by Peggy Webb
“That’s why Sarah…my mother....” The words clogged in Lance’s throat and he had to clear it before he could finish his question. “That’s why she was selling cookies?”
“Yes. We were doing okay till Sarah got leukemia.”
“Is that how she died?”
“Yes. And that’s why she left you at the orphanage. She knew she was going to die, and she knew Mother couldn’t take on any more responsibility. The medical bills had strained her almost to the breaking point.”
“Do you know who my father was?”
“No. Sarah never told us, and we didn’t try to find out. She was never wild, hardly dated, even. I think she wanted so desperately to live that she grabbed hold of the first boy who made her feel as if life would go on forever.”
“I’ve never hated my mother for giving me away.”
“I’m glad. I know this doesn’t make up to you for all those years alone, but she grieved for you till the day she died.”
“I don’t live in the past, and I don’t assign blame. All I wanted was to know my name.”
“Shane is a good name. A name you can be proud of. And we’d be proud for you to take it.”
Lance didn’t know how he felt about that right now. He’d wanted to know, that was all. He’d never gone beyond the moment of discovering the truth.
“I don’t say that lightly,” Clyde added. “I did some research, too. You’re a brave and honorable man, no matter what the press has said. You’re not afraid to put your life on the line for your country. Apache blood runs strong and true in you.”
The burden of guilt Lance had carried since his partner’s death suddenly lifted. Clyde gave him more than the gift of family; he gave him the gift of vindication and affirmation.
“Thank you.”
Lydia put her hand over his. “Please do give serious thought to taking the name Shane. It belongs to you.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
They spent the rest of the evening looking at family albums that spanned Sarah’s short life, with Clyde and Lydia telling Lance stories to go with the pictures.
Overloaded with emotion, he watched Clyde turn the last page, then close the album. Lance felt a sense of completeness and yet strangely empty. His mother’s history filled the empty spaces in him, expanded into every sinew and bone until there was no room for the negatives—unworthy, nameless, lonely.
Clyde handed him an envelope containing copies of the photographs seen in the albums, as well as a worn, leather-bound diary.
“This is yours. I never read it, never wanted to intrude on Sarah’s privacy, even after all these years.”
After they had gone Lance locked the diary in his desk. He would read it someday. Right now he was too raw. He had too much to think about. For one thing, he needed to figure out just what role a family named Shane would play in his life. For another, he needed to think about his name.
But most of all, he needed to think about a woman who had breezed into his life wearing soccer pads and a baseball cap, then breezed out holding a cardboard cutout of Jimmy Stewart, and Lancelot’s heart.
Chapter 19
Jolie couldn’t wait to get home. Her first day on her new job was over—finally—and all she wanted to do was lie down on the sofa with a heating pad on her cold feet and a big cup of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream on top within easy reach.
Not that she hadn’t liked her job. On the contrary, she loved it. It was the computer she hated. More precisely, the computer program. Give her a dog brush and a pair of sharp precision scissors and she could shine like a quasar. But put her in charge of a computer whose programs had obviously been written in secret code by Chinese stand-up comics, and she was lost.
She’d felt as if she’d been abandoned in the Sahara Desert without water and a map, let alone a compass. It was a conspiracy between the Chinese and Marsha Hughes, her terminally cheerful supervisor. She’d spent all of ten minutes instructing Jolie in the finer points of her job, then she’d trotted off to the coffee machine saying breezily, “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll be just great.”
Maybe sometime in the next century. Meanwhile, Jolie merely wanted to be sane and unconfused.
She’d finally gotten back to her apartment, fixed her chocolate and was just stretching out when the phone rang. Wouldn’t you know it? She thought about letting it ring. It was probably Connie wondering how her day had gone. Or Elizabeth, or her mother.
“Go away.” Jolie glared at her telephone, but it kept on ringing. She dragged herself off the sofa. “Hello.”
“Jolie? Is everything okay?”
“Lance. Oh, Lord, Lance. Is that you?”
“It is. How are you?”
“Oh, my gosh… I’m sorry I was so surly.”
His laughter thrilled her all the way to her toes. “You? Surly? You couldn’t be surly if you tried.”
Was he flirting with her? That’s what it felt like. Furthermore, he sounded so lighthearted she could hardly believe he was the same man.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Richmond…Jolie, are you crying?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have any tissue, do you?”
She glanced around the room. Naturally, the tissue box was empty and had been since last Tuesday. She’d meant to put it on her list of things to buy, but in all the excitement over her new job, she forgot.
“No.”
“I’ll hang on while you go blow your nose. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
She raced to the bathroom, blew her nose, then pulled off a length of toilet paper and carried it back to the den, just in case. From the way things were shaping up, this could turn out to be a six-hankie phone call.
“Hi, I’m back.” She settled comfortably in a corner of the sofa, then propped her feet on the coffee table with the cooling chocolate.
He didn’t answer, and for a while Jolie thought the phone connection had gone dead. Finally, he said, “Jolie, I’ve found my family.”
