Height had nothing to do with free-throw accuracy, Alex reminded himself. After having faced the doubts of a dozen basketball coaches, he had learned how to prove himself with at least one shot, the free throw. He'd done it by practicing about three thousand times a day, dunking balls, clothes, toys, sticks, and anything else he could get his hands on through every receptacle he could find, from real hoops to wastepaper baskets and even through the branches of the trees in his backyard.
Of course, he'd had plenty of time to practice, growing up alone all those years. He shook off the negative thought and concentrated instead on the line underneath his feet and the basket in front of him. It suddenly seemed a million miles away.
Alex bounced the basketball, one, two, three times, taking a deep calming breath with each one. He could do this. He could. He just had to concentrate. No fear, he told himself.
"You gonna shoot or what?" Elijah demanded.
Alex replied by sending the ball through the basket with a clean swish. He felt a surge of relief and his confidence returned. He could do this.
Elijah grabbed the ball and walked to the line. He bounced twice and sank the ball through the basket. Alex grabbed the rebound and headed back to the line.
He bounced the ball three times again and shot. Good.
Back to Elijah. Another basket.
Alex stepped up again. As he raised his arms, he heard a moan. Distracted, he turned his head. Jessie was standing on the sidelines, holding her stomach.
"I feel sick, Daddy," she said pitifully.
Alex hesitated.
"Hey, if you gotta take care of the kid..." Elijah said with a shrug.
"Hang on a second, Jessie. Just sit down, okay?"
Holding her stomach, Jessie stumbled into one of the seats in the front row. Alex turned back toward the basket. Concentrate, he told himself. It's just you and the basket. He shot the ball. It went in. Alex let out a sigh of relief.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Jessie announced.
"Charlie, take care of her."
"Take care of her? Who is she?" Charlie asked in bewilderment.
"She's -- she's a kid I'm watching for a few days."
"What do you want me to do? I don't have any kids."
"Rub her back or something."
"I'm not a cat," Jessie protested, sending them both a dark look.
"I'll be done in a few minutes, Jess, please."
Elijah bounced the ball. "Are we shooting hoops or what?"
"We're shooting hoops. And you're up."
Elijah sunk the basket. Alex stepped up and shot before Jessie could say another word. Back to Elijah, then Alex.
Jessie screamed. "It hurts, Daddy."
Charlie tried to pat Jessie's back, but she pushed his hand away and ran out to the court, throwing her arms around Alex's waist. She sobbed into his stomach, rough, garbled words that Alex couldn't understand.
"All right, Jess, I'm done," Alex said in resignation.
He watched his dreams walk away with Elijah. He'd been so close, so very, very close to having exactly what he'd always wanted. And he'd lost it. Jessie's arms tightened around his waist and she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
Daddy. He felt a rush of unexpected tenderness at the word. Even though a part of him wanted to correct her, he couldn't do it. She looked so little and lost. "It's okay, Jess. You want to go to the bathroom?"
Jessie nodded.
Alex looked over at Charlie. "Sorry, partner."
"No problem. We only lost Elijah and twelve grand. Not bad for a Saturday morning's work."
"You're always an optimist. That's what I like about you." Alex punched him on the arm as he led Jessie toward the bathrooms.
"And by the way, since when do you have a daughter?" Charlie asked after him.
Alex paused. "Since yesterday."
"That was fast."
"Tell me about it. Look, can you hang around for a while? See if you can set up another meeting with Elijah."
Charlie sent him a doubtful look. "I'll try, but I think you gave it your best shot. Too bad the kid got sick."
"Yeah, too bad." Alex glanced down at Jessie, who no longer seemed to be in pain. "Feeling better?" he asked suspiciously.
"I burped," she said with an angelic smile. "I guess it was just a bubble."
Alex looked over at Charlie. "Just a bubble. Who knew?"
"Can we go home now, Daddy?" Jessie asked, tugging on his arm.
