by Donna Fasano
They had spent another couple of hours simply catching up. Wanting to keep the focus on the positive, everyone avoided the messiest parts of the past. That, Tyne decided, was what had made the evening such a great success. It was as if they’d all made a silent pact to keep the conversation centered in the here and now.
“So, ah,” Zach piped up from the back seat, “how come no one warned me that my grandparents are freakin’ racist?”
Tyne’s gaze shot to Lucas. The humor lacing her son’s question had Lucas shaking his head and grinning.
“Your mother tried to tell you, Zach.” Lucas glanced at her. “She did try. But it’s difficult to point out the bad traits of the people you love.”
She smiled at him, sliding her hand over top of his where it rested on his thigh.
“When Grandmom talked about that one commissioner as ‘that colored fella,’ I almost choked on my cake.” Zach tugged on his shoulder harness, making a light whizzing sound with the belt. “I thought she was joking. But nobody laughed.”
Tyne sighed.
“Funny thing is,” Zach continued, “she didn’t say anything bad about the man. In fact, she said he was her favorite of all the commissioners. Weird.”
“That sums it up, son.” Tyne looked over her shoulder into the back. “Weird. I can’t figure it out, either. My mother swears she doesn’t mean anything by it, but—”
“That doesn’t make it any less wrong,” Lucas pointed out.
“Exactly.” She nodded, hoping Zach could see her in the dim light sprayed by the dashboard. “Hon, I’ve been embarrassed by the way my parents act for as long as I can remember.” She let go of Lucas’s hand, sliding around so she could more easily look at Zach. “But at the same time, they were deeply concerned about my wellbeing, they were kind and loving, and they tried to give me everything a girl could possibly want.”
There would have been a time—a time as early as yesterday—that her heart and mind would not have been open to such an admission.
She grinned. “Your father once called me a spoiled brat.”
Lucas looked into the rearview mirror. “And that was true.” He leaned toward the driver’s side door as Tyne tsked and swiped at his arm.
“What I’m trying to tell you, Zach,” she said, “is that people have good traits and bad traits. Good habits and bad ones. You embrace the good, and do your level best to recognize the bad so it doesn’t affect you.”
Zach was quiet, then he said, “It’s like Uncle Jasper said about life. You gotta take the bitter with the sweet.”
“You got that right.” Lucas flipped on his turn signal and made a left.
“Come on, now.” Tyne nudged his shoulder. “They’re not that bad.” Her facial muscles pinched as she asked, “Are they?” The look in his dark eyes made her groan and laugh at the same time. “They can be awful, I know.”
“They’re not all bad,” Zach said. “They obviously have wads of cash.”
She just turned and looked at her son.
“That house, that patio, that outside kitchen and bar,” he said, justifying his statement, “that bad-ass pool.”
“Zachary!”
“All that land. The pool house is set up like an apartment, Mom. Did you see it? Someone could move right in there. There was a refrigerator, and a TV, and, like, everything you’d need.” Her son reached up and tapped Lucas on the shoulder. “And, Dad, I sneaked a look in the garage. They’ve got a Hummer. How cool is that? A Hummer!”
Tyne’s lips parted and she sucked in a quick, silent breath. Not because her parents owned some exorbitant, gargantuan vehicle, but because her son had called Lucas Dad. The word had rolled right off his tongue. Lucas, however, barely seemed to notice. It was as if her son had always addressed Lucas with the affectionate moniker.
“Zach,” he said, glancing once again into the rearview mirror, “possessions don’t say much about a man. What matters is who he is.”
Something between a grin and a smirk twisted Zach’s lips as he gave the window of the BMW three sharp raps. “I’d say you like possessions just as much as Granddad does.”
Tyne saw the muscle in Lucas’s jaw tense.
“Money can’t buy happiness, Zach,” she told her son.
