by Pamela Bauer
She nodded, wishing he wouldn’t look at her as if he understood her uneasiness. She wanted to dislike him, to feel nothing toward him, yet there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t without compassion.
Then, he can’t be Dennis Harper, a tiny voice in her head assured her.
“If the kids want to stay up for a while, there are games in the cupboard next to the aquarium. Normally the TV works, but the storm blew the satellite dish off the roof.”
“It’s all right. I’m sure they’re tired,” Frannie told him.
“I’m not tired,” Alex protested.
“Me, neither,” Emma seconded.
“Me, neither,” Luke mimicked.
Frannie didn’t comment, but waited for Joe Smith to leave the room. Then she pulled Luke onto the bed beside her and started to unlace his shoes.
“Can I get something to eat?” Alex asked. “He said we could, and I bet he’s got a lot of food in that refrigerator. Did you see how fancy it was? It’s got an ice dispenser on the door.”
“Did you see all those cans of pop he had stacked in the basement?” Emma asked.
“He must have a lot of money. He’s got a Lexus besides the SUV,” Alex added.
Another reason why Frannie knew Joe Smith couldn’t be Dennis Harper. Her ex-husband lacked sense when it came to money, and it was hard to imagine that he suddenly would have learned fiscal responsibility. He’d preferred to spend his money on entertainment, rather than investments and mortgages. Besides Frannie doubted he could ever be content to live on a lake in the middle of the woods.
“If he’s got a lot of money, how come he’s not giving us any?” Emma wanted to know.
“Because he’s a deadbeat,” Alex answered. “Alex, please,” Frannie pleaded. “Can we not talk about your father?”
“But he’s why we’re here.”
She sighed. “Yes, but the man who owns this house is not your father.” Frannie was surprised at how easily the words came. Instinctively she knew Joe Smith was not Dennis Harper.
“Oh, yeah? Then, why does he look just like him? And why does he have the same tattoo on his arm? And why is he left-handed? And why does he scratch his ear before he answers a question, just the way Dad used to?”
These were things Frannie had asked herself, but she’d rationalized them with one easy explanation: coincidence. It wasn’t uncommon for men who’d been in the Navy to have that tattoo. And lots of men were left-handed. And some people scratched their ears before answering questions. Coincidence. That’s all it was.
“But he doesn’t smell the same. Dad always smelled like perfume,” Emma said.
He did, thought Frannie. Dennis had always worn a liberal amount of cologne. Joe Smith smelled only of the outdoors. She wondered if he ever wore any men’s fragrance. He looked as if the only things that mattered to him were clean clothes and a shave.
“Emma’s right. He doesn’t smell the same,” Frannie said as she traded Luke’s damp T-shirt for a dry one she found in his travel bag. “I’m telling you, Alex, this man is not your father.”
“I think he is,” he said, challenge in his voice. “And so does Emma.” He turned to his sister and asked, “Don’t you?”
She didn’t look as certain as he did, but still she answered, “I guess.”
“See?” Alex faced Frannie with his hands on his hips.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” she said, pulling back the covers on the bed. “Right now, everyone’s tired.”
“I’m not,” Alex boasted. “He said we could play games in the living room if we wanted.”
That was exactly what Frannie didn’t want her kids to do. Yet there was no stopping Alex. While she put Luke to bed, he took Emma and went in search of the games. Frannie was forced to stay with her three-year-old until he fell asleep, before going to see what the twins were doing.
To her dismay, they had made themselves right at home. Emma was in the kitchen with Joe Smith, instructing him in the art of making grilled cheese sandwiches. Alex was seated at the counter next to the Admiral. Between them were two game boards.
“Look! The Admiral has Battleship,” he said to his mother.
“Yes, and I’m going to sink your destroyer. I-7,” the Admiral said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Hit and sunk,” Alex responded.
Frannie asked Emma, “What are you doing?”
“I’m showing Joe how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. The Admiral’s hungry,” she answered. Around her waist was a dish towel, tied to look like an apron.
