His Daddy's Eyes

by Debra Salonen

  He didn’t let her finish. His lips crushed against hers; his arms wrapped around her as if he’d never let her go. This kiss was different. Urgent. A bit desperate—as if he feared rejection and was as unsure of her love as she was of his. The idea radiated inward, connecting with a part of her hidden in a dark abyss. He needs me as much as I need him.

  She pulled back. Searching his eyes for confirmation, she said, “This is the real thing, isn’t it?”

  His blue eyes lit with joy—the identical look Brady gave her when he hugged her each morning. It was a look Sara couldn’t imagine not seeing every day for the rest of her life.

  She cupped his jaw and tenderly kissed his lips. “I love you, too, Ren Bishop.”

  He crushed her to him again, giving her a taste of the passion she no longer feared. In fact, she welcomed it. “Aren’t we going to your room?” she asked, when he trailed a string of scintillating kisses down her neck.

  Her question seemed to bring him back to reality, because he locked his fingers at the small of her back and sighed. “I hope so, but we still have to deal with that box,” he said somberly.

  With obvious reluctance, he let her go and walked to the desk. He picked it up, ripped open the tear strip and dumped a sheaf of papers—held together by a large, black metal clip—to the desk. He set the empty box to one side and was reaching for the papers, when Sara cried out, “Wait.”

  Her pulse raced and a creepy sensation made her shiver. “Do we have to do this now? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?” Trying to express her fears without making him think she questioned his feelings, she asked, haltingly, “I’m not saying it will, but what if it changes things?”

  He placed both hands flat on the desk and gave her what Claudie called his “judge look.” “It will change things, Sara. Hell, a part of me wants to chuck this in the fireplace and grab a match, but we can’t do that. This is Brady’s future, too. He deserves to know the truth.” He placed the neatly stacked papers to one side. “But before we look, I have to ask you something.”

  Sara stepped forward. “What?”

  He drew her to his side and took both her hands in his. “Will you marry me?”

  She heard the words and comprehended their meaning on one level, but couldn’t make sense of them on another. “Marry you?”

  He kissed her fingers. “Marry me. Be my wife, the mother of our son.” He emphasized the word our. When Sara questioned him with a look, he said, “I don’t need to see the results to know he’s my child. In my heart I know I could never love him more than I already do, but if the test says that biologically he isn’t, then he’ll be mine when I marry you. If the test says he is, then we did the right thing, because either way you are his mother and that will never change.”

  Sara’s throat was too constricted to speak so she nodded her chin. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Is that a yes?” he asked, brushing aside her tears.

  She nodded eagerly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said formally. “You’ll have to speak up for the record.”

  Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck and cried, “Yes, Your Honor. Definitely, yes.”

  He clutched her tightly, then gallantly scooped her up as nimbly as he would have Brady. “I believe I’ll need proof of that before I can pass judgment,” he teased, heading for the stairs.

  “What about the test results?” she cried.

  “Later. They’re not going anywhere, but we are. Upstairs. Now.”

  Heart soaring, Sara allowed herself to experiment. She used her tongue to trace the outline of his ear, provocatively exploring every nook and cranny. His step faltered halfway up the staircase.

  “Jesus, Sara,” Ren said, his tone laughing, “watch where you put that thing. You might kill us both.”

  Emboldened, she whispered, “Speaking of putting things in certain places, I’m a little out of practice. You may have to refresh my memory about what goes where.”

  Ren froze one step shy of the top. His look was dumbstruck, then he put back his head and laughed. “Oh, Sara, you are the answer to my prayers, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving how thankful I am.”

  Sara felt herself blush, but she didn’t contradict him because she knew the same was true for her.

  BO CAREFULLY EASED OPEN the closet door. The coat closet wouldn’t have been his first choice for reconnaissance duty, but it happened to be where he and Claudie were standing when the proverbial shit hit the fan. Afraid Babe might spot them, he’d hustled Claudie inside and partially closed the door, leaving ample width for air—and conversation—to enter.

