Surrogate Dad Read online

  Surrogate Dad

  Marion Smith Collins

  This book is dedicated to them and to my very own personal attorney-at-law, Bob.

  I would like to thank Bruce Thomas, who took me to Road Atlanta and introduced me to the elegant world of vintage racing; and to our friend, Joe Campbell, district attorney for the Cherokee Circuit, who wouldns’t let me get away with anything unethical, even in the name of poetic license.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  The airport speaker system came to life to announce another flight delay due to strong head winds out over the Atlantic Ocean. The disembodied voice didn’t admit to the head winds, of course. A flight from Europe, one from Zambia and another from Bermuda were all delayed because of weather conditions.

  Alexandra Prescott was meeting her son David’s flight, the one from Europe, and she had been here at the Atlanta airport for over an hour. So, along with all the other people who were meeting planes, she’d had plenty of time to hear the questions, the answers and the rumors.

  Alexandra’s charcoal pencil moved rapidly over the sketch pad in her lap in an attempt to take her mind off her apprehension. At least the international concourse abounded with interesting people.

  The sketching was also an attempt to distract herself from other dark thoughts. She hadn’t needed the dateline of the morning newspaper to remind her that four years ago today her beloved husband, Daniel, had died, changing her life, and David’s, drastically and permanently.

  Gradually, as she worked, she became aware of the weight of a gaze. She raised her head, brushed a strand of sand-colored hair behind her ear and glanced around the noisy and crowded airport lounge.

  Her attention skimmed over the faces, stopped, backtracked. People shifted, moved, withdrew. She didn’t even know what had caught her eye—a subconscious recognition?

  She expected to see a smile of greeting or a curious stare, but no one seemed to be paying attention. It was not an unusual occurrence for her to be observed, even approached, when she sketched in a public place.

  She never minded being approached; she had encountered any number of interesting and colorful people that way. The children’s interest in her drawings was especially gratifying.

  But today, not being able to identify the source of the attention left her edgy. She tried to shrug off the annoying feeling and returned to her subject, a tall, elegantly robed Middle-Easterner.

  Her pencil slowed. There it was again—the itch across her shoulders that indicated someone was watching.

  The fun was gone. She stowed her pad in the large tote bag on the floor by her feet, smoothed her denim skirt and turned her thoughts deliberately to the preparations for her son’s homecoming.

  “Mrs. Prescott, isn’t it?”

  She glanced up in surprise at the older man beside her, wondering if he was the source of her unease. His face was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place him. He was dressed in designer sweats, spotless athletic shoes and his graying hair looked as if it had just been combed.

  He seemed to sense her confusion. “Paul Henderson is my name. West Chadwick introduced us.”

  West was a neighbor in the condominium complex where she and David lived. But she still didn’t—ah, well, she couldn’t be rude. “Yes, Mr. Henderson, how are you?” she said, smiling and extending her hand.

  At last it came to her. West had invited her to attend a summer party given by his law firm. This man had been there. Was Henderson a client or a lawyer? She couldn’t remember.

  “May I?” Henderson said, indicating the chair next to her. He was hesitant, but when she nodded he sat down. She became aware of his cologne, something traditional and, if she remembered correctly, very expensive.

  “Are you meeting someone?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m meeting my son. He’s been visiting his grandparents in Switzerland for the past month. And you, Mr. Henderson?”

  “No, I’m saying goodbye, a sadder task.” He spoke with all the courtliness and charm of an older generation; and she saw a glitter in his eyes. The lines in his face were deeply scored and intriguing. She wished she dared take out her sketch pad.

  At that moment, the arrival of the flight from Switzerland was announced. A surge of relief swept through her. She picked up her tote bag, hooked her arm through the straps and turned to Paul Henderson with a bright smile. “That’s my son’s flight, Mr. Henderson. Would you excuse me, please? I’m very eager to see him.”

  He stood politely. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you again, Mrs. Prescott.”

  With the relief singing through her, Alexandra allowed herself to admit that the long delay had worried her. She was aware of the statistics and realized flying was much safer than driving the interstate highways.

  Intellectually she knew this, but when her only child was on that plane, her reaction was emotional, not analytical. If anything happened to David—she broke off the unnerving thought.

  David had been gone a month, visiting her late husband’s parents in Lucerne, and she’d missed him like crazy. She’d missed his company, his quirky logic, his fourteen-year-old antics and even his unbelievable appetite.

  She’d prepared his favorite meal for his homecoming—a ghastly, fat-saturated conglomeration of tamales, chili, corn chips, cheese, hamburger and onion. She grimaced. David had an iron stomach, if questionable taste.

  She sidestepped a toddler who ricocheted between the rows of seats, stumbled when he reached open space and landed on his well-padded bottom. His mother scooped him up before he could cry, chiding him in beautiful Castilian Spanish.

  They exchanged a smile as they both approached the gate where the passengers would disembark.

  * * *

  As Alexandra pulled her station wagon into one of the assigned parking places near the entrance to their home, David became quiet for the first time since they’d left the airport.