Alex had a feeling if he said no, the mysterious stomachache would reappear. "You messed that up on purpose, didn't you, Jess?"
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "I didn't mean to mess anything up. I just felt sick and then I got scared. I'm only twelve, you know."
"Give her a break, Alex, she's just a kid," Charlie said. "So where's her mother?"
"Dead."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "And you're the long-lost father?"
"No, I'm the long-lost stand-in."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I need a private investigator."
"Pete Sloan is doing PI work now," Charlie replied, naming a mutual friend who had spent several years in the San Francisco Police Department. "He might be able to help you."
"Good idea. I'll call him when I get home."
"Alex..." Charlie stopped him one more time. "We've got a lot to do in the next few months with the upcoming trade show and the quarterly sales meeting. Not to mention we need a new warehouse location and possibly an entire new ad campaign. If you can't find her real father, maybe you better find a baby-sitter or..."
"Or what?"
"A wife."
Jessie tugged on his arm. "Daddy, I feel sick again."
Alex smiled grimly. "So do I."
Chapter Seven
Fifteen ten-year-old girls filled the lobby of the art gallery on Geary Street. After thirty minutes of being lectured to by Ben and his assistant, Isabelle Scalini, they were ready for the second half of their tour, a chance to actually paint. Ben enjoyed the school groups. He'd always felt comfortable with kids. They were so accepting of themselves, open to new ideas, to exploring life rather than just accepting it. Sometimes he wished he could go back to those trouble-free days.
He clapped his hands to get their attention, and after a moment of giggles and chatter, they quieted down.
"Is everyone ready to paint?'' he asked.
"I am. I am," they cried, raising their hands, their faces filled with enthusiasm.
"Good. First thing we do is ask you to put on the smocks that you'll find on the table over there. Then we're going to assign each of you to an easel. We're working with watercolors today and you'll have your choice between painting from our props" he waved his hand toward a bowl of fruit and also a table laid out with a lady's fan, a pair of opera glasses, and a vase with a long-stem red rose "or you can paint whatever you want. Use your imagination. Just try to remember some of the art that you've seen. Use contrasting colors. Don't be afraid to be bold. When you're done, we have refreshments."
He smiled at the accompanying cheer. "So get your smocks and have fun. We'll break in about thirty minutes."
Ben stepped aside as the two adult leaders helped the girls on with their smocks. After he gave a few more instructions, the girls got under way, and he returned to the front of the gallery to help Isabelle lock up for the evening.
"Mrs. Constantine called and said she wants to buy this seascape," Isabelle said as she took one of the paintings off the wall and set it on the counter. "She didn't even flinch at the price. And I actually raised it five hundred dollars because she seemed so eager."
Ben smiled. Isabelle knew far more about making the gallery profitable than he did. In fact, opening the gallery to children's groups had been her idea and had met with resounding success. Unfortunately, she knew far less about the actual art on display. So while she increased sales, he concentrated on developing artists to display. They made a
good team, so good, the owner of the gallery had moved to Paris and left them with free rein over the day-to-day operations.
"How are the girls doing?" Isabelle asked. "They're a lively bunch today."
"No kidding."
Her dark eyes twinkled with amusement. "I saw a couple of them giving you the look. One even asked if you were married."
Ben's muscles tightened involuntarily. Isabelle thought she was joking. Little did she know... He glanced over his shoulder toward the back room where the girls were involved with their paintings. "I meant to tell you," he began.
"Tell me what?"
"I asked Faith to marry me."
Isabelle's jaw dropped. "You did? Why?"
"Aren't you going to say congratulations?" He picked up the invoice Isabelle had set on the counter and added it into the computer, so he wouldn't have to look at her face.
"Congratulations," Isabelle said slowly.
"Thank you." He hoped that would be it.
"But, Ben, why?"
Finally he looked at her, seeing the confusion in her eyes. "Faith is a wonderful woman."
