“This was the only stable home I ever knew. From the time I could remember, we were moving from place to place. First, following my father to Air Force bases, though I don’t remember that. Or him. Then, he went missing. It was a year or so before they knew he’d died. Afterward, my mother kept taking us to new places, certain each one would magically solve all her problems as she would surely find the perfect man. A man just like my father.”
“He must have been quite a man.”
Apparently unaware of the thread of bitterness in her voice when she’d spoken of her father being perfect, she shrugged in a show of indifference. “I don’t know. My memories of him are all from photographs. As for my mother, she thought he walked on water. Though from the examples of her men-picking skills I saw later, she wasn’t much of a judge.”
“But your father . . .” he prompted.
“Everyone says he was a fine man. You know I was named after him? Ken’s baby daughter Kendra. If they’d had a second child, that one probably would have been named after him, too, like the boxer George Foreman naming all his kids George.” She stowed the garbage back into the plastic sack.
“There are worse things than having a mother who loved your father. Even if . . .”
“She loved not wisely but too well? Trouble was, she made a habit of loving too well and not at all wisely.” She stared at the creek, and he suspected she was seeing it as it was two decades ago. “That’s what made coming here each summer a blessing.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“That’s what I want to know. You said it was a blessing, like maybe it wasn’t all a blessing.”
She shrugged again, as if that would be all her answer. He waited, and eventually his patience was rewarded.
“I suppose, like most blessings, it was mixed. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade those summers for anything. And later, having a place like this to come to when–” Her eyes flickered as she broke off what she’d started to say, her gaze not quite reaching him. “–when I needed it. I’m grateful for that, too. But as a kid the reality of going back to wherever Mother had landed most recently seemed all the more difficult. Another interchangeable one-bedroom apartment with a sofa bed for me in the living room in another interchangeable town with another interchangeable ‘uncle’ hanging around.”
She stood abruptly.
“We better start back.”
For an instant there, she’d sounded almost as open with her words–and with herself–as she’d been during the hurricane. Now that was gone.
“Okay.” But, once they’d mounted, he tried the lure of memories to see if it would return her to that openness. “What was it like spending summers here? What did you do?”
“We did chores and rode and explored and went swimming and helped move irrigation pipe and had cookouts. We had traditions. We slept out under the stars the last night here–no matter what the weather was. We went to the rodeo. And Marti always told us stories around the campfire, especially . . .”
“Especially what?”
“Oh, an old legend about the Susland ancestors. You probably have a slew of them about the Delligattis.”
“Can’t say I do.”
Kendra turned in the saddle to get a better look at him.
Did he think she didn’t realize what he’d been trying to do? Trying to get her to spill her guts the way she had on Santa Estella.
And she had . . . some. Despite her best intentions. Despite knowing her confidences had been given the first time only because he’d deceived her and nature had threatened them both.
But now, did he truly think he could clam up on her this way? Shut the door, turn out the light and pretend nobody was home?
Oh, no you don’t, Daniel Benton Delligatti. It’s not going to work that way. Fair is fair. And, more important, I’m going to know enough about you to answer at least some of my son’s questions when he’s old enough to ask them.
She waited until Ghost came abreast of Rusty, the horses taking the familiar ground at an easy walk.
“You said I should go ahead and ask my questions.”
“There you go, Kendra.” Once again he’d used Paulo’s pronunciation. It struck her that he used it to throw her off stride by reminding her of that other time, those other people, who’d been all too vulnerable–to nature and to each other. Or maybe to protect himself. Because he was vulnerable now?
“You said you’d answer–”
“You’re right. I did. And I will. Just telling you, you’re not going to like the answers.” His voice had a new tension. He grinned, but she didn’t buy it.
She’d intended to push him into talking about the past. She’d laid the groundwork, even bringing up some of her own past. More than she’d meant to. Now she had a right–a responsibility–to know these things for Matthew’s sake. Besides, he owed her the truth.
But she had the oddest impulse to tell him never mind. To change the subject. Steer away from the past–his past. To talk about something else, anything–
“I can’t tell you whether Matthew’s taking after me or not. I have no idea when I walked or when I talked. I have no idea who my parents were. Evidence points to them being South American. Maybe Argentines, maybe not.”
She’d learned in reporting how silence could draw out more information than even the best question. Her silence now, though, was not the result of such calculation, but of not knowing what to ask. Or perhaps of how to ask all the questions jumbling through her mind.
“First thing I remember,” his expressionless face was as unreadable as his voice, “was a woman who called herself Tia – aunt–slapping me across the face for messing up a con she was running. I learned real quick to play them her way. You could say the landmarks of my childhood were learning to beg, pick pockets and steal.”
“Daniel . . .”
Something flickered across his face, quickly subdued. His tone remained matter-of-fact. “Don’t waste any sympathy on me. I was lucky. I saw thousands like me, all trying to stay alive. A lot of them didn’t make it. We hit so many towns and cities in South America, I can’t remember which ones, or where we started.”