“Your mother is right.” Lucas’s gaze remained on the roadway ahead. “I don’t mind admitting that I lost my way. It’s really hard to live in today’s world with all its modern technology—wristwatches with GPS, cell phones that call you by name, electronic tablets almost as thin as a sheet of paper, you name it—where ‘he who has the most toys wins.’ Hell, it’s almost impossible not to get caught up in all that grabbing, snatching, and wanting. I don’t mind saying I got my priorities screwed up.” He braked the car at a four way stop, the headlights of the car facing them lighting up his face. “Got them screwed up big time.” His gaze darted to the rearview mirror, obviously wanting to connect with Zach. “I’m sure my uncle is ashamed of what I’ve become. I’m one of them. Someone looking for acceptance, someone hell-bent on acquiring the respect and esteem of others by buying condos and cars and building an impressive bank account.”
When the road was clear, Lucas drove slowly through the intersection.
“Don’t be mad at me.” Zach’s head drooped forward. “I was only pointing out that your BMW was pretty sweet.”
“I’m not angry with you.” Lucas accelerated along the country road toward home. His sigh was loud and long. “And your point is well taken. I’m the last person who should be lecturing you about not letting possessions possess you.”
“Guys,” Tyne said cheerfully, striving to lift the sudden drop in the mood, “we had such a great evening. Let’s not ruin it.”
However, the last few miles to Wikweko were made in total silence.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The coral light of pre-dawn steadily swept away the darkness as it ushered in Friday morning. Lucas had slept fitfully, awakened at least half a dozen times by crazy dreams. In the last one, a woman dressed in Amish garb hoisted herself up into a gleaming, tank-sized SUV, and stomped on the gas pedal, rutting his front lawn with perfect donuts.
He kicked the twisted sheet aside and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached his hands high and stretched his torso, thoughts of his mother wavering through his foggy mind.
What would his life have been like had she been the one who had raised him?
First and foremost, he would have had a mother. He would know what kind of person she was rather than spending all these years wondering.
She’d have cooked his meals, hugged away his hurts, read him bedtime stories, tucked him in at night. It’s impossible to say just how a mother’s love might have changed who he’d turned out to be.
The carpet muffled his steps as he padded to the window.
The Yoder house had had no electric lines attached to it that Lucas remembered. That would have meant no TV, no refrigerator, no radio, no lamps, no electronic toys. But primitive living never killed anyone, and he wouldn’t have missed what he’d never known. He would have spent a lot of time outdoors, and he surely would have learned to work with his hands. Probably farming or carpentry or some other trade.
He’d have had a simple, wholesome life. Not too unlike his adolescence here at Wikweko.
Of course, there would have been no high school. Everyone in the area knew the Amish educated their kids only to the eighth grade. No high school would have been fine with him in some respects; teens could be cruel and tended to close ranks against anyone who looked the least bit different. But that would have also meant there would have been no football games. And without football, he’d have never made that great play—the one that had compelled Tyne to approach him with the compliment that had initiated their relationship.
He smiled, hardly noticing the glorious pink clouds streaking across the blue-gray sky.
His life had been changed by the sweet and innocent girl she’d been. Because of her, he’d discovered parts of himsel
f he had never known existed. She’d taught him to love, to care about someone more than he did himself.
Then there was Zach. His smile broadened. The kid was great. Yes, he had some issues, but who went through their teen years unscathed by some kind of trouble? He sure hadn’t. Problems aside, Zach had a good heart. And he was damn smart. Clever enough to quickly figure out that Lucas and Richard Whitlock weren’t all that different, and assertive enough to voice the opinion. Lucas shook his head, remembering how his son had called him out on the drive home last night. Zach had the kind of common sense and intuition that would take him far in this world; as far as he wanted to go.
His son had called him Dad twice last night. Once in the car, and once before he’d trekked off to bed. Even now it was difficult to describe how hearing Zach speak that word made him feel. He’d never experienced that kind of joy. Even stepping into a courtroom for the very first time hadn’t thrilled him as much.