"You don't love her."
There it was -- simple, direct, honest. What else could he have expected from Isabelle? She always said exactly what she thought.
"I like her."
"You like her. So what? I like my butcher, Mr. Rogers, but I wouldn't marry him."
"Because he's got a gut the size of the Transamerica Building."
Isabelle made a face. "You know what I mean. Liking someone doesn't make them a viable life partner. Does Faith love you? I know she was crazy for Gary, but she's always treated you like a friend, a brother."
"I kissed her the other day. It was nice." Ben drummed his fingers on the counter, thinking about Faith's response. It had been a pleasant surprise, assuring him that he could do this.
"Well, that's certainly the way most men talk about their future brides."
"Look, she wants kids, so do I. Maybe it's not the greatest love affair in the world, but we're well suited. Faith is smart and kind and beautiful. I could do a lot worse."
"I've got nothing against Faith. You know that. I think she's great. But, Ben -- she's not for you."
"I'm getting older. It's time to move on, to get with the program."
"You have plenty of time to move on."
"Do I? Gary thought he had lots of time, but he's dead." Ben felt a sharp spike of pain at the memory of his brother. He wished he could talk to Gary. Gary would have understood that Porter men needed to marry and have children and raise families with pride and dignity. Of course, if Gary were still alive, Ben would hardly be contemplating marriage with Faith.
"Gary caught a bad break, but that's no reason to rush into marriage with Faith," Isabelle replied. "Does she even want to marry you?"
"She's thinking about it."
"Have you told--"
"No." Ben cut her off with a shake of his head.
Isabelle's eyes filled with understanding. "It won't be easy. You can't be happy being someone you're not."
"I can't be happy being who I am," Ben replied, knowing it was the truest statement he'd spoken all day. "My family loves Faith. This is the right thing to do."
Isabelle didn't say anything for a long moment. The only sounds came from the gallery where the girls were expressing their individuality -- something Ben had never been able to do.
"Maybe Faith will say no," Isabelle said finally. "I'm sorry, but I almost hope she does. One of you has to think rationally about this."
"There's nothing rational about love."
Isabelle sent him a pointed look. "We're not talking about love."
"Well, Faith won't say no." Despite the lack of a passionate love affair between them, Ben knew what Faith wanted more than anything -- a family. And that was one thing he could give her. It would be enough -- for both of them.
* * *
Ben had sent her flowers, not red roses, but lilacs in a small pot. He knew her so well, Faith thought, as she put the plant on her kitchen sill. He knew all her favorites, flowers, food, movies, and books. But he didn't know her -- not really.
Ben knew she collected antiques but not why -- that by filling her apartment with old, old things, she would find some connection to her past. Faith glanced over at the kitchen counter, at the old-fashioned bread box that must have once been a home for fresh bread sweated over by some mother who baked for her family every morning. And then there was the waffle iron, hopelessly outdated and awkward, but a favorite because it had come in a box with a picture of a family sitting around a Formica-topped table eating waffles with blueberries on top. No -- Ben didn't know about the waffle iron or the bread box.
Faith left the kitchen and wandered into her small living room. Her apartment was on the third floor of an old building in Noe Valley, the southern section of San Francisco. In the late afternoon the sunlight streamed through her windows and cast shadows on the photographs on the mantel.
Ben knew she liked picture frames, but he didn't know why -- that by filling her house with framed pictures of people, she felt a part of something. He didn't know that she barely knew the people in the photographs, that she could only imagine what their lives were like. No -- Ben didn't really know about the picture frames.
Faith sat down on the couch and rested her head against the back of it. She smiled to herself at the colorful array of pillows piled on each end of the couch and the blanket draped over the back.
Ben knew she liked pillows and blankets and warm woolen coats and handmade quilts, but he didn't know why -- that they kept her warm, that they took away the cold emptiness of her surroundings, that they made her feel like she was enveloped in someone's warm embrace. No -- Ben didn't really know about the pillows.
