She’d gazed into his eyes, her lashes a thick, dark frame around her silvery pale irises. “Do I?”
He’d thought about the way she’d tucked D.J. into his crib, nestling his teddy bear next to him and stroking the blanket smooth over him, and the way she’d come to Levi’s bed. The way she brought him fresh bagels from the city and prepared coffee in his coffee maker as if she were in her own kitchen. The way her toothbrush stood next to his in the porcelain rack above the sink.
“If you want it, yes, you do have a home,” he’d said.
Her smile had told him that, if she wasn’t exactly ready to have him raise the subject of love—long-term let’s-get-married love—she wouldn’t flee from him with her hands clamped over her ears simply because he’d broached the subject. He’d thought about taking her out for another dinner at Reynaud, then decided that if they were going to deal with such an significant subject as marriage, they’d be best off talking about it at his house. He’d make dinner, just as he’d made dinner the first evening they’d spent together. Marinated steak on the grill, a good wine, the fragrance of the woods beyond the porch. Home. That was the best place to talk about home.
She would be on the four-thirty train Friday afternoon, and he tried not to think about it. His week was a long one: Monday, Jamie McCoy had commissioned him to design a new extension for his house. At Daddy School Monday evening, Jamie’s wife Allison had lectured on time management, and Levi had thought that, what with Martina Lopes taking care of D.J. from eight-thirty until five-thirty every day, he ought to be managing his time a lot better than he was.
If he didn’t spend so much of it thinking about Corinne, he’d be able to accomplish a lot more.
Tuesday he’d brought D.J. with him to his weekly poker game. The guys were all so glad he was able to attend the games, they didn’t mind D.J.’s presence. Evan’s daughter Gracie loved playing with D.J., and her older brother seemed thrilled that D.J. distracted her so she wouldn’t pester him. While the children played in the family room, Murphy donned his attorney cap and interrogated Levi until he confessed he was thinking about asking Corinne to make a more concrete commitment to their relationship. “Buy her a rock,” Brett advised, to which Evan had added that if Corinne loved D.J., Levi shouldn’t have to bankrupt himself buying jewelry to persuade her to get serious. Tom Bland said he’d investigate her finances, an offer Levi politely refused.
Wednesday, a man named Travis Justice showed up at Arlington Architectural Associates, looking for Levi. Mary buzzed Levi in his office to let him know. “He says he needs to see you,” she reported. “He wouldn’t tell me what it’s about.”
Levi knew no one named Travis Justice. Maybe the man was a potential client, though Levi couldn’t guess why he would refuse to tell that to Mary. He stared at his computer monitor, which held a simple rendering of the blueprint of Jamie McCoy’s house, and tried to calculate his time. Besides the McCoy project and his continuing oversight of Mosley’s house, his colleague Bill had requested his input into a renovation of a landmark building across the street from the train station in town. That would take a bit of work—not just in designing the renovation but also in dealing with all the bureaucratic agencies that entered the fray whenever the word “landmark” was mentioned.
Still, he needed to bring more work into the firm. With Allison’s time-management guidance still fresh in his mind and his nanny in place, he ought to be working at high gear, the way he’d been before D.J. had invaded his life.
D.J. Damien Justice.
Travis Justice.
A dawning realization plunged through him, hard and heavy, leaving a gaping tear in his soul.
Don’t jump to conclusions, he warned himself—in vain. He’d already jumped.
“Levi? Are you still there?” Mary’s voice emerged through the phone receiver.
“Yeah. I’ll see him. Send him up.” He disconnected the phone before Mary could question him, and rose to his feet. Standing before his window, he gazed out at the overcast July afternoon and took a deep, bracing breath. He would be fine. This would be okay. He’d proven himself capable of handling everything fate threw at him; he could handle this.
And maybe he was wrong. Maybe Travis Justice was only another New York millionaire looking for an architect to create a weekend retreat for him on the west side of town, with all the other New York millionaires.
