Instant Father

by Lucy Gordon

  He gave a mirthless laugh. “He never wanted to. He’d have called it a sentimental waste of time.”

  “And your mother?”

  “I can barely remember her.”

  Norah nodded, as if she’d understood something. “If you want to film Peter, why don’t you tell him it’s Flick you’re interested in?” she said.

  “How would that help?”

  She sighed. “Hunter, sometimes you can be painfully slow. You ask Peter to hold Flick up for the camera, then Peter’s so busy thinking of Flick that he forgets you’re filming him, too. That way he won’t be self-conscious and you’ll get what you want. Everyone’s happy. There, I’ll make you a present of that suggestion.”

  “Why?” he asked, watching her carefully. “Why make me a present of something that might give me the breakthrough to Peter? Don’t you want him to stay here with you, after all?”

  “Of course I want him to stay here, but only if he wants to. I don’t want him opting for me only because he never got to know you. Now why don’t you come home before it starts to rain and you get soaking wet-again?”

  She said the last word significantly, and Gavin looked up at her. “Again?” he asked.

  “Oh, of course, I was forgetting. You don’t remember, do you?”

  He managed a wry grin. “Perhaps I do. I suppose I ought to thank you.”

  “Well, don’t kill yourself doing it. Just don’t get wet. I won’t rescue you a second time.”

  “Thank you for the first time, anyway. I could have got pneumonia.”

  “Don’t pile it on,” she said, laughing. “You might have caught a small chill, but no more.”

  “No, I’d have caught a big chill. Unfortunately it’s the way I’m made. The slightest little thing and I go down with something nasty.”

  She cast a curious glance at his big, sturdy frame, redolent of health and vitality, looking as if it could withstand a siege. Who would ever have dreamed it housed this secret weakness? “It must be a great inconvenience to a tycoon,” she said, “wheeling and dealing-and the things tycoons do-all threatened by the sniffles.”

  “I don’t have sniffles. I take things to hide the symptoms until I have time to be sick.”

  “And when is that?”

  “Usually never. By the time I have time, I’m over it anyway. Perfectly simple.”

  “Is it? Do you really get over it? Or are all those little maladies waiting to join together and sock it to you?”

  “Now you stop that,” he said, amused. “I’m not one of your sick donkeys.”

  “Donkeys aren’t the only creatures in the world that get sick,” she pointed out. “There’s such a thing as being sick at heart, and it’s much worse than pneumonia.”

  “C’mon, stop psychoanalyzing me. I’m not sick at heart or sick in any other way, and I don’t need looking after.”

  The smile died from her face. “I think you do,” she said softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever really looked after you in your life.”

  He shrugged. “Liz tried. I wouldn’t let her.”

  “Why?” she asked curiously.

  “Because…” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that once he gave in to being cared for it could become a drug from which he’d never want to free himself. But, as so often was the case, caution intervened, and he simply said, “Because I didn’t need to be looked after.”

  “But she needed to do it,” Norah pointed out. “Liz had a powerful need to care for others. I learned that about her very quickly.” She hesitated before saying, “Maybe that’s what Dad offered her that you couldn’t.”

  “Nonsense,” he said shortly.

  “I don’t think so. I think you don’t know how to let yourself be looked after, and you’re sick from the lack of it.”

  He looked away from her, out to sea where the setting sun was turning the water red. It was at moments like this that she was most dangerous, for the idea of being lovingly cared for was suddenly more seductive than beauty, more alluring than perfume, more vital than life. The sweet warmth flowed from her in a river that threatened to engulf him and drag him down to his doom, to the place where weakness lay in wait.

  “It’s time I was getting back,” he said.

  To his relief she didn’t try to pursue the subject, and they talked about indifferent things on the way back.

  That night he awoke shivering. He was submerged in a black misery from which there seemed no escape. He vaguely sensed that it was connected with a dream he’d been having, but he couldn’t remember a single detail of it. He only knew that he’d been in hell and that hell’s tentacles still reached out beyond sleep, threatening to pull him back. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He remembered a file he was working on and decided to fetch it. Anything was better than going back to sleep.

  Norah had worked late that evening. As soon as one job was finished, she found another one to do. She knew time was passing and the rest of the house had gone to bed, but she kept on inventing tasks, delaying the moment she knew she would soon have to face.

  At last she gave up putting it off and sat down at her father’s desk and took out his papers. She’d been through his diary once already, but nothing seemed to have stuck in her brain. Now she knew she must try again, not just the diary but his next book. His publisher had called her that afternoon, gently asking if the book would have to be abandoned. But Norah resisted the idea. She wanted to see Tony’s last work published as his final memorial.

  He’d finished the first draft of the manuscript, but it needed revising, and she could do that through the extensive notes he’d left-not only written notes, but the ones he’d dictated into a small machine that went everywhere with him. It had been recovered from the car and given back to her, but she’d placed it in the desk without looking at it. She’d promised herself that she’d listen when she could face it, and now she must summon up her courage.

  She took out the machine and discovered that it was undamaged. She switched it on and there was Tony’s voice, cheerful, humorous, talking about the birds he’d seen a few hours before he died. She listened, her heart aching.