  Bo might have felt guilty about eavesdropping if the results had been different, but from what he’d gleaned, things were working out right for his friends—and he couldn’t be happier. He poked his head out, checking to make sure the coast was clear.

  Claudie shoved him from behind. “Move it, garlic breath,” she muttered, shouldering past him. “You had to order scampi, didn’t you?”

  “How was I supposed to know?” he grumbled. He brushed some lint from his jacket sleeve. “I was just gonna congratulate you on being a good sport, and you have to turn into a whiner.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll show you whining.”

  A door closed upstairs, and Bo forgot about arguing with Claudie. Ren had finally connected all the dots. Once in one of his beer-hazed moments, Bo had expounded to his best friend the Bo Lester Theory of Life. “Life is like a connect-the-dots puzzle. You’re given this big formless maze when you’re born, and it’s up to you to make a picture, connecting all the right dots.” Ren had laughed and said that at the rate he was going, he’d wind up with someone else’s picture.

  Bo bet Ren would change his tune after tonight.

  Claudie snapped her fingers in front of his face to bring him back to the present. “That reminds me. We had a bet. I told you he’d propose, and you said he wasn’t that spontaneous. Read ’em and weep, Cookbook Man. Time to pay up.”

  Bo looked at her. “We didn’t shake on it.”

  “Are you going to welsh? I should have known.”

  Frowning, he grabbed her hand and led the way to Ren’s office. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. But technically, it wasn’t a real bet. Next time, you should make sure you follow protocol.”

  He saw her trying to keep the grin from her face. If he weren’t so happy for Ren, he’d have let that grin get to him. “Just sit down and shut up,” he ordered with mock severity.

  She settled one hip on the corner of Ren’s desk, while Bo walked around and sat down. “Close the doors. This is humiliating enough without disturbing Ren and Sara.”

  She did so, then quickly returned to her pose, a perfect place from which to watch him make a fool of himself.

  “I can’t remember the number,” he lied, pretending to concentrate on the telephone keypad.

  With a sigh of disgust, she leaned over and grabbed the phone, punched out a series of numbers, then handed him the unit. “It’s ringing.”

  Bo rocked back. For a person who valued anonymity above all else, this was torture—which undoubtedly was why she’d selected it as his payment.

  When a female voice came on the line, Bo swallowed, then told her what he wanted. There was a slight pause, and then she gave him his cue. He nodded at Claudie, who quickly dashed to the stereo and hit a button, keeping the volume low.

  “Now, fellow poetry freaks, we have Bo from Sacramento on the line,” a voice said over the air-waves. “Bo is going to share with us a poem he wrote. I get the feeling this is the first time for Bo, so be gentle with him, fellow writers, poets and songsmiths. Remember your first time—a combination of agony and ecstasy.”

  Bo rolled his eyes. She had the agony part right.

  “Go ahead, Bo. You said your poem doesn’t have a title, but maybe one will come out of the open-line critique session that follows. Go ahead. Let’s hear your poem.”

  Critique session? Not if I slit my wrists fir
st. He gave Claudie the blackest look he could muster, ruing the night on his boat when he rocked Brady to sleep by reciting one of the stupid poems he’d written. Claudie had immediately pounced on his weakness, but to his surprise had claimed to like it and had wanted to hear more.

  He cleared his suddenly parched throat, then closed his eyes and recited words he’d never before shared with a single soul.

  “White cranes guard the secret palace—a reed haven where children of the river live. Old men with no allegiance to life—lost souls made invisible

  by their need, stumble along slippery banks searching for escape from a world that doesn’t fit right.

  The river children know the evicted ones are not the enemy.

  Screaming metal fins churn the water, dripping blue poison—

  Toys of smiling ones with bright teeth and oil-slick skin.

  Fear them, children, for your home is but a playground to those

  who see only a domain to dominate.

  Alert, white cranes. Alert. Forewarn the babies,

  the minnows,

  the polliwogs.