He fingered his necktie, which dangled loose around his collar. His sleeves were rolled up, his shirt limp. He saw no point in tidying up. People didn’t have the same expectations of grooming in an architect that they had in a banker. He looked like what he was: someone who’d been working hard all day. Keeping thoughts of Corinne from undermining his concentration was perhaps even harder work than devising an organic expansion for Jamie McCoy’s already expanded house.
A knock on his door drew him from the familiar view of trees and traffic outside his window. He sucked in another deep breath and crossed the room.
As soon as he opened the door and came face to face with the man on the opposite side, he knew. Ruth had told him the man was handsome, and he wouldn’t argue the point. But it was his chin in particular, a chin much more triangular than the square jaws of the Holts, that confirmed his guess. In the past two months, D.J.’s chin had begun to emerge from the roundness of his baby fat—and it wasn’t square.
“Levi Holt?” the man asked. Clad in an expensive-looking silk shirt and slim-fitting black slacks, his brown hair trimmed in the sort of punkish fashion that could be attained only in a high-priced salon, he appeared, if anything, more nervous than Levi felt. He chewed on his lower lip and his right hand, circled by a silver bracelet, fidgeted at his side.
“Come on in,” Levi invited him, stepping aside and waving him into the office. He estimated he had only a few years on the man, but he felt immensely older. He wasn’t sure why, unless it was that his hair and clothes weren’t so stylish and his only jewelry was a utilitarian wristwatch on a plain leather band.
“I’m Travis Justice,” the man said as Levi shut the door.
Levi extended his hand. Travis’s palm was icy.
Levi admitted to himself that he had as much right as his visitor to be nervous. But someone had to stay calm. Someone had to make sure the next ten minutes made sense.
“I—um—I knew your sister,” Travis said.
Levi eyed him up and down. He could make this easier by revealing that he knew who Travis was and why he’d come. But he saw no reason to make it easier. He wanted to find out what kind of man Travis Justice was, and one way to do that was to observe him under pressure.
“I only found out a few weeks ago that she’d died. It really—I mean, I’m so sorry.”
Levi nodded.
“I was up in Mendocino and I stopped by her place. I wanted to see her again, but her friend Sandy—did you know Sandy? They shared a house with some other people up there. In Mendocino.”
Levi felt a little sorry for him. “I know,” he said helpfully.
“And Sandy told me about Ruth’s—what was it, a stroke?”
“An aneurysm.”
“Yeah, that was it. I knew it was something with her circulation in her brain, and it just—I mean, my God.” He shook his head. His sorrow seemed genuine.
Levi considered offering him a seat, but if he did, the boy—and he really did strike Levi as more a boy than a man—might collapse in a welter of tears. He didn’t want to spend his afternoon comforting him.
“I feel terrible,” Travis confessed. “She never told me—I mean, I had no idea…”
“No idea?”
“I mean, she should have told me. About the baby, I mean.”
Levi said nothing. He couldn’t refute Travis. Ruth should have told him.
“And I don’t even think Sandy was going to tell me, either, but that guy—the one who made belts? He lived in their house, too, and something slipped out, I don’t remember what…” He shook his head again.
; Levi waited.
“I’m not a deadbeat, Mr. Holt. If Ruth had told me, I would have owned up to my obligations. It’s just, you know, I was heading up to Vancouver, scouting sites for a movie, and Ruth sent me on my way. I mean, I just—we both just sort of assumed it was going to be one of those things, you know? A happy memory, nothing more.”
Levi remained silent. He had no idea what to say. “So glad we’ve finally had this chance to meet?” “So glad my sister was a happy memory for you?”
“If she had told me, I would have been there for her. I swear.”
“I believe you.”
“So, maybe I’m a few months late. But I’m here. Sandy didn’t want to tell me where you were, but that guy at the house, the one with the belts, well, he convinced her I had a moral right to know. I considered phoning you, but then I thought maybe it would be better for me to come here so we could meet in person.”