She listened while he told her about his upbringing in the orphanage, his search for his mother and finally the visit from his uncle, Clyde Shane. Jolie went through every bit of her toilet tissue and wished she had more.
“I’m filing a motion to add Shane as my middle name,” he said finally.
“Lance Shane Estes.” She tried the name out to see how it would sound, and it sounded wonderful. If she’d had a piece of paper she’d have written Mrs. Lance Shane Estes twenty-five times. “That’s such a beautiful story I could cry.”
“You are crying.” The way he said it felt like a hug. She hung on to the phone, savoring the idea. “I wish I were there to hold you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Jolie, I’d like to see you again, if you’ll let me.”
Let him? Good Lord, she’d get down on her knees and beg him. She was just on the verge of admitting as much when she recalled how Connie had told her that men loved the chase.
Well, she wasn’t going to deprive him of the pleasure of pursuit. But neither was she going to play hard to get. She didn’t believe in playing games.
“I’d like that.”
“There’s something you have to know first. My job is extremely dangerous, and I’m gone a lot. If that matters to you, I need to know now.”
She was going to die of happiness on the spot. Good gracious, he was serious. And he deserved a real answer, not a quick response that she might later regret.
“I don’t think it matters, Lance, but it would be less than fair of me to say no, then change my mind.”
“Think about it, Jolie. Take all the time you need. You can call me and let me know.”
She wrote down the number he gave her, then he said goodbye. The minute she hung up the phone she panicked. What if he changed his mind? What if he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble? What if he met some gorgeous woman who had far more to offer than she, and fell instantly in love and didn’t care whet
her he ever heard from Jolie Kat Coltrane again?
Jolie jerked up the receiver and started punching in his number. Halfway through she put it back down. He’d think she was an idiot.
She needed time to think. She needed advice.
She called Connie.
Lance hadn’t expected a quick and easy agreement from Jolie, had he? What was it Elizabeth had said? She’s a romantic.
Okay, so Jolie hadn’t said, Of course your work doesn’t matter, come straight up to Memphis and sweep me off my feet and into your bed. But that didn’t mean he had to sit around staring at the telephone, hoping. Once Lance made up his mind about a thing, he didn’t dally; he took action.
Full of purpose, he got the phone book, looked in the yellow pages till he found what he wanted, then made his call. He was a man with a plan.
Connie came over bearing sour cream and onion dip, and Jolie provided potato chips. They were sitting with their feet propped up on Jolie’s coffee table, eating their way through Jolie’s problem, which Connie insisted wasn’t a problem at all.
“Look, Kat, from what you’ve told me, you’re crazy about this man. Am I right?”
“Right. But what if something awful did happen to him? I’d absolutely die.”
“So you want to spend the rest of your life by yourself, or maybe with the wrong man, simply because you’re scared of losing him?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“I’m being sensible, that’s all.”
Connie snorted. “You should be sensible about jobs and walking shoes and winter coats. Not about the man of your heart. Good grief, Kat.”
The doorbell rang, and Connie fueled herself with chips and dip while Jolie answered the door. It was a delivery boy with a dozen yellow roses.
“These are for me?”
“They are if you’re Jolie Kat Coltrane.” She nodded. “Sign here, please.”
Connie screamed when she saw the roses. “Open the card,” she yelled. “Hurry up, I want to know what it says.”
“It says, ‘For my favorite girl in soccer pads, Lance.’ I think I’m going to cry.”
Connie went to the bathroom and came back with a wad of toilet tissue. “Here. Use this. Let me see that card. He calls you his ‘favorite girl.’ He’s serious, Kat.”
“You think so?”
“Listen, do you know what a dozen long-stemmed roses cost? Men who aren’t serious don’t send flowers. Trust me.”
“Does Wayne send flowers to you?”
“Yeah, but only on special occasions. You know, birthdays and Valentine’s. Do you think I should give back the ring?”
“You’re serious?”
“Heck, no. I’m just kidding. Still…these are pure heaven.”
Jolie buried her face in the soft, fragrant petals and inhaled. Roses. No one had ever sent her roses.
Connie came over and squeezed Jolie’s shoulder. “I could get hit by a cab crossing the street. Nothing’s ever certain. It’s up to you whether you want to play it safe or take the risk.”
Lance used his harmonica to relieve stress. Since his call to Jolie, he’d been sitting in his apartment playing one sad song after another, many of them from the World War II era: “Saturday Night Is the Loneliest Night of the Week,” “I’ll Walk Alone,” “I’ll Be Seeing You,” “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye.”
Not many people his age had even heard of those songs, let alone appreciated them. Danny had, which was one of the reasons he and Lance had been perfectly suited as partners.
Lance’s new partner, John Braden, was a nice enough guy, but he didn’t know blues from Adam’s house cat. He couldn’t hold a candle to Danny. John had called shortly after Lance talked to Jolie, and invited him out for a few beers. “Just to unwind,” he’d said, but Lance wasn’t ready yet to become chummy. Maybe he never would. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to be by himself playing sad music this evening. Somehow it made the waiting easier.
He was in the midst of “Time on My Hands” when his phone rang.
“Lance, it’s Jolie.”