“I’m sure Mr. Smith knows how to make grilled cheese,” Frannie said, meeting Joe Smith’s eye.
“Not the good way,” she answered. “He just toasts two pieces of bread and puts a piece of cheese between them when they’re done. You don’t get gooey cheese that way.”
A shiver ran up and down Frannie’s spine. That was exactly how Dennis had made his cheese sandwiches. Frannie stared at Joe Smith, looking for some sign that Alex was wrong—that he wasn’t Dennis Harper.
“Emma tells me you taught her to cook,” he said.
Before Frannie could respond, Emma said, “Alex knows how, too. We take turns cooking dinner for Mom when she works late. You should always know how to take care of yourself.”
Joe’s eyes met Frannie’s. “Yes, you should. You have a smart mom.”
She wasn’t sure why she blushed. It wasn’t delivered as a compliment, but as a statement of fact. She quickly looked away, not wanting him to read anything in her eyes.
“Okay, I need a plate!”
At Emma’s demand, Joe swung open a cupboard door and pulled out a dark blue dish. He held it as Emma put the sandwich on it.
As he stood helping Emma, Frannie had a sense of déjà vu. This is how it was supposed to be—a father and daughter making sandwiches side by side.
What she was thinking must have shown on her face, for as he carried the plate to the counter and set it down, he looked at Frannie and said, “She’s not my daughter.”
Frannie felt as if she were on a seesaw. One minute she was on solid ground, feet planted and convinced that Joe Smith was not Dennis Harper; the next she was in the air, wondering if it was Dennis pulling a major scam.
Across the counter, the Admiral was laughing. Then he looked at Joe and said, “My grandson beat me.”
Joe’s eyes darkened. “Dad, Alex isn’t your grandson.”
“But you said Frannie is his mother.” The old man looked confused.
“Frannie is his mother, but I’m not his father,” he explained.
Frannie knew that Joe hadn’t missed the look in Alex’s eyes. It said, I don’t believe you. But Joe didn’t try to convince Alex of anything. He simply said, “Dad, eat the sandwich Emma made for you. I need to check on something.” Then he disappeared outdoors.
Seeing Frannie’s puzzled look, the Admiral said, “It’s the plane. He has to make sure it’s locked up.”
“He’s got a plane?” Alex asked, his eyes wide.
“Oh, sure,” the Admiral answered. “He’s a pilot, you know.”
Before Frannie could remind her son that his father didn’t know how to fly, Alex said, “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him. Maybe he took lessons.”
“Joe, you should sit up straight. Slouching makes a man look weak,” the Admiral barked at Alex as if he were issuing a military command.
“I’m not Joe. I’m Alex.”
The Admiral frowned and looked around. “Where’s Joe?”
“He just stepped outside for a minute, remember?” Frannie answered.
He looked confused, then he gave Frannie a satisfied grin and said, “You’re a good woman. I’m so glad you married my son.”
Frannie shivered. It was true the Admiral wasn’t thinking clearly, but it was also very unsettling to be the center of his confusion.
Worn out from the day’s events, she put an arm around each of the twins and steered them toward the bedrooms,
ignoring their protests. Not wanting to sleep in Joe Smith’s bed, Frannie transferred a sleeping Luke from the guest bedroom into the master bedroom. When Alex questioned her reasons for the move, she simply said, “Don’t ask questions, Alex. For once just do as you’re told.”
If she’d hoped that by looking into Joe Smith’s bedroom she’d gain some insight into just who he was, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Other than the necessary furniture—bed, dresser and nightstand—the room was devoid of personal items—no photographs on the dresser, no books on the nightstand. There were several prints on the wall, all of them seascapes. But it was the framed poster over his bed that made her mouth drop open. It was a copy of a lithograph done by the graphic artist Escher. Frannie had a poster of the same print hanging in her living room.
As she left the bedroom, she met Joe.
“Is everyone ready for bed?” he asked.