  Children of the river, hide.”

  He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Claudie, sitting frozen, her mouth open. What shook him most was the tears in her eyes. He didn’t wait for the DJ’s comments. He hung up the phone and jumped up to turn off the radio, blocking out what sounded like a very positive response.

  “That was really beautiful, Bo,” Claudie said softly. “I’m sorry I made you do it on the radio like that. You should submit it somewhere and have it published.”

  Bo snorted. “You’re just surprised because you didn’t think I had it in me. Trust me, it’s not great poetry. In fact, it’s not poetry. It’s just words.”

  “Words that make sense, Bo. Good words.”

  He sat back down, pleased by her praise despite himself. He idly fiddled with the stack of papers before him, until it dawned on him what it was. He casually scooted the stack closer and arched his neck to study the writing on it.

  “Bo,” Claudie scolded. “That’s private. Leave it alone.”

  His curiosity was tempted. “But don’t you want to know?”

  “No.”

  She had the grace to blush over her lie.

  “Yes, you do,” he said, turning it around. “Damn, it’s upside down.” Using Ren’s pen, he wiggled it under one corner and flipped the stack over. “Wow! How’d that happen?”

  “Bo, stop it. I’ll tell.”

  He gave her his most shit-ass grin. “Who? I don’t think Ren and Sara would appreciate it if you bothered them just now.”

  She scowled, “But…”

  He used the pen to nudge a few pages back until he found one that looked promising. Leaning closer he scanned the words, zeroing in on what he was looking for. He read it twice, then let out a long, low sigh. “Well, I’ll be damned. Those condoms didn’t fail, after all.”

  Claudie let out a yip of surprise and raced around the desk to lean over his shoulder. “Show me where it says that. I don’t believe you.”

  Bo pointed to the paragraph in question. He knew the minute she confirmed his analysis of the words. She fell back, tears in her eyes. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. Ren’s not Brady’s daddy.”

  Bo spun the chair around and stared at her until she met his gaze. “Let’s be very clear about this. Ren may not be Brady’s biological father, but he is definitely that little boy’s daddy.”

  A bleak look flitted across her face and disappeared. She took a breath, then smiled. “You’re right. It takes more than genes to make a father.”

  Bo rewarded her with a grin, then jumped to his feet. “Okay. Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s go dancing. We have a lot to celebrate.”

  REN DREW IN A DEEP BREATH, savoring the fragrance that was uniquely Sara. Curled in the curve of his body, a perfect C, she slept as peacefully as Brady did. Lately, Ren had known many a sleepless night that found him leaning on Brady’s crib, memorizing his features, watching his eyelids move, his lips pursed in some dreamed response. Ren’s heart would fill to the brim, then find room for more images too wonderful to pass up. He’d never imagined one heart could hold so much love and still have room for more—the kind he’d shared with Sara just hours before.

  If he closed his eyes and tried to picture the process of their lovemaking, the nuance and texture and taste, his brain became overwhelmed from the sheer joy of remembering. Making love with Sara was like learning to dream in a new language—none of the old words fit. Wonderful. Perfect. Sensual. Exciting. All fell short of describing the actual sensations, the giggles, the moans. His only fear was that his face muscles might never go back to normal, since all he could do was grin.

  Sara sighed and stretched, bumping his chin with her hand. She started slightly as if suddenly realizing she was lying naked beside him. He waited to see how she would react.

  “Umm,” she purred, arching back to press more closely against him, “you feel wonderful. Is this heaven?”

  “I think so,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck. “Only one thing could make it any better.”

  She caught his implication and a sexy chuckle hummed in her throat. “Hold that thought. I want to check on Brady.”

  Ren vaulted out of bed and walked to his closet. He pulled out two robes and carried one to her. The moonlight streaming through his windows cast her body in a silver glow almost surreal in perfection. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he told her, holding the robe for her. When she turned to slip her arms in the sleeves, he reeled her in to his body and closed his arms around her.

