to buy him extra underwear? She couldn’t remember. Hell, she couldn’t think. Eli Robideaux, the man of her teenage dreams and source of adult fantasies, was naked…on a bed…with her.

  “Wow,” she murmured.

  “Good answer,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re good for my ego. Now, about these remaining scraps of very pretty material…”