  The diary was even more painful. The moment she opened it he seemed to be there, in the irreverent notes he’d made against every entry.

  Remember to call Harry-try not to go to sleep when he tells me the story of the baboon for the fiftieth time.

  She could hear him saying it in the voice that had always seemed on the edge of a chuckle. In her young girlhood they’d been everything to each other, forging a bond that even his marriage hadn’t shaken. And Liz had been wise enough to understand that. She’d never been jealous or tried to come between them, understanding that she and Norah each held a different part of Tony’s heart, which was why they got on so well together.

  And now they were both gone forever: Tony, with his booming laugh, his huge love of life, and Liz, with her beauty and dizzy charm. The home that had been so warm and happy had been ripped apart, and she would never see either of them again. Suddenly the pain that had possessed Norah’s heart for weeks leaped up to her throat, tightening it in a grip of agonizing intensity. She gasped, feeling the sobs fighting to the surface, tearing her apart. She pressed her hands to her mouth and the hot tears flooded over them. Her chest heaved painfully. She tried to cling onto some sort of control, not to make a noise in case she awoke Peter. At this moment she was the strong, safe point in his life, and the evidence of her grief would frighten him if he saw it. But there was no way she could control what was happening to her. It was like being buffeted by a whirlwind.

  She’d cried when she first heard of the accident, but it hadn’t been like this. The effort to sob silently seemed to throw her body into spasms, making her clutch the desk. Only once in her life before had this happened, when she was eight and her mother had died. But then Tony had been there with his strong arms that had held her tight, shutting out fear and misery, carrying her into a world wh
ere they could love and grieve together. But Tony would never be there to comfort her again, and suddenly she was terrified that her strength wouldn’t be enough for the road ahead that was full of so many problems.

  Her surroundings receded. She was only dimly aware of the door being pushed open and Gavin standing there. “What is it?” he asked. Then horror seemed to overtake him, as he saw her face. “Norah,” he stammered. “What on earth…?”

  But it was clear that she couldn’t hear him any more. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably. There was only one thing for him to do, so he did it, crossing the room quickly and putting his arms about her. A moan broke from Norah. It went on and on, not rising or falling, but intensifying until it dissolved into violent sobs. Gavin tightened his arms and pulled her head against his shoulder.

  At first her body was stiff against him, but gradually he felt her relax and yield to her grief. He stroked her hair, wondering at her, wondering at himself. She’d seemed so strong, more than strong enough to stand up against grief, comfort Peter and fight himself at the same time. He’d thought of her as stiffened by a backbone of ice, but the slim body in his arms now was warm and soft, molding itself against his like an animal seeking comfort.

  “Norah,” he said uncertainly, “Norah…”

  But she couldn’t hear him, and he gave up trying to talk and just caressed her, stroking her hair and her wet cheeks and waiting until the storm subsided. “Norah,” he said again.

  She lifted her face, streaming with tears. “I can’t-stop…” she choked.

  “Then don’t try. Go on. Let it happen. You’ve held this in for too long.”

  “But I-mustn’t…”

  “Who says you mustn’t? You need to.” He drew her close again and held her, rocking gently back and forth while her anguish expended itself against his shoulder. After Peter’s quiet self-containment, he could almost have thanked Norah for needing him.

  At last it was finished, and she sat drained. An amazing feeling of warmth and contentment pervaded her. “Are you all right now?” Gavin asked quietly.

  “I think so,” she said in a shaky voice that touched his heart. She sighed. “It’s very strange…”

  “What’s strange?”

  “I was thinking of how Dad used to hold me when I was unhappy, and wishing he could be here to hold me now. Fancy it being you.”

  “Yes, fancy.”

  She drew back and rubbed a hand over her tear-streaked face. “You make a better father than I thought,” she said huskily.

  “Father?”

  “Taking Dad’s place just when I needed you.”

  “Oh, I see.” He was obscurely displeased at being equated with her father, but he supposed it was better than “grating Gavin.”

  “I’m sorry if I awoke you, making so much noise.”

  “You didn’t disturb me. I was awake already. In fact I was on my way down here to collect a file when I heard you.”

  “You and your facts and figures,” she said huskily. “No, that’s not fair. I’m sorry. You were kind.”

  “And you didn’t think I could be?” he asked with irony.

  “If I did you an injustice, perhaps it’s your own fault. You work hard at not letting people know you can be kind. I wish I knew why.”

  Once he would have said immediately that kindness was a kind of weakness, but he knew if he said that now she would pull out of his arms. And he wanted her to stay there, comfortable and at ease with him. He wanted to go on holding her sweet body against his. “You should have had that cry long ago,” he said gently.

  “I couldn’t afford to.” She hiccuped, and he had to fight an instinct to gather her tightly against him. “I had to be strong. I couldn’t afford the time for weakness,” she whispered.

  He heard someone-it might have been himself-say, “Grieving isn’t a weakness. It’s a way of replenishing your strength. Don’t stare at me like that. I can be human.”

  “Yes, you can,” she said in wonder. “It’s just that you save it for the oddest times-and the oddest people. What you just said is so right. I wish you could remember it where Peter is concerned.”