But if she married him, if she became Mrs. Benjamin Porter, she could put pictures of Ben and their children in the frames. Nancy would make a quilt for their first baby. Kim would bring in books and toys and more things to make her apartment look like a home. And Faith would have someone to share waffles and homemade bread.
It could be perfect. Everything she wanted. And Ben.
He was a good man, a caring man, a kind man.
She would say yes, Faith decided impulsively. Say yes, and forget everything else.
The relief of making a decision overwhelmed her, and Faith closed her eyes, suddenly weary. It had been a long day, up early at the bakery, then visiting with Julian... Her mind drifted to the broken pot, and her fingers began to tingle. She took a deep breath and smelled smoke, the heavy scent of pine and something else, something darker. Her thoughts began to wander. She tried to stop them. She didn't want to remember -- didn't want to hear those voices, the thundering roar of the wind.
Suddenly images began to float through her head.
Faith could see the dancing flames of a fire, hear the pounding of drums and the muttered, then passionate chanting of dozens of unseen voices. She wanted to move closer but couldn't, suddenly drawn to the shadows behind her.
Out of the darkness he came, a strong, handsome warrior, wearing nothing but a strip of cloth that hung loosely around his hips. His muscles were dark and sleek and powerful. His face was proud, his jaw strong, his light-colored eyes intense. He held out his hand to her.
She felt torn between him and the people by the fire, between the darkness and the light, between what was right and what was wrong. He reached out his hand, and a desire so overwhelmingly powerful convinced her to take it. His touch burned her fingers. The wind began to roar. She'd done something wrong, something terribly wrong. But she didn't understand. There were suddenly voices and faces and fear.
"No," she screamed, feeling the angry spirits surround her.
They wouldn't listen. They were coming for her. And she suddenly knew why. Betrayal.
Faith blinked her eyes open and sat up, her heart pounding, her hands sweaty, her chest heaving with the nightmarish daydream. She reached for the pillows on the couch and pulled
them to her. Even though the evening was warm, she grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. She was cold. She was scared. And she was alone.
What was happening to her? She'd always had an imagination. In fact, it had kept her going through the long, lonely nights of her childhood. But now her mind was traveling a different path, and she seemed to have no will to stop it. Since she'd touched the pottery, she'd felt electricity running through her, as if she were a conduit to some secret past.
But she didn't want to know their secrets. Didn't want to feel their pain. Someone had been hurt -- a man and a woman. Julian and Suzannah? Somehow she didn't think so. The pain seemed deeper, darker, older.
The doorbell rang, and she started in alarm, suddenly filled with the panicked thought that the spirits had come for her. Silly. There were no spirits, no ghosts. She took a deep breath and walked over to the door. "Who is it?" she asked.
"Ben."
She opened the door with relief, pleased to see his warm brown eyes, his friendly face. "Oh, Ben." She hugged him, and he squeezed her back.
"Does this mean your answer is yes?"
* * *
"May I come in?" Alex asked, standing at the doorway to his grandfather's bedroom.
"Yes." Julian waved him into the room, without looking up, his eyes focused on the letter in his hand.
Alex waited for a moment taking the time to look around his guest room. He had furnished it sparsely with a double bed covered by a forest green comforter that matched the green rug and the green curtains at the window. There was an oak chest of drawers in one corner and a small writing desk against the wall. A window seat brightened by the late afternoon light looked so inviting he walked over and sat down.
He rarely came into this room. And he rarely had guests. He'd always preferred his privacy. Sometimes he wondered why he'd even bought this luxury condo with its three bedrooms and large living room/dining room. It wasn't as if he needed the space. He'd just needed the look of being successful.
His gaze turned to his grandfather, whose white hair was in complete disarray. A pair of reading glasses slid halfway down his nose and his hand shook slightly as he slowly lowered the letter to the bed.
The Sweetest Thing Page 8
