"Dylan?"
"What?"
"You're a million miles away."
"Actually I was right here – remembering the last time I was in this room."
"Oh." She sat down in the armchair across from him and laced her fingers together. "It must be difficult for you to be here."
"It feels strange."
"Well, you were pretty much a stranger the last nine years." She put her hand up to stop him from interrupting. "I don't want to talk about the past." She drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. "I want to know why you really drove all the way up here, Dylan. I assume it wasn't just about the house. Was there another reason?"
"I packed up some of Gary's things. The boxes are in my car. My assistant is having a mover pick up the furniture. They'll ship it to you early next week."
"Did you find anything?"
He knew what she was asking, and he could see the worry in her eyes. He wasn't sure who he was protecting -- Gary or Rachel -- but some instinct made him shake his head and say, "No, I didn't find anything important."
"That's a relief. However, it doesn't get us any closer to figuring out what Gary was doing in Lake Tahoe."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said it was a last-hurrah bachelor party weekend for one of the guys he worked with."
"Another architect?" Dylan mentally ran down the guys in Gary's office. He couldn't recall any of them being engaged or having a bachelor party. And what had Gary told him? He racked his brain, trying to remember that last conversation.
"I don't know who it was," Rachel continued. "I don't think Gary told me the name, or if he did, I've forgotten it. Didn't Gary tell you who was getting married? In fact, I'm surprised you weren't going along."
"I have no idea who was getting married or if that was why Gary went to Tahoe."
"But you knew about the weekend?"
"Gary said something about going away. To be honest, I don't remember if he told me why. I was busy that day, and you know how much he talked. I didn't always pay attention. Damn!" He got to his feet, too annoyed with himself to sit. He should have asked Gary questions. Why hadn't he?
"Stop kicking yourself," Rachel said. "It doesn't help. I should know. I've got the bruises to prove it."
She was trying to make him feel better, and he appreciated the effort, but it didn't do anything to lessen his guilt. It had been bad enough when he'd thought Gary had died in an accident; now it was worse, doubts flooding his mind along with an odd certainty that something had gone wrong in Gary's life, and he should have seen that his friend was in trouble.
"I'm going to check on dinner, see if my grandmother needs any help," Rachel said as she stood up. "Can I get you a drink?"
"No, thanks." Dylan was relieved when she left the room. It was easier to breathe, easier to think, easier to just be. He didn't understand why this one woman had such a strong effect on him, but she did. He had a sudden desire to get the hell out of Dodge, but as he turned toward the door a small voice stopped him.
"You're not leaving, are you?" Wesley asked. "You promised to build my house."
"And I will," he said quickly.
"Are you sure you won't have to go on a trip like Daddy always does?"
Dylan shook his head, seeing the worry in his eyes. "I'm sure."
"He's coming back," Wesley added, a defiant note in his young voice that dared Dylan to tell him otherwise.
"I miss him, too," Dylan said quietly.
Wesley's bottom lip trembled. He fought the good fight, and then a sob tore through his throat. He ran toward the stairs, the slamming of his bedroom door punctuating the shocked look on Rachel's face as she came into the living room. "What did you say to Wesley?"
"Nothing," he replied in confusion.
"You must have said something."
"I just said I missed his dad."
"Oh, Dylan." Rachel looked at him, then toward the stairs. "I better talk to him."
"Let me," Dylan said impulsively.
"He doesn't even know you."
Rachel was right. She was Wesley's mother; she should do the comforting. But he hated to have anyone else clean up his mess. "Maybe it's about time he did," he said, heading for the stairs before she could offer another protest.
He paused on the landing, figuring that the one closed door had to lead to Wesley's room. He tapped lightly, then turned the knob. Wesley had flung himself on his bed, his head buried under his pillow.
"Hey, Wesley," Dylan said, feeling somewhat awkward. He wasn't used to children. He hadn't spent much time with any since he'd been one himself.
Wesley didn't reply, but he also didn't seem to be crying anymore. Dylan sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to think of what to say. While he was thinking, he glanced around the room. It was a perfect boy's room, dark wood furniture, toys littering the floor, clothes hanging out of drawers. It reminded him of another room, one from a long time ago, one he had shared with his little brother, Jesse, only their room had been filled with airplanes.
Jesse had loved planes, probably because he'd spent so much time in a wheelchair. The thought of flying free had been his fantasy. When he was too ill to make model airplanes, Dylan had become an expert at making paper airplanes to amuse him during the hard times. And there had been a lot of hard times.
Leaning over now, Dylan picked up a blank piece of paper from the top of Wesley's desk and began to fold it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made a plane, but his fingers remembered, quickly turning the notebook paper into a sophisticated flier. The crinkling of the paper finally aroused Wesley's attention. He moved his head out from under the pillow and sent Dylan a curious look.
"What's that?"
"This?" Dylan held up the plane. "This is a high-speed jet plane. Your dad used to call this one Rudy the Rocket."
"No, he didn't," Wesley said with a doubtful look in his eyes.