  She snuggled against him. “You don’t have to say that,” she said softly. “I love you, anyway. I know I’m not beautiful. I look like a librarian. Always have. My mother told me that when I was ten.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I like books so much.”

  Stricken by the memory of his words coming back to haunt him, he turned her around to face him and sternly scolded her. “Sara, you are everything that’s beautiful to me—mother, friend, lover. Are we clear on that?”

  She began to execute a smart salute, but her hand got lost in the sleeve of the robe. Laughing, she raised up on her toes and kissed him. “I’ll try to remember that. Now, let’s go check on our little boy.”

  Ren pulled on his robe and followed her down the hall. The grandfather clock in the hallway read half-past midnight. If Claudie had returned she was already asleep, because her room was dark. Brady’s door was partially open and a Winnie-the-Pooh night-light glowed festively near his closet. The blinds on the window let in enough moonlight for them to see without turning on any other lights.

  Together they hunched over the crib. “He’s a gift beyond all gifts, isn’t he?” Sara whispered.

  “Then I’m doubly blessed.”

  She chucked softly. “Try telling that to your mother.”

  “I will. We will. Tomorrow.” When he felt her shrink away, he clapped his arm across her shoulders and squeezed. “Don’t worry. Once Babe realizes you’re going to be a Bishop—and believe me, that is part of her mind-set, not mine—if you want to keep your last name, hyphenate, whatever, I don’t care as long as we’re married—she’ll take on anyone in your defense.”

  Sara didn’t look convinced.

  “Remember on the way home tonight you told Bo and Claudie about my old dog, Freckles?”

  “The mutt you preferred over your mother’s fancy purebred puppy.”

  “Freckles was not a mutt. She was a fine dog of indiscriminate parentage. She was a good friend and an excellent watchdog. And Babe came to adore her. When I went away to college, Freckles and mother became very close. It broke Babe’s heart when she died. My point is, no one could ever say anything bad about Freckles because once she became a member of the family, she was no longer a mutt—she was a Bishop.”

  Sara’s grin made him want to drag her back to bed. “Freckles Bishop. That has a nice ring to it. But if your
mother doesn’t mind, I think I like Sara Bishop better.”

  His heart jumped, but Ren wasn’t worried about his blood pressure. His heart was whole, healthy and incredibly happy. He knew for a fact that love was the best medicine in the world.

  He drew Sara into his arms and kissed her. “I love you, Sara. Thank you for making my world complete.”

  She kissed him back with an ardor he’d come to recognize as pure Sara. “You’re what I’ve been looking for all my life, Ren. I’d almost given up hope, but believe it or not, Claudie inspired me to keep believing in love.”

  “Claudie?”

  She nodded. “Even at her lowest moments when she was flat broke and out of work and men hurt her and she didn’t have a dram of self-respect left, she’d come to the bookstore and take Brady in the corner and read him a book. Somehow he seemed to sense her need, because no matter how hyper he was, he’d wind down and sit on her lap as if absorbing every word she read. I’d look at them and know that love exists all around us—we just have to let ourselves be more like children. We have to open ourselves up to it.”

  Turning, they looked at Brady again. “He really was the key, wasn’t he,” Ren said, marveling at the miracle of ever connecting with this wonderful woman and her child. His child. He thought about the papers on his desk, but shoved the image away.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Sara asked, “Shall we get it out of the way?”

  Ren pulled her close. “You and Brady are mine. That’s all I need to know—all anyone ever needs to know.”

  He kissed her but sensed the slightest hesitation, and he knew it wasn’t that simple. They needed to deal with the results so they could get on with the business of living. He led the way to the study.

  His heart was beating faster than normal, but Ren felt confident of the results. He sat down at his desk; Sara stood behind him, bending down to scan the cover sheet. He adjusted the desk lamp and flipped past the documentation garbage to the result sheet.

  The result was there in black and white: Negative.

  Sara’s gasp told him she read the word at the same time. “Does this mean Hulger was his father?”