“Okay.” Everything Travis said was right, it was proper, it rang true. Levi ought to be more cordial, but his words froze in his throat. When he let his mind sneak past the reality that Ruth’s onetime lover was standing in his office, he glimpsed things he didn’t want to see: the crib in his spare bedroom. The walker in the kitchen. D.J. in the walker, zooming back and forth and burbling joyfully.
“So, I’m here,” Travis said, his gaze sad but steady. “I want to see my son.”
“Of course.”
Travis clearly hadn’t expected such quick acquiescence. He paused to collect himself, then stood a little straighter. “Where is he now?”
“He’s at home with the nanny.”
Travis nodded, then swallowed. “What’s his name?”
Levi was besieged by more visions—D.J. in his bath, in his high chair, gazing through his window at a night sky strewn with stars. D.J. on Levi’s shoulder, leaning back to stare at Levi, grinning and flashing his milky teeth. D.J. figuring out how to crawl across the kitchen floor.
D.J. in Corinne’s arms, settling sweetly into her embrace as she sang him that lullaby he loved.
“Everyone calls him D.J.,” Levi answered. “His real name is Damien Justice. Ruth gave him your name.”
*
HE WROTE OUT the directions to his house and told Travis to come at five-thirty. But after Travis left the office, Levi was helpless to get any work done.
He told himself D.J.’s father’s arrival in Arlington was a good thing. It reassured him that the man with whom Ruth had a fling wasn’t an asshole. If he hadn’t done the right thing before, it was only because he’d been ignorant of the consequences of that fling. Levi had thought from the start that Ruth ought to inform the father, but she’d stubbornly refused, wanting the baby all to herself.
Her decision hadn’t been fair to Travis.
Levi couldn’t find anything to criticize about the man. His hair and clothing were a bit too chic, but he worked for a film company, and people in Hollywood were probably used to edgier style. His attitude was anything but edgy, though. He’d been soft-spoken, humble, obviously overwhelmed by what he’d accidentally learned. In his position, Levi doubted he could have handled things any better.
But still… Now that Travis was here, what would he want?
Levi supposed he’d find out at five-thirty.
He prowled his office until his circular pacing made him dizzy. Then he slumped in his chair, leaned back, closed his eyes—and was barraged by more images of D.J., his sounds, his smell, the stickiness of his hands after he ate, the soft, taut skin of his belly. The sleepless nights. The frantic juggling. The days Levi had spent trying to work with D.J. perched in his arms, screaming in pain from teething.
Opening his eyes, he saw that the blueprint of Jamie McCoy’s house had been replaced on his monitor by a swirling, colorful screensaver. It made him as dizzy as his circular pacing had.
He was never afflicted by dizziness. Screensavers and walking in circles shouldn’t make him feel as if the ground was slipping and shaking, the earth trembling, his consciousness teetering on the understanding that once the tremors stopped he might no longer recognize his surroundings. He used to tease Ruth about living in the land of seismic threats, but he was the one enduring a massive earthquake at the moment.
He was used to being strong, guiding Ruth through her assorted crises and ordeals. But he needed guidance now. He could call his lawyer—but he didn’t really care about the legalities of the situation. He was D.J.’s legal guardian, so named by D.J.’s mother. Nothing that had occurred in the past half hour could change that. At least, he didn’t think it could.
In any case, what he needed wasn’t an attorney but a friend, someone who could give him emotional guidance. He lifted his phone and punched in Corinne’s office number. She would tell him everything was going to be okay. She’d tell him D.J. was lucky to possess the genes of a decent, dutiful man. She’d assure him that D.J. was loved and cared for, and everything would turn out fine.
The secretary who comprised the third member of Corinne and Mosley’s consulting company answered the phone. “I need to speak to Corinne Lanier,” Levi said. “It’s Levi Holt.”
“Oh, hi, Levi.” That she knew who he was, even though he rarely phoned, gratified him. It meant that Corinne talked about him, that he was significant enough in her life for her to discuss him with colleagues. “Corinne isn’t in right now. Can I have her get back to you?”