As idyllic as a childhood spent growing up on a peaceful Amish farm might sound, Lucas decided his current life had afforded him too many blessings to give up.
He reached for a clean pair of jeans, pulled a t-shirt from the dresser drawer. If he could change anything, he’d fix the mistakes he’d made in this life. He’d have set his anger aside. He’d have gotten in touch with Tyne, some way, somehow. He’d have been there for the woman he loved, for his son, through all those difficult years.
Walking through the living room, he heard water running in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he greeted. “You’re up early.”
Tyne’s long blond hair was tousled and sexy as hell. Her blue eyes were still heavy with sleep, her skin, pale as heavy cream. The silky t-shirt thing she wore did little to hide the outline of her rounded breasts, brown smudges of her nipples showing through the material.
“I didn’t know you were up,” she said. “I’m making coffee. It’ll just be a minute.”
He’d have been there for the woman he loved…
For the woman he loved…
The thought sang through his head, coming to him, not in the past tense but in the present. The here. The now. The woman he loved.
She tipped the filled carafe over the water chamber of the coffee maker then set the empty pot on the burner and flipped the switch. “Listen, Lucas. Thank you for last night. I know you didn’t want to go. I really appreciate it.”
He approached her, close enough to smell the warm, lemony scent of her skin, and kissed her cheek. She blinked at him, her blue eyes widening further with each lowering and raising of her eyelids. Damn but she was gorgeous.
“I didn’t mind,” he told her truthfully. “I’m going to run into town. Have coffee with Jasper. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” she said.
Staying right here and stripping that little top off her body sounded much more fun. But he had some things to tell his uncle, things that have needed to be said for far too long.
• • •
Light blazed from the window of Jasper’s back door and Lucas saw his uncle sitting in the first-floor studio. He rapped twice and Jasper let him inside.
“You’re working?” he asked.
Jasper nodded. “Been up since three. The hawk in my head woke me.”
“Hawk?”
The older man grinned, ushering his nephew into the brightly lit studio. “Accepted a job yesterday. Man drove in from Doylestown and brought this.” He placed the flat of his hands on either side of a great log that sat square in the center of the studio floor. “Took four of us to get it in here. It’s from an oak tree that’s been growing beside the guy’s tavern for as long as he can remember. The tree blew over in a storm, and he saved a chunk. He read my interview in Pennsylvania Magazine a couple years ago. Wants me to make him a wood carving. His tavern’s called The Hawk’s Nest.”
Jasper stared at the hunk of wood, his gaze roving up and down as if he could actually see a bird of prey hidden beneath the rough bark.
“Congratulations on the job. I can come back another time,” Lucas offered. “I don’t want to interrupt you.”
“No, no.” His uncle turned to face him. “That hawk will be flying around in my imagination for days before I pick up a chisel and mallet. I have a pot of coffee brewed.” Without another word, Jasper headed to the far side of the studio where an automatic coffee maker sat on a countertop, its glowing red light indicating that the burner was still hot.
Lucas accepted the mug his uncle poured for him. “I came to tell you that you were right.”
Jasper’s expression remained staid, and that didn’t surprise Lucas. His uncle had never been susceptible to knee-jerk reactions.
As a child, he’d hidden things from his father; a less than stellar report card, a detention notice, a broken toy, anything that might garner his dad’s disapproval. Lucas had felt loved and cared for, but his father had been a little on the hot-tempered side. After his dad had been killed in the accident on the interstate and Jasper had become his guardian, it hadn’t taken long at all for Lucas to realize that the two men, although they’d been brothers, were as different as night and day.
Just a few months after losing his dad, he rode home from school, a teacher’s note scalding his thigh through his trouser pocket. Lucas devised several fantastic stories to explain why he wasn’t responsible for the fight he’d gotten into with Barry Sullivan. However, rather than the expected raised voice and swat on the back, Lucas experienced a very different scenario. Jasper had read the note and listened to Lucas’s side of the story, and then his uncle had asked a slew of calm, thought-provoking questions. Being forced to think about his behavior, to admit his responsibility in the situation—even if only to himself—had been more agonizing and more effective than any punishment his father had ever doled out in the past.