He paused, clearly waiting for her to respond, while she tried to absorb not only what he said but all that he hadn’t said.
“I suppose that explains how you blended in so well in Santa Estella as Taumaturgio . . . and as Paulo.”
Yes, she had to remember those aliases–two among how many? She shouldn’t get too caught up in sympathy for the boy he was describing. How did she even know that was the truth?
Because it has the ring of truth.
Okay, it had the ring of truth, but she’d already learned how with this man her skepticism, even her instinct for self-preservation could let her down.
“So you weren’t born Daniel Benton Delligatti, and the name is another–”
“It’s mine. It’s real. It’s legal.” None of the calm of a moment ago, none of the gentleness of Paulo, none of the generosity of Taumaturgio remained in those words. So where did this cold-eyed, hard-jawed presence fit in?
In a way she understood it; she’d sat across from such presences in many an interview. It was familiar and would never slip past her guard the way Paulo Ayudor had.
“So, are you going to make me ask a question for each step of the way or are you going to tell me how a South American street kid came to be an American named Daniel Delligatti working in Santa Estella as a crusader going by the name Taumaturgio.”
Her tart tone seemed to lighten the grooves around his mouth.
“I told you, I got lucky.”
“That’s all? You got lucky?”
“Damned lucky. I was adopted. Annette and Robert Delligatti. They named me Daniel Benton Delligatti.” One side of his mouth lifted in a self-mocking half grin. “At first I was irked they’d given me such a long name to memorize. It took a long time to realize it was the last one I’d have to remember.” The grin twisted. “At least
until I became Taumaturgio.”
“You were in an orphanage?” She almost cringed at the memory of the Santa Estella orphanage where Emily had been before Marti adopted her. And that had been one of the better facilities on the island.
“No, no orphanage. A market square, picking pockets. That’s where I was. And I’m sure the last thing Annette and Robert Delligatti expected to find was a kid they’d adopt. Especially a kid who ended up with Robert’s wallet.” This grin was more genuine, though still thin. “Scared the hell out of me when I flipped it open and saw the American government I.D. I was about seven by most estimates, but I knew that was trouble.
“When I felt the grip on my shoulder I thought I was dead. The policia had me, and they’re not known for their tender care of street kids. They were getting ready to take me in, when Annette objected. They took me to the consulate instead. That’s when they realized I had no family, no real name, no identity. They sent somebody to the shack where I’d been living, but Tia had seen me caught and she was long gone. Why the Delligattis didn’t ditch me, I’ll never know.”
An image of a skinny, ragged boy, a blend that bridged the gap between the man he was now and the baby Matthew was, and yet was neither of them–came into her mind and she thought she could understand very well why the Delligattis hadn’t ditched him. They’d seen the intelligence, the character, the heart . . .
She forced that image out of her head, concentrating on questions.
“So, you were adopted and had a normal family life?”
He laughed. A genuine laugh, she thought, with a tinge of underlying sadness. “I wouldn’t say that. Not if you mean a Leave It to Beaver kind of family life.”
“Wait a minute, if you spent your childhood on the streets of South America, how do you know about Leave It to Beaver?”
“You never heard of re-runs? Those old shows are in a lot of countries. Wherever the Delligattis were stationed, there’d be those old shows. That’s how I learned a lot of English. Other than the swear words I knew from the streets.”
“So you moved around a lot with your adoptive parents? Just them and you?”
“They had one son, Robert Junior, but he was in college when they picked me up. He made no secret of thinking they were crazy. Hell, they were nearly fifty, liked classical music, reading and quiet strolls in whatever country we were living in. I was a wild kid from the streets. I must have aged them several decades in those first few years. They’re good people, but I think they must have been ready to lock me up and throw away the key until . . .”
She watched him as closely as she could with the movement of the horses. Otherwise she might not have caught the mixture of intensity and calm that came into his eyes. She’d seen that look during the hurricane. When they held each other . . . he’d leaned over her, his face close, his weight pressing against her body–
She jerked her mind away from the memory, unthinkingly twitching the reins, too. Rusty sidestepped in irritation at her rudeness, and the movement brought Daniel’s attention back to her.
“Until?” she prodded abruptly.
“Until I stowed away in a plane when I was twelve.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“I was running away. I’d picked the Belgian ambassador’s pocket at a party at the Chinese Embassy in Bangkok. The ambassador wasn’t too irate–not after he got his wallet back–but the Chinese wanted to flog me, because I’d dishonored their hospitality. Robert Junior was visiting, fresh from finishing one of his litany of advanced degrees, and I overheard him saying, in his usual dispassionate way, that maybe turning me over to the Chinese would be the best thing for me. I didn’t stick around to hear their answer. I lit out. Found my way to a nearby airfield and got into the first plane I found open.”
“How on earth did your parents find you?”
“They didn’t. The plane took off. I was lucky they didn’t lock the hold area, because it got real cold. I went up front–it was like I couldn’t help myself. I’d been in big jets when we moved to a new posting. but never anything like this, where you could feel the flying. Where there was no past, no future. Just now. Just you and the plane and the sky.”