“Sure. Tell her to call my cell.” He had no idea where he’d be when she tried to reach him, but he doubted it would be in his office. The drafting table, the cork board, the vertical blinds, even the walls were making his head ache.
He hung up, packed his file of notes on the McCoy house into his portfolio and left the office. Mary intercepted him at the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
She was dressed in a daffodil yellow outfit—yellow and white striped shirt under a ridiculously abbreviated yellow jumper. He wished he had his sunglasses.
“Everything’s fine,” he assured her.
“Who was that guy? A client?”
“No.”
“He didn’t exactly shout ‘Arlington,’ if you know what I mean. Definite outsider vibes. Charisma, too.” She scrutinized him more closely. “You sure everything’s all right? You look kind of pale.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “I’ve got to go visit a site. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before she could question him further, he bolted for the door.
Safely ensconced in his car, he started driving without giving any thought to where he was headed. Maybe the state forest land, where he’d driven with Corinne that Saturday morning a few weeks ago, when the earth had been recently washed clean by a thunderstorm and D.J. had been chirping and crowing in the back seat. The baby seat wasn’t in his Porsche now—he left it home in case Martina needed to drive somewhere with D.J. during the day. His back seat looked larger without the safety seat occupying it. It looked empty.
He steered west down Hauser Boulevard, passing the YMCA and the Arlington Gazette building, the shopping district, the rectangular blue sign with the big H centered on it and an arrow pointing out the direction of Arlington Memorial Hospital. He kept driving.
Beyond the downtown area, commercial buildings were replaced by small houses, which were in turn replaced by larger houses settled on generous lots. He turned down a winding side street, then up the dirt drive and around the stand of trees to Mosley’s site.
The crew was hard at work, a half-dozen sturdy men swarming over the construction, hammering the first story’s walls into place. Through one section where the exterior wall hadn’t yet been built, he could see the interior taking shape, a confusing maze of rooms divided only by vertical studs. The stairway was a series of horizontal planks climbing upward in a slow spiral that framed the towering entry. A large rectangular opening yawned where the front door would go.
It was growing, he thought, becoming more and more the thing it was destined to be. It wasn’t completely formed; he knew
changes could still be made to it. But it was fast becoming a reality: a house. A home. Not the home Gerald Mosley had intended it to be, but a home nonetheless, one that would bring him pleasure. One where Corinne would always be welcome, even though she would never live there. She’d told him Mosley was coming to terms with the fact that his assumptions about their relationship no longer held. “He isn’t heartbroken,” she’d insisted. “That was the whole thing—that we could be together without our hearts getting involved. I think he’s disappointed, but he’ll work it through. He’s dating a new woman now—I can only hope she’s smart enough to keep up with him.”
His house would be smart enough. It would fill with sunshine, with moonlight, with the soothing warmth of a fireplace and the clean austerity of a glass wall. It would grow into a home, and even if it wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned when he’d first conceived the idea, it would bring him pleasure.
Just like a child, Levi thought, remaining in his car and watching through the windshield as the crew labored on the first-floor walls. A child was conceived and born, expectations changed, but the people in charge of raising that child did what they could to make him grow up smart and wise. They gauged each new step, each development: the ability to sit, the ability to crawl, those first teetering attempts to pull himself to his feet. They brought him along as his vocalizing evolved from wails to gibberish to distinct syllables that conveyed actual meaning.
At the start of the project, one did whatever he could to help the baby grow into a strong, healthy adult. But there was no blueprint, no floor plan. No diagram that determined the precise distance between upright beams, the way there was with a house. No formula to incorporate the details. There were books, there was the Daddy School, but there was no guarantee, once the project was underway, that the child would be a part of the home his guardian had created.
Levi had done everything he could for D.J. Sometimes he done it reluctantly, sometimes resentfully—and sometimes openly and eagerly. But he’d done it, knowing it was his job, his burden, his honor.
Now D.J.’s father was here, and Levi no longer knew how his home was going to turn out.
Hush, Little Baby Page 21