After that, Lucas hadn’t feared coming to his uncle in times of trouble, or when he needed to talk out some issue or other…or, like now, when he wanted to make a confession. Years of witnessing Jasper’s unruffled manner assured Lucas that there would be no judgment. There would be no scorn. No violent reactions. Not even a single I-told-you-so.
The biggest hurdle he had to conquer was his own prideful unwillingness to admit he was wrong.
As expected, Jasper perched himself on a nearby stool and took a sip of coffee as he waited.
“It took coming back to Wikweko to see it,” Lucas began. “It took meeting my son. Getting to know him. It took spending an evening with Richard Whitlock—”
Even that name from the past didn’t elicit a response from Jasper. The man was good. As non-reactive as that solid mass of red oak.
“—to realize—” He clamped his lips shut, gazed down into his coffee mug, then forced himself to look at Jasper. “To realize what I’ve been doing.”
He set the coffee on the counter. “It started in college. I cut my hair, and I listened to how my college friends talked, mimicked them and changed the cadence of my voice. I worked hard to use proper grammar while I was speaking and in anything I wrote. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to fit in.” Reaching up, he scrubbed at the back of his neck. “When it came time to write my first resume, I didn’t use my full name. Lucas Hawk is what I chose. I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that I’m Lenape. I mean, look at me. I’m Indian. No one could miss that. It was, well…I thought I’d have a better chance at success if I treated who and what I was with a little…subtlety.”
Ceramic grated against Formica when he scooped up his mug. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I’m not going to say that I was never discriminated against. That wouldn’t be the truth. But I never let that stop me. If anything, it made me study more, work harder. I never lost sight of my purpose. After landing my job, the firm printed business cards for me. Lucas Hawk, Attorney. My success was printed right there on those cards. And when I was promoted two years later, the firm had a name plaque made for my office door. Lucas Hawk.” He sighed. “I didn’t protest. In fact, I never s
aid a word. I didn’t see any harm in it. I was moving forward, reaching my goals, making the big bucks. What did it matter that people weren’t using my full name?”
His mouth felt dry. “Then I met Zach.” Lucas shook his head. “That kid is amazing. He looks exactly like me, Jasper. He’s Indian. Lenape.” Again, he paused, this time to rake his teeth against his bottom lip. “When I brought him home and you started spending time with him…he talked about what he’d learned from you. And I began remembering all that I learned from you while I was growing up too. You gave me a history. A family. Something real and tangible to hold onto. You gave me dignity. Self-respect. I was proud to be Indian.” His gaze trailed to the log in the middle of the room. “Somewhere, somehow…I lost sight of it. All of it.”
Quiet blanketed the studio, the tick, tick of the old clock on the wall keeping a steady rhythm.
“I think it must have been very difficult for you, Lucas,” Jasper said at last, “to have been so young and to have had a white man look you in the eye and tell you that you were not good enough or worthy enough to have what your heart desired.”
Neither man spoke for several seconds. Jasper sat, drinking his coffee, and Lucas thought over all that he’d told his uncle. He couldn’t, in good conscience, blame Tyne’s father for the things he’d done, for the attitude he’d adopted regarding his own identity. In the end, he was responsible for his actions. No one else.
Jasper had taught him that, and Jasper was a great teacher.
“I’ll fix it,” he promised his uncle. “I’ll fix it for me. And for Zach. I want him to know, to see, that I’m proud of who I am. I want him to be proud of me.” He caught Jasper’s eye. “Like I’m proud of you.”
The old man went still, his throat convulsing in a swallow, his obsidian eyes growing moist. Lucas smiled when he saw his uncle grappling with his emotions.