Frannie mumbled yes, and slipped into the room she was to share with Emma, annoyed at the memory his question had stirred. There was something about the way he’d said the word bed that had made her remember the last time she’d slept with her husband.
Dennis had come back into her life at a time when she’d thought their marriage was over. The separation papers had been filed and they’d not been together in three years. He’d shown up late one night while the kids slept. He’d said he was sorry for running out on her, begged for a second chance because he realized that she was the best thing in his life. He’d made all sorts of promises, and like a fool she’d believed that he had changed and that this time he would keep them.
With the arrival of dawn had come the realization that the only chance he’d wanted was to have sex with her again. He didn’t want the twins, he didn’t want her and he certainly didn’t want the baby that she later discovered they’d conceived that night. All Dennis Harper had ever wanted was a good time.
Now, four years later, she found herself stuck in the middle of the north woods with a man who looked enough like her ex-husband to make her wonder if she’d been fooled again.
One thing she knew was that she wasn’t going to get any sleep until she got off this emotional seesaw. Being careful so as not to disturb her daughter, she climbed out of bed and went in search of Joe Smith.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS HE DID nearly every summer night, Joe went down to the dock where he sat on a bench, collecting his thoughts and reflecting on the events of the day. Only the occasional call of a loon and the slap of water against the wood pilings broke the silence.
He liked being near water. He always had. It was one of the reasons he’d followed his father’s footsteps and gone into the Navy. Sitting on the edge of a freshwater lake, however, was not quite the same experience as being on the deck of a ship after sunset, when all he could see was darkness.
What was it his father had always said? “If you think you’re such a big shot, go stand on the deck of a carrier in the middle of the Pacific. Then you’ll see just how unimportant you really are.”
Joe had no illusions as to his importance in the universe. At one time he’d been cocky enough to believe that because he’d graduated at the top of his class, had an admiral for a father and was trained for naval intelligence work, he wasn’t simply another cog in the wheel of life. Now he knew differently.
Instead of flying military planes on intelligence missions, he transported fishermen to remote lakes in sparsely populated regions and delivered cargo to small midwestern towns. He had no military rank, but he did have his father and he would do whatever was necessary to see that he didn’t lose him, too. If there was one thing that he had learned in the past two years it was that civilian life had an advantage he and his father needed. Anonymity. They could go about their lives without any intrusions.
It wasn’t a bad life. The lake gave him a sense of tranquility, especially late at night with nothing but the sounds of nature for company.
Tonight, however, he found no serenity. He wasn’t calmed by the loons or the water slapping against the dock. His thoughts were on the occupants of his house—or more importantly, one occupant. Frannie Harper.
She and her three kids had pushed their way into his home, disrupting his life and threatening his peace. They were intruders, and he didn’t appreciate the fact that his father, in his confusion, welcomed them. For two years Joe had managed to keep the outside world right where he wanted it—far away from his home and his father. Now, thanks to one woman, what little peace of mind he’d acquired was in jeopardy.
Joe wanted to believe that come tomorrow he’d be able to convince Frannie that he wasn’t Harper. When it came to her son, however, he wasn’t as sure. The boy had mentioned going to the police. That was something Joe had to make sure didn’t happen. What he didn’t need was an investigation—bogus or not—to put him under the scrutiny of the law.
He shook his head, amazed by the irony of his situation. Ever since he’d arrived in Minnesota, he’d worried that despite all his efforts, someone from his father’s past would find them. Having worked in naval intelligence, Joe knew what a man needed to do to drop out of sight. Creating new identities was relatively easy; it was keeping anyone from finding out they were new that was the difficult part. Despite all the precautions he’d taken not to arouse people’s suspicions, he never stopped worrying that someday someone would find them.
Little did he know that his biggest threat would come from a kid mistaking him for his father. He could just imagine the headlines in the local paper: “Boy Looking For Deadbeat Dad Uncovers Fugitives.”