He’d been staring off to a patch of sky over the next rise. He glanced at her, then away, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug.
“Anyway–” The faintly self-mocking tone was back. “–I had to see what was making this thing fly and find out what was out the cockpit window. I was lucky there, too. The pilot wasn’t a drug runner and he didn’t have a heart attack when I popped up. Turns out he’d flown in World War II as a kid. Joe was an Australian, and he knew more about flying than any hundred pilots I’ve met since. And he showed me. He showed me.” Daniel shook his head in remembered wonderment. The gesture stood out starkly as his first completely unguarded moment since he’d started talking.
“It was like . . . being given the sky, but not having to give up the earth. I never lived until I learned to fly.”
A chill crossed Kendra’s shoulders.
She could hear her mother’s soft, wistful voice, If he hadn’t loved flying more than me, he’d still be here.
Just like her father, Daniel Delligatti would probably keep flying until he didn’t come back one day. But she wasn’t her mother. She would never let herself rely so much on a man, let him count so much in her life that she’d fall apart if he didn’t come back.
Never.
“He started showing me things right off, and I knew flying was what I was meant to do. By the time we got back to the local airport, I was ready to sell my soul to the devil if it meant I could fly.” His mouth quirked. “It wasn’t quite that bad–but I did have to toe the line–no flying if I didn’t have decent grades. Besides, math helped with navigation. And geography–”
Kendra suddenly didn’t want to hear any more about his flying.
“C’mon, let’s ride.” Without waiting for an answer, she tapped Rusty’s sides, and he responded immediately. As she’d known he would, Ghost lumbered along behind, trying to keep up with Rusty’s light canter.
Daniel didn’t fall off.
She wasn’t sure if she’d expected him to, but it wouldn’t have surprised her, either. The canter was not Ghost’s smoothest gait, unlike most horses. Ghost was steady-footed at a walk, like a truck with bad shock absorbers in a trot and the same thing but with a hair’s-breadth worth of speed added in a canter.
She reined in Rusty for the last uphill.
Daniel was no Grand Prix rider, but he wasn’t even holding the saddlehorn. His toughly muscled thighs had a firm grip around the horse and he’d lowered his torso near to Ghost’s neck, cutting the wind resistance.
Ghost did an even better job of cutting that wind resistance by dropping back to a walk as soon as he’d caught up with Rusty.
“Does this egg beater have a faster gear?”
She tried to stifle a chuckle, only half succeeding. She should have known he’d want speed. “You mean forward or up and down?”
He groaned. “I think I’ve had enough of the up and down. Okay, I’ve gone riding with you. Now it’s only fair–come flying with me. I guarantee you won’t be as sore as I’m going to be. There’s a little strip I found, and I can borrow a plane again–”
“You’ve been flying? Here?” Her chuckle dried up.
“This morning. Met a great guy out there. He had knee surgery so he can’t take his planes up and he’s feeling grounded. After we talked a while, he had me take him up. He says I’m welcome to fly them any time.” His eyes lightened with pleasure. “The air here is so crisp and dry, I really had a good feel for the machine. In Santa Estella the humidity made it like flying through Jell-O. We could go up tomorrow–”
“No.”
It was emphatic enough to halt his stream of enthusiasm. “Are you afraid of flying?”
“No. I have no trouble flying. I’ve flown a lot.”
The look he slanted at her resembled a doctor checking a diagnosis. “Jets?�
�
“Yes,” she said defensively. “And smaller planes.”
“Commuter flights,” he said in resignation.
“Yes, commuter flights. They’re not exactly double decker jumbo jets with a full movie screen, you know.”
“Well, that’s something.” He sighed, then grinned. “But all jets can do is go fast and faster. Now, in small planes–you and a passenger or two or three–you can see all the details of the earth, but you’re above it. Close enough to observe the constraints of the world, but not bound by them.”
And now she understood, with a chill that sank into her bones.
It wasn’t speed he craved, but freedom and danger.
And no matter how much he said he wanted to stay, he’d keep chasing freedom by flying away, until someday, he would stop coming back. Whether because he didn’t want to come back or because he couldn’t–to a little boy like Matthew which reason wouldn’t make much difference.
She slid from the saddle, and took Rusty’s reins.
“We need to walk the horses. Cool them down.”
“Okay. But how about flying? Maybe–”
“No. I said no.”
He studied her. “I can show you testimonials to my flying.” He held his hand up like a boy scout. “No stunts, I promise.”
“No thanks. I don’t take unnecessary risks.” She spun on him, unable to stop the words. “And you shouldn’t. Not if you intend to be in Matthew’s life. I don’t want my son to have a father who doesn’t come back–no matter how noble the cause. I know how that feels.”
Before he could answer, she walked ahead, putting space and two horses between them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
This time when the phone rang shortly after seven in the morning, Daniel wasn’t surprised to hear the voice at the other end.
“Daniel? This is Robert. Your brother.”
“Hello, Robert. Everything okay?”
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