“I told her she could stay here tonight.” Ian said without any hint of apology.
Having already anticipated that possibility, and scrambling for at least some semblance of propriety—when in fact all propriety was null the moment he allowed both Leila and Ian into his home—Myles said, “Indeed. And of course, you will also be staying.”
At least, if he were called on it, Leila and he would not be spending the night alone, as if Ian qualified as any sort of chaperone. Oh, the irony of it!
Pulling hair from his face, Ian raised a reluctant brow and removed his wet sneakers and socks.
Myles pulled the poncho over Leila’s head and hung it on the rack. “You’re soaked.”
“I’m just damp,” she said, squeezing a drip from her braid.
Myles led her to his bedroom behind the staircase, and pulled two T-shirts from his dresser drawer. He passed one to Leila. “Put this on and come on out to the kitchen.”
Myles tossed the other shirt to Ian in the open dining area and gestured for him to follow. In a minute, Leila joined them.
“Sit.” Myles dragged a tall chair toward the end of the butcher-block island.
Leila sat, staring at the floor.
“Get those wet things off her feet,” he said, stepping into the adjoining laundry room, and grabbed towels.
“I can take care of my own feet,” Leila snapped as Myles handed her a towel. Ian threw his hands up and backed off. As she removed her own shoes, Ian pulled his shirt overhead. A patch of purplish-red welted between his ribs. Apparently, it had been no easy task getting Leila there.
Grabbing the phone from the wall mount, Myles dialed Joe and then Kyle from the privacy of the living room. When he returned to the kitchen, shirted Ian sat staring off into mid-space. He appeared nearly as dazed as Leila. Neither would look at the other. It was not difficult to imagine what had transpired. Myles faced them both from his side of the island. Ian slumped back in his seat and met his stare, shaking his head, his face drawn.
Myles reached for his wine rack, pulling a dark green bottle, and set it on the butcher block. With the cork dislodged, he retrieved three crystal goblets. After pouring, he set the bottle in front of Leila. The label faced her.
“Gevrey-Chambertin,” he said to her. “Do you remember?”
Through heavy eyelids, she stared. It took a moment, but she reached for her glass and sipped, swishing the wine in her mouth the way he had taught her. “Yes. I remember.”
“Good then. Enjoy.”
Ian sipped with a nod. “This is really good.”
“Yes. It is.” It better be for the price of it!
Sipping his own wine, Myles studied Leila, contemplating his next tactic. Sharing wine could soften an adversary. Breaking bread would level her wall of resistance.
Myles placed a wedge of Brie cheese on the counter. He would allow a few minutes to take the chill off it, and Leila. Meanwhile, he handed her a long crusty French baguette and refilled her glass.
He said, “Tear off a piece and give it to Ian.”
Ian looked perplexed. Leila squinted at Myles but obeyed. Having pulled off a small portion, she begrudgingly pushed the remaining loaf toward Ian, refusing to look at him.
“No,” Myles said. “Give him the piece you intended for yourself.”
She frowned at Ian and shoved the bit of bread toward him.
Myles now held out a knife. “Spread cheese on it for him.”
She pushed his hand away. “He can spread his own cheese.”
Myles grabbed her hand, pressing the knife to her palm. “Do it.”
She accepted the knife and dug off a clump of rind and cheese, then smashed it onto his bread. “There!”
“Now hand it to him.”
She hesitated.
“Trust me,” he said.
As soon as she picked it up, her eyes met Ian’s and filled with tears. He didn’t take the bread right away but kept his gaze upon her.
“Here,” she said, her hard face flinching. “I’m … I’m so sorry I said those things ….”
“Leila …,” Ian said.
She wiped her face. “… and I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Ian half smirked. “I should have seen that coming—but I’ll be fine.”
Myles next served Leila and finally himself. He then returned to the refrigerator and pulled leftover Beef Wellington, some mayonnaise, and Dijon mustard. He set them in front of Ian. “You must be hungry.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
When Leila finally emptied her glass, she was primed. Myles waited patiently. Meeting his eyes, she thrust her hand in her pocket and pulled out damp lavender paper. She laid it before him.
Perching his reading glasses, he read it, careful not to react. He then passed it to Ian.
“I’m very sorry about your mother,” Myles said, his hand on hers.
Ian’s eyes grew wide as he read. “How is that possible?”
Myles cocked his brow. “You did see her grandmother, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
Leila slumped back into her seat, her eyes heavy.
“How did you come across this?” Myles asked.
“Joe was reading it when I got home from school. I guess some friend of my mother sent it—only Artie must have misplaced it or something. I’m not sure.” She yawned. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight—I’m so tired. I want to sleep.”
“Of course. I’ll get you some pajamas.”
Myles led her back to his bedroom and showed her the adjoining bathroom. Laying a pair of his own pajamas at the foot of the bed, he said, “Bring your wet clothes out when you’re done.”
When Myles emerged from the bedroom, he invited Ian to sit at the dining room table.
“Do you want ice for your ribs?” Myles asked.
“Nah.”