"Yes, he did. I made one every day in sixth-grade science class. Your dad and I had the same teacher, Rudy Rodgers. He was the most boring teacher we ever had. Sometimes he talked so long about rocks that he put himself to sleep. He'd tell us all to put our heads down for a five-minute rest. That's when I'd make Rudy the Rocket. And one time your dad launched Rudy the Rocket right at the other Rudy, and the plane made a crash landing on Rudy's long nose. You know what your dad said?"
"What?"
"Bull's-eye."
Wesley's reluctant smile broadened. "Did my dad get in trouble?"
"Nope. Your dad was pretty good at getting himself out of trouble." As Dylan recalled, he'd been the one to stay after school for a week. "So do you want to launch this Rudy for me?"
"Okay." Wesley sat up on the bed and took the paper airplane from Dylan's hand. "What do I do?"
"You don't know?"
Wesley shook his head, his eyes serious. "I've never flown an airplane before. Does it have to be thrown at a certain angle, or is the speed more important?"
Dylan's jaw dropped, not only because Wesley had apparently never flown a paper airplane before, but also because he seemed to have a sense of aerodynamics that was way beyond his years. He wondered why Gary had never made a paper airplane with his son. It seemed odd. But like most of his questions, that one would have to wait for another day. "Just give it a good toss. We'll see what happens."
Wesley knelt on his bed, his lips pursed in seriousness. He pulled his arm back and let the plane fly straight toward the open door and right into his mother's startled face. For a moment there was nothing but shocked silence in the boy's room. Then Wesley looked at Dylan with a big grin and said, "Bull's-eye."
Chapter Five
Rachel had come upstairs expecting to find her son in tears and Dylan trying to comfort him. She certainly hadn't expected to see matching mischievous grins or a high five between them. Nor had she expected to get bonked in the nose by a ... She looked down at her feet and saw a paper airplane. "What is this?"
"Rudy the Rocket," Wesley replied, scramblin
g off the bed to retrieve his airplane. He looked at Dylan. "Can I fly it again?"
"All you want," Dylan said as he stood up. "But you better make sure the landing strip is clear next time." He smiled at Rachel and she felt something turn over inside her. It had been a long, long time since Dylan had smiled at her; and she suddenly realized how much she'd missed it. "If it's okay with your mom," Dylan added.
"What?" She realized she'd lost track of the conversation.
"Can I fly the airplane?" Wesley asked impatiently.
"Oh, sure, but later, after dinner. Wash your hands now. Grandma has dinner on the table."
"Okay." Wesley set the plane on his desk, then ran down the hall toward the bathroom.
"I take it that's your handiwork," she said, looking at the plane because it was easier than looking at Dylan.
"Yes."
"Well, you made him feel better." She picked up the plane, giving it a thoughtful look. "This looks like more than the average paper airplane. Are you some sort of an expert?"
"You could say that."
She heard the note of humor in his voice and it drew her gaze back to his. This time his smile was wry.
"I pretty much majored in paper-airplane design. I did my prep work in middle school and high school and got my advanced degree in college. I must admit it's been a while. I wasn't sure I remembered how until my fingers took over." He shook his head as if confused by something. "I can't believe Gary never showed Wesley how to make an airplane. When we were kids, Gary used to name them like they were real jets."
"Really?" It was odd, the little things she'd been learning about her husband since his death. But a secret penchant for paper airplanes was the least of her worries. "What were some of the names?"
"Rudy the Rocket, Supersonic Sam and a series of Greek names when we spent a semester studying Greek mythology -- like Zeus, Odysseus and Apollo."
"He never mentioned it."
"We must have made a thousand our senior year in high school," Dylan said. "And even after. Don't you remember that party? The luau we went to with Gary's fraternity brothers before you got married. Where was that at?"
"A Polynesian restaurant in Sausalito," she murmured.
"Yes. Trader Something."
"And Gary put on the grass skirt and did the hula," she said, floating back to that day. She could still see Gary trying to dance like a hula girl, the skirt falling off his hips as he mimicked the other dancers' movements. The entire room had been in hysterics. And Dylan ... She looked at him with a grin. "You made a paper airplane out of the menu and tried to nail Gary in the stomach."
"I got him, too, on the third try. Remember?"
"I remember." And as she gazed into his eyes, she also remembered other times. The weeks the three of them had spent together before her wedding had been some of the happiest of her life, until she and Dylan had ruined their friendship forever. She'd attempted to push those memories aside, to concentrate on her present and her future, and she'd been successful -- until now.
"Those were good times," Dylan said, daring her to disagree, but she couldn't. "We were young. We had our lives in front of us."
"They were good times. I remember how serious and intense you were. And ambitious, too. Your dreams weren't big; they were huge."
"I guess it's a good thing I got into building skyscrapers."
"I always knew you would."
"Gary was successful, too, despite his happy-go-lucky attitude."
"He loved his work, loved the dreaming part. That's what he used to call it." She laughed at the memory. "I used to call it the lying-on-the-backyard-hammock-and-taking-an-afternoon-nap part. But Gary insisted that dreaming time was essential to his job."
"He could always talk his way into the right answer."
"Yes, he was very good at talking."
"And so were you," Dylan reminded her. "We had some great conversations, even though you were just a kid."
"I was nineteen."
"Just a kid," he repeated.