Except that Joe and his father weren’t really fugitives—at least, not in Joe’s mind. They were more like victims, forced to flee injustice. Though he doubted that the local authorities would see things the same way.
“Mr. Smith?”
Joe jumped up at the sound of the woman’s voice. He was surprised he hadn’t heard Frannie Harper’s approach, but when he turned he saw the reason why. She was barefoot.
“What is it?” He wished his voice didn’t sound so gruff, but he resented her presence. And not just because of the threat she presented. Something about Frannie Harper stirred his blood—and it had nothing to do with her accusations about his identity. It had more to do with the way her skirt clung to her shapely legs and the bit of cleavage the loosely fitting top exposed.
“We need to clarify something,” she stated.
“I hope that something isn’t my identity, because as far as I’m concerned it’s already clear who I am.” He looked out across the water, intending to give her the impression that the subject bored him.
She stepped into his line of vision and forced him to look at her. “I’d like some answers.”
“Am I not the one who should be asking you the questions?” he protested, rising.
As if suddenly realizing how close she was to him, she stepped back, stumbling near the edge of the dock. When his hands reached out to steady her, she shook free of them.
He hated that she found his touch repulsive, but what was even more disturbing was the heat that spread through him at the sight of the wind molding the flimsy fabric of her skirt and top to her body. Even in the darkness he could see the outline of her breasts.
Anger pushed its way to the front of his emotions. He didn’t need a physical reaction to this woman. “You’ve been acting like you’re the inconvenienced party in all of this mess, yet you’re the one who came to my home with unfounded accusations. What I’d like to know is why me? Why my home?”
“Alex decided he wanted to find his father, so he made some posters. He put his picture on them and put them up all over Minnesota,” she answered. “A woman called and said they’d seen someone in the area who looked like…the man on the poster.”
“So you hunted me down.”
“I didn’t hunt anyone down,” she retorted. “Alex was the one determined to find you. He bought a bus ticket to Grand Marais. As soon as I found out what he’d done, I got in my car and followed.”
“So you showed this poster around town and someone told you where I lived?” It was rather unsettling to think that anyone in the area would have been eager to peg him as a deadbeat father.
“Alex showed it to a teenage girl who works at one of the diners. She thought you looked like…” Again she paused. “Well, she gave us the directions to this place.”
Joe couldn’t believe it. Never would he have thought his cover could be blown because of a couple of kids.
“I didn’t want to bring Alex here,” she continued, “but I was worried that if he didn’t see for himself that you weren’t his father, he’d just come back again. He’s a very determined little boy.”
“And now he’s even more determined because he’s convinced I am his father,” Joe said soberly.
“Yes. You haven’t exactly given him reason to think you’re not.”
He could tell by the suspicious tone in her voice that she was thinking similar thoughts. He knew she had a point. If he weren’t using a false identity, it would have been much easier to give the boy the proof he needed. As it was, he needed to be careful about how much he revealed about himself.
He raked a hand across hair that was buzzed short on top. “We’ve been through this already. I told you I’m not his father. If you’re his mother, you should know that.”
“I should,” she agreed.
But she wasn’t sure. It was there in her voice and in the way she stared at him. Joe wanted to be angry at her, yet she looked so vulnerable, her arms wrapped around herself as if she needed to ward off the cold even though it was an unusually warm summer night.
“You called me Mr. Smith only a few minutes ago,” he reminded her.
She cocked her head and asked, “Would there be any point in calling you Dennis?”
“Since it’s not my name, no.” To his relief, she didn’t argue the point. “However, it would make things a lot easier if you believed me when I say I’m Joe Smith.”
“Yes, well I’ve never been very good at believing strangers…or my ex-husband.”
“Well, maybe this will convince you I’m telling you the truth.” Catching her completely off guard, he pulled her close, his mouth claiming hers in a rough, aggressive kiss that should have been passionless. He wanted to punish her for putting his father’s safety at risk, for accusing him of being someone he wasn’t and for making him remember what it was like to want a woman.