“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable tonight.”
At the table, Ian glanced up from his plate but said nothing.
Myles sighed. “Ironic.”
“No kidding.”
At that moment, Leila stepped into the room. Myles collected her armful of clothes as she laid a photograph on the table.
“It’s my mother and her friend,” she said as he exited.
When Myles returned, Ian passed the photo, pointing to the figure on the right.
Myles adjusted his readers and squinted, then tipped it toward better light. He flipped the photo over and read Me and BJ. All at once, Myles’ breath left him, and all warmth drained from his temples down. “Where did you get this?”
Leila replied, “It was with the note and some other papers that came with it.”
He flipped back to the images and nearly choked. “Time for bed, Leila.”
She offered a half smile and returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Myles rubbed his eyes—he couldn’t believe what he was looking at. It couldn’t be true.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asked.
Myles’ focus darted from the picture to his keys on the entryway table. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
He hustled to the door. “Just stay here. I’ll be back in a half hour.”
Before Ian could protest, Myles was out the door and headed south. He would not allow himself to indulge in frivolous speculation as he sped to Artie’s old apartment.
~
Within an hour of leaving Leila and Ian at his house, Clarence returned and sat in his driveway for a minute, pulling himself together. He stared at the large envelope for a moment before peering inside. His heart pounded as he patted his shirt pocket. He had forgotten his readers inside. He sighed and tucked the envelope under his raincoat and dashed for the porch.
When he came through the door, Ian stood in front of Myles’ music selection, in his boxer shorts and T-shirt. The dryer hummed in the background. Myles glared and Ian headed toward the laundry room.
In the kitchen, standing at the
maple island, Myles emptied the envelope, spreading the papers under the bright lights. Several drawings, a picture of Marilyn and Leila, and another letter.
As Clarence read the first line, My name is BJ Kerns. I was a good friend of Marilyn for a few years, his heart burst. Bonnie Jane.
He read quickly …
…I met her in rehab in Oregon, and she told me all about you and her little girl, Leila. It took some time to track down an address for you. I’m so sorry to have to inform you, nine months after the fact, that Marilyn took her life on February 1, 1976. I just want you to know that she tried very hard, but she just couldn’t seem to stay clean. It finally got the best of her.
Joe, I know she wanted you to have this letter, and these other things are all of what she left behind. I thought you should have them also. I’m very sorry to have to bring this bad news to you, and if you want to talk to me about it, you can call me or write to me at the address and phone number below.
Again, I’m so sorry,
BJ
Myles swallowed, choking down the knot in his throat.
Ian entered the room wearing jeans as Myles snatched the envelope and inspected the return address and postmark.
“October 26, 1976.” He looked up at Ian. “Only one-and-a-half years ago.”
Ian glanced at the pictures and letter. “What am I missing?”
Myles spoke but not so much to Ian. “BJ is my Bonnie Jane. Kerns is her mother’s maiden name.”
Controlling his emotion and imagination, Clarence considered dialing the phone number. But what if no one answered or the number belonged to someone else now? And what if she did answer? He was unprepared for that. He then pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, checking his watch. Six o’clock, California time. He removed a well-worn card and dialed the telephone. He waited and prayed. Finally, an answer.
“It’s Clarence Myles … Yes, it has—listen, I have recent information on my daughter … yes, Bonnie … a telephone number and address. Also an associate … No, I haven’t—I was hoping you would ….” He then relayed all of the information. “Yes, as soon as you know anything, please.”
When he turned to hang up the telephone, Leila stood in the shadows of the doorway. She stepped forward.
She looked at him with puzzlement. “I thought your daughter was dead.”
“I never said she was dead.”
“Yes, but—”
“I simply didn’t know. I’ve been preparing for the worst for years. This is the only glimmer I’ve had that she might still be alive.”
Leila moved to the counter and looked at the letter, and then the picture. “BJ is your daughter?”
Myles nodded. “Yes. I’m sure of it.”
With tears in her eyes, she stared at him. “Clarence ….”
She approached. Slipping her arms around his waist, she held him tightly, crying softly into his chest. It was beyond his control to do anything but reciprocate as he pressed his chin to her head, stroking her hair. His vision blurred. When Leila finally pulled away, Ian had left the room.
“You should get some rest,” he whispered.
“Tuck me in.”
As she slid between the sheets, he pulled them up under her chin and kissed her forehead.
“I love you, Clarence,” she said in a sleepy voice.
He whispered back, “And I love you ….”
While Ian waited in the living room for Myles to return, he topped off his wine glass and wandered back to the album collection. He couldn’t remember a more awkward time than when Leila and Myles shared their little moment. Ian scanned the room as he had earlier. Everything was meticulous and tasteful. No articles of clothing or messy stacks of paper out of place. No film of dust on the polished furniture. And no photographs. He liked Myles’ house and his taste in furnishings. Even more, he liked his sound system. How could a schoolteacher afford a state-of-the-art stereo and expensive bottles of wine? There was obviously money, but one would never know it to look at him or the old Volvo he drove. Perhaps it was simply that Clarence Myles chose to spend his money on only a few things in which he placed value. Music, food, and his cloistered environment.