  His mother glanced over. He was looking toward the dark green front door with the oddest expression on his face. As far as she could tell, there was nothing amiss in the scene. “Something wrong, hon?”

  “Not a thing, Mom,” he said heartily. Too heartily? “Boy, am I glad to be back.”

  “Boy, am I glad to have you back,” she mimicked. “By the way, I got four Braves tickets for the weekend, right on the first-base line. Okay? You can invite two of your friends.”

  “Great.” He snapped off the seat belt, opened his door and jumped out, flexing his slight body to its full five foot three. “I’m stiff.”

  David was a bit of a bookworm, but when he was forced into inactivity for any length of time he became like a stretched-out rubber band, drawn tight and ready to soar upon release. He had always been slight in build for his age, but she’d begun to notice a change over the summer. This time next year, she’d probably be bemoaning the fact that he was growing too fast.

  She watched with a bittersweet smile. She’d hoped the Braves tickets would be more enthusiastically received but she should have known better. He’d have been as happy with the latest book on computers.

  She touched the trunk release in the glove compartment. While David dealt with his luggage, she opened the door to the back seat and gathered up the shopping bags he’d been forced to carry onto the plane. Her in-laws always sent David home from these twice-yearly trips laden with gifts.

  Had David been a different kind of kid, Alexandra might have tactfully pr
otested their spoiling him. They would have stopped. But so far he seemed unaffected by tangible things.

  Besides, he was the Prescotts’ only grandchild, and they took a great deal of pleasure in the gift-giving. She wouldn’t deny them that pleasure, but she did occasionally wish they’d provide a few practicalities, like underwear and shoes.

  In addition to the gifts they bought for him, there were always lavish presents for her—French perfumes and lotions, Swiss chocolates, sometimes bits of delicate crystal from Austria, leather goods from Italy.

  “Gramma said to be sure you come with me next Christmas,” said David as he hefted his suitcase. “I think they have a man for you to meet.”

  Alexandra smiled. The idea of her in-laws playing matchmaker amused her. “I don’t need another man. I have you.”

  “Yeah, right.” David made a sound somewhere between a snort and a snicker. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Alexandra looked over her shoulder to the dark sedan that had just pulled into a nearby space. The condominiums in the medium-size development were clustered in groups of three. She had chosen this complex because of the privacy in each cluster. Their unit, a three-bedroom, was in the center of a U-shaped building, and was flanked by the two smaller units that faced inward. They shared the neatly manicured shrubbery, the tiny scrap of lawn, the flagstone path and broad porch with railing.

  “That’s a new neighbor. Mr. Quinton...? No, Quinlan. I understand he’s building a house and is living in the Lomads’s place until it’s finished.” The neighbors to the right were working in Africa for a year.

  Their path converged with the tall man who had gotten out of the car. “Good evening,” he said, nodding to Alexandra, glancing curiously at David.

  “Good evening.” Alexandra started to introduce her son but David spoke before she could.

  “Hi,” said David, setting down the suitcase and sticking out his hand. “I’m David Prescott. My mom says you’re our neighbor.”

  She held her breath. Lucius Quinlan was such a quiet, formal man, she wasn’t sure how he would react to David’s spontaneous friendliness.

  Lucius shifted his briefcase and shook hands with the youngster, who had a good firm grip. “Yes, I am, for now, anyway. Lucius Quinlan. How do you do, David? Have you been away?”

  “Yes, sir. I visit my grandparents every summer for a month. They live in Switzerland.”

  Lucius nodded. He looked at Alexandra’s laden arms. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, we’re fine,” she answered quickly.

  He nodded, smiled at David and reached into his pocket for his key. “Nice to meet you, David,” he said as he turned away.

  “Yes, sir. Nice to meet you, too. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  Mom? Luke Quinlan shook his head, incredulous.

  He closed the front door behind him, dropped his briefcase on a table. First a cold beer, then a shower, then he would tackle the work he’d brought home. He shed his jacket, and, with a feeling close to relief, yanked at the tie and opened the top button of his shirt.

  He took a right turn into the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator. The gorgeous woman in the adjoining town house was that kid’s mother?

  He halted on his way back to the living room. Instead, he returned to the kitchen, crossed to the bay window and looked out through a crack in the louvered shutters.

  He watched as she juggled the packages in her arms while she delved into her big shoulder bag. At last she came up with the key and handed it to the boy.

  Even under the burden of the packages, she stood straight as an arrow on those long luscious legs as she waited for David to unlock the door.

  Her bearing was one of the first things he’d noticed about her, that and those huge emerald eyes. Her back was straight and she carried her height with self-confidence. She seemed to be comfortable in her body, sure of its capabilities. He shook his head. Still, it was difficult to believe she had a son that age.

  Three weeks ago, he’d stood right here in this same spot the first morning after moving in. It had been very early—5:00 a.m.—and still very dark outside. He had just poured a cup of coffee and had gone to the window to check the weather. And stood rooted to the spot.

  He grinned to himself at the memory of the lightning-fast shadow. If he’d