Chapter 20
One week after Jolie’s call, Lance was on a plane to Memphis for dinner and a weekend. “To see how it goes,” she had said.
At least she hadn’t said no. To tell the truth, her cautionary note fit well with his plans, too. Love was unfamiliar territory to him. Furthermore, it was serious territory, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes.
Without the distractions of family and holidays and Birdie, he and Jolie would get a chance to see if what they felt was real. She was making dinner. That would be great. A nice quiet evening in her apartment with lots of time to talk.
Tomorrow, he’d take her to the movies, maybe a walk along the river if it wasn’t too cold, then to the historic Peabody Hotel for dinner. He’d done his research. It was a landmark in the heart of downtown Memphis with ducks that paraded down a red carpet to the ornate fountain in the lobby.
There was lots to see in Memphis. The Peabody was only a few blocks from Sun Studios, where some of the early rock and roll stars had cut records. They could even tour Graceland, home of The King. Lance loved Elvis’s music. He sometimes played it on his harmonica when the mood struck.
He’d brought his blues harp. Maybe they’d have time to sit around and play and sing. He’d get a chance to make certain Jolie was the kind of woman who knew the art of simple pleasures. He’d find out if what he remembered from the holidays—that she was a lively woman who required no fancy trappings or exotic entertainment to be happy—was real and lasting.
And of course, he’d sleep on the sofa. Clearly, she was a passionate woman. No question about that, and no need to cloud the rest of the issues with sex. His memories were vivid. Without a doubt she was his perfect mate in that arena.
His excitement built with every minute that brought him closer to Jolie. By the time his plane touched down in Memphis, he was perspiring with excitement, though the temperature was in the midthirties and a weatherman on Channel 3 predicted a further drop.
Lance hurried to the baggage claim, past travelers bundled in boots and coats. He didn’t care about the weather. He had other things on his mind, namely getting his bag and grabbing a cab.
Just when he thought his bag had been sent on a sightseeing trip to Houston, Texas by way of Portland, Oregon, the carousel coughed up his suitcase. He grabbed it and didn’t have any trouble hailing a cab. There were some advantages to being a tall man with a face like a hatchet. Most people didn’t mess with Lancelot Estes.
Soon to be Lancelot Shane Estes. He’d filed the papers on Monday.
As the cab hurtled through the darkness, Lance leaned over and asked the driver, “How much farther?”
“Ten minutes.”
It felt like ten hours.
Jolie checked her stuffed chicken for the tenth time. It was roasting perfectly. The oven timer was set, so she didn’t have to worry about overcooking. The bean casserole was made and sitting in the warmer. She’d wait until they’d had drinks to put on the rice and make the salad. No need to rush right into dinner. Let him unwind, get over his travel fatigue. That way they’d have a chance to talk. She could find out if memory had elevated him to heroic proportions or if he really was the prince of her dreams.
She hurried to the bathroom to check her hair and spritz herself with perfume, then raced back to the kitchen for one more peek at the chicken. Perfect.
When the doorbell rang she nearly jumped out of her skin. Okay, be calm. Say hello, then offer him a drink. Pour the wine. Listen to music.
The music… Lord, she’d forgotten the music. The doorbell pinged again.
“Coming.” On the way to the door, she flipped on the CD player. Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” filled the room.
She swung open the door, and there Lance was, every bit as gorgeous and wonderful as she remembered.
“Hello,” she said, feeling suddenly
shy.
“Hello again.” He handed her a box of Godiva chocolates and a bottle of Italian wine. “These are for you.”
“Oh, I love chocolates.”
“I know.”
Her hand touched his when she accepted the gifts, and that was all it took. Putting them on the table beside the door, she went straight into his arms. Bending to her, he kissed her as if he was returning from war. She melted against him, then backed into the room.
A sane part of her mind said, Okay, a greeting kiss is fine. To be expected, really, considering what we had in Pontotoc. After the kiss, we’ll talk.
Eric Clapton finished “Wonderful Tonight” and moved into “Ain’t That Lovin’ You” before they came up for air.
“I’ve missed you,” Lance whispered against her hair. “More than you’ll ever know.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
Jolie’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe. Looking deep into his eyes, she was sucked back into a maelstrom of emotions. Suddenly, they were kissing again, kissing with an urgency and a mounting passion that demanded release.
The bedroom was only a few feet away, the door standing open. They walked that way, locked together and stepped, still kissing, until she felt the backs of her knees pressed against the bed.
They fumbled with buttons, zippers, snaps. With their clothes in a heap they tumbled onto Jolie’s fluffy quilted comforter and came together as naturally as if they’d been born for each other.
And suddenly Jolie knew heaven. He was everything she remembered, and more, for this time Lance was no silent lover.
He murmured his wonder and appreciation with each new discovery. As he explored her body from head to toe, he whispered, “You are so beautiful. I love your belly button, your knees, your toes.”
She sizzled, she sighed and she giggled. Making love with Lance was fun. What a discovery! To have all that passion, all that intensity, and laughter, too.
She found a little scar on his belly. “What is this?”