Ian dropped into an old Mission rocker opposite what was obviously Myles’ own chair. He swallowed the last of his wine and pulled at his neck muscles. His diaphragm throbbed. In a few days, the welt would be a substantial contusion. He sighed, wishing he could just turn in—if only he knew where he would be sleeping.
Just then, Myles returned and headed to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Hennessy Cognac and poured a little into two snifters. Without a word, he passed one to Ian. Then, setting the needle on a record as the turntable revolved, some mellow jazz began playing. He finally took his seat in his leather chair.
Ian said nothing. It wasn’t that he was uninterested, he was simply too spent to pry. They exchanged nothing more than pensive looks until Ian emptied his drink.
Myles spoke up. “Pretty rough going with Leila today?”
“Yeah … you could say that.”
Myles stared at him, his eyes calculating. “You do realize it’s not too late for you to back out.”
“Why would I back out?”
“Leila is not going to be an easy young woman.”
“I realize that.”
“The question is … are you man enough to do the right thing by her?”
Ian did not flinch. He felt no compunction nor any need to explain or justify his feelings for Leila or any of his decisions. If Myles wanted to spar, he wouldn’t find a participant in Ian.
Ian rose, gesturing toward the stairs. “Where to?”
“Upstairs to the left. Bathroom’s the middle door.”
Chapter 31
Leila woke to the aroma of strong coffee and muffled voices. It took a moment to remember where she was, and even then, to believe she was lying in Mr. Myles’ bed. As she rolled over, hugging the pillow, her body ached and her mind spun. The little girl in her wanted to stay wrapped in the security of Clarence Myles, but the young woman felt disconcerted in a man’s bed. She lingered for only a moment, collecting fragments of yesterday’s upheaval.
When Leila stepped through the bedroom door and into the kitchen, she squinted in the bright light, rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning,” Myles said.
Myles’ pajamas hung from her shoulders and past her fingertips. She forced a half smile, trying to smooth what little remained of her braid as she glanced from Myles to Ian. “I need my clothes and a comb or something.”
As Myles retrieved her things from the laundry room, Leila avoided Ian’s stare. Flashes of memory continued to swirl. The letter. Harsh words with Joe. Myles’ discovery. And how badly she had treated Ian.
Ian downed the last of his coffee and rose as Myles stepped back into the room. He handed Leila the folded clothing, a comb, and a toothbrush.
“I have an appointment. I’ll let myself out.” Ian stepped past Leila in the doorway. Glancing at her, he offered a subdued smile.
She followed to where he sat on the steps tying shoelaces. Standing before him, she hugged her clean laundry, absorbing the warmth and scent of Clarence’s home.
He paused with a sigh and met her gaze.
“I wish you hadn’t seen me like this. And the way I was yesterday …,” she began. “I wouldn’t blame you if—”
“If what? If I decided to bail on you? If I decided I wanted to back out? That maybe you no longer interest me?”
She said nothing, but that was what she had been thinking.
“Well, either you have far worse problems than you’re letting on, or you think I’m so emotionally inept that I don’t realize people are complicated and come with baggage. Is that what you think?”
“It’s just that I was so mean to you. And said awful things.”
“I didn’t take it personally, and I won’t unless you want me to.”
“No … I would just rather you forget that yesterday ever happened.”
“Well, I have no intention of forgetting it. I pay attention to everything. Every interaction I have with you teaches me something about you and helps me understand you better.” He stood. “You know, you’re not the only one with baggage. You might actually want to ask yourself if I’m the person you want to be involved with.”
How could he have any worse baggage than she had?
Looking into her eyes, he tucked stray hairs behind her ear.
“I gotta go.” He kissed her cheek and left.
Leila dressed and then returned to the kitchen. Myles stood at the range, sautéing onions and mushrooms. He asked, “How did you sleep?”
“I don’t remember. How about you?”
“Not a wink.” He cracked several eggs into a bowl.
“I guess you were probably thinking about your daughter.”
He nodded, beating the eggs and then dumping them into the pan
“Could I ask you a question, Clarence?”
“You may.”
“Why would your daughter—Bonnie—not contact you for all these years? I mean, if she was all messed up on drugs and stuff, I guess that would sort of make sense. But it sounds like she was clean. At least a year and a half ago. Why wouldn’t she call you or something?”
Myles remained silent as he flipped an omelet and laid plates before them. “Toast?”
“No, thank you.” She waited.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose there are several possibilities. It might be the distorted things her mother told her. Or the drugs may have scrambled her brain.” He looked at Leila as he placed the omelet neatly on her plate with a sprig of parsley beside it. “Or … it could just be me.”
She breathed in the aroma. “I was wondering if she’s sort of like you in some ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does she have really high expectations about other people and herself?”
“I don’t know. I never really got to know her.”
“Well, how old was she when you divorced?”
“She was thirteen. Unfortunately, we were never particularly close. I guess we never really clicked as father and daughter.”
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