She shrugged. "You're right. I wasn't even old enough to have champagne at my own wedding."
"But you knew what you wanted."
"I did," she agreed. "Thanks, Dylan."
"For what?"
"For making Wesley a paper airplane, for taking his mind off things for a few minutes, for reminding me of the good times." She started as Wesley's loud voice called up the stairs that dinner was ready and they better come soon or Grandma was feeding it to the dogs.
"That sounds serious," Dylan said.
"Definitely. Around here, nobody messes with dinner, especially when my grandmother is cooking." She walked toward the door. "By the way, a word to the wise. If my grandfather offers you a taste of his homemade apple wine, say no."
"Why?"
"Because it has a lot more than apples in it."
"Thanks for the warning." He caught her arm as she moved past him. "Rachel?"
"What?" she asked, feeling his touch heat up her body.
He looked like he wanted to say something, but Wesley's voice rang up the stairs once again, and the connection between them was broken. "Never mind. It can wait."
Rachel wondered what he'd been about to say all the way down the stairs and into the dining room. She didn't know whether to be relieved or upset that they'd been interrupted. In some way, she felt like she needed to clear the air. But then again, clearing the air meant bringing everything back, and what was the point of that? It was better to move forward, keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was how she'd gotten through the past six months and how she'd get through the next.
"There you are," Marge scolded as they entered the dining room. "It's about time."
"Sorry, Grandma." Rachel motioned Dylan to a seat next to Wesley.
"John Wood," her grandfather said, getting to his feet to reintroduce himself to Dylan. "Nice to see you again. Do you remember my daughter, Dee?" he added, putting an arm around Dee.
"Yes, I think we met a while back," Dylan said, giving her a brief handshake. "Nice to see both of you again."
"Nice to see you," Dee replied calmly, but her gaze when it swung back to Rachel's was more than a little curious.
Aunt Dee was Rachel's father's baby sister. She'd always looked out for Rachel, often acting as a second mother. Since Dee's husband had run off a few years earlier, she had become even more involved in their lives and was as dedicated as Rachel was to preserving the family farm.
"Where's Carly?" Rachel asked, ignoring her aunt's quizzical look. She couldn't explain Dylan's presence to herself, much less to anyone else.
"Said she wasn't hungry, and she went out again. I have no idea where," Marge answered with a disturbed shake of her head. "That girl -- I don't know what's going on in her head."
"Maybe I should try to find her," Rachel suggested.
"You sit and eat. You have enough on your mind." Marge held out her hands, reaching one to Dylan and one to Rachel. "Let's say grace."
Rachel gave her other hand to Wesley, who connected with Aunt Dee and John, forming a circle around the table. But this time it wasn't Gary in the circle, it was Dylan. Never in a million years would she have foreseen the circle ending up this way.
* * *
Dylan didn't know what he ate for dinner. He barely tasted the food, barely heard the conversation flowing around him. He was still reeling from being included in the family circle, from hearing his name mentioned in Marge's prayer of thanks. He wasn't supposed to be here, sitting at this table, talking to these people. They were part of Gary's life, not his. He was once again flooded with the impulse to flee. And he would have gotten up if they hadn't kept including him.
Between Wesley's questions about the house building, John's questions about his business and Marge's questions about his personal life, Dylan was kept too busy talking to think up an excuse to leave. When he finally had a chance to breathe, Marge was clearing the table and offering coffee and dessert. Rachel, Wesley and Dee got up to hel
p, leaving Dylan alone with John Wood.
John was a tall, thin man with a narrow face and sharp, light green eyes that were alert and watchful. Those eyes had been watching Dylan all through dinner, and he suspected that the questions about his business were John's way of measuring a man. Gary had mentioned more than once that he wasn't sure he was living up to John's expectations, but he'd never said why. Dylan couldn't help wondering what kind of expectations John had of him. It didn't take long to find out.
"You sure you're up to finishing that house?" John asked.
"I'm more than qualified to build a house."
"But that house? You want to build that house? Gary said you didn't." His eyes bored into Dylan's as if he would rip out the truth with one drilling look.
"I was busier then. My schedule has changed," Dylan answered smoothly, hoping John would leave it at that. He didn't want to get into his personal reasons for saying no.
"Rachel and Wesley don't need any more disappointments."
"I don't plan on disappointing them."
John stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Make sure that you don't."
Dylan supposed he could have taken offense at the tone, but it was obvious that the man adored his granddaughter and his great-grandson. "I won't," he promised. "The last thing I want to do is hurt them in any way."
"Good. Do you play poker?"
"Once in a while."
A small, knowing smile played around the corner of John's mouth. "Figured you would. A better poker face I have yet to see. Now, Gary, he couldn't hide a damn straight to save his life."
"No, he couldn't," Dylan agreed. They'd played many a card game over the years, starting back in high school in Jimmy Baker's garage. Gary had always lost, completely unable to hide his joy in a good hand or his frustration in a bad one.
John rested his arms on the table. "Since this insurance thing came up, Rachel has some doubts about Gary. Oh, she doesn't say so, but I can see it in her eyes. What about you?"
Love Will Find a Way Page 6