  The sound of his son’s name gave him a shock. For a moment he’d forgotten all about Peter, forgotten everything except how good it felt to be close to her, feeling that she trusted him. “I’ll try to remember,” he said slowly. “But it’s difficult with Peter. I’m floundering.”

  “Well, I gathered that,” she said, not unkindly, but with a little smile. “I think the camcorder’s a good idea and if you also-” She stiffened suddenly. “What’s that?”

  Gavin too had looked up at the sound of scuffling in the hall. The next moment the door was pushing open and Flick came streaking into the room. Close behind him came light footsteps, making them jump apart a split second before Peter entered in his pajamas. He seized the fox up in his arms and stood looking at them wearily. “It’s two in the morning,” she chided. “You should both be asleep.”

  Peter nodded and backed out of the door, still clutching Flick in his arms. Gavin and Norah looked at each other self-consciously, each feeling a faint regret that the moment had gone. From somewhere in the house, Osbert honked faintly.

  “I suppose we ought to call it a day,” she said. “When you’ve found your file, I’ll turn out the lights.”

  “My what?”

  “The file you came down for.”

  “Oh, that. Never mind. I guess I don’t need it any more.”

  She gave him a wondering look, but turned out the lights without saying anything. Gavin seemed awkward now, and she guessed that he, like she, was conscious of what might have happened if Peter hadn’t interrupted them. It was a good thing that he’d come in when he did, she told herself firmly. Life was already complicated enough, without confusing things further by yielding to a temporary attraction. In tomorrow’s light she would see the illusion for what it was. Gavin would help the process by barking at her in his usual way, and she would forget the kind, understanding man she’d met briefly tonight. Doubtless he was only a rare visitor.

  They climbed the stairs together and stood, in mutual embarrassment, outside her door. “Good night,” he said gruffly. “I-you’ll be all right now, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine now. And Gavin-thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said quickly. “Well, good night.”

  It was only when he’d closed his door behind him that he realized she’d called him Gavin instead of Hunter. It wasn’t the first time she’d used his name, yet tonight it had sounded different. He got into bed and fell asleep almost at once, and this time the bad dreams didn’t trouble him.

  Chapter Seven

  To Norah’s bemusement and exasperation, Gavin didn’t behave as she’d expected the next day. Instead of snapping at her in his usual brusque manner before retreating into the office, he went out early to buy another camcorder and immediately got to work with it. She enjoyed a laugh at his early fumblings, and he responded with a rueful smile that was the most attractive expression she’d ever seen on his face.

  As if he were determined to act out of character, he also adopted her suggestion for getting the best pictures of Peter. Norah came across them while Gavin was saying, “Hold Flick a little higher so that I can see her properly… Now let her run free… You’d better chase her.”

  She laughed with pleasure, and they both looked in her direction, smiling. She tried to back off, not wanting to intrude, but Peter ran to her eagerly, took her hand and drew her before the lens. She was about to protest that this was about him, when she remembered the little subterfuge Gavin was practicing at her own suggestion. So she played along, leading Gavin through the sanctuary and asking Peter to fetch out various animals for their moment of stardom.

  Delighted, she saw how father and son relaxed when they forgot to worry about their relationship. Gavin seemed to be still the gentle, kindly man of the night before, and Peter responded, smiling, and once even laughin
g out loud.

  The next moment she wondered at herself for being pleased. Every moment that Peter seemed to be at ease in his father’s company was a moment nearer the time she would lose him. Soon, perhaps, the barriers would fall, and father and son would find each other again. Then she would lose both of them. But not yet, she assured herself. There was a long way to go yet.

  That evening, when Peter had gone to bed, she found Gavin watching the tape on television. She stopped in the doorway to view the screen and was surprised to see only herself. She was holding Mack and smiling into the little monkey’s face. The next moment Peter appeared. But to her astonishment Gavin pressed the fast-forward button on the terminals and the picture sped ahead until she appeared again, this time in close-up. Suddenly the picture juddered to a halt. Gavin had stopped it, and was holding it still while he studied her face. Norah’s heart was beating madly. She took a deep breath, trying to still it, but nothing could quiet her excitement.

  Gavin heard the breath and turned sharply to see her there, just as she backed away and hurried outside. Her cheeks were burning at the implications of what she’d just seen. It was a mistake, surely. Or a whim. That was it. Gavin had watched her face on a passing whim. He was probably annoyed that she’d seen him, in case she misunderstood.

  She began to make her final round of the sanctuary, hoping that by the time she went in again he would have gone to bed. But as she closed the final pen behind her she became aware of Gavin standing there, almost hidden by the darkness. “I wondered what had happened to you,” he said.

  “I’m always out here at this time of night,” she responded, glad that her voice sounded normal, although her pulses were racing.

  “But you don’t always stay out for two hours,” he said.

  “I haven’t been here for two hours.”

  “Yes, you have. Check your watch.”

  She did, and was startled. Had two hours really passed while she walked under the trees thinking of him? But she’d checked the animals as well, hadn’t she? Alarmed, she discovered that she simply couldn’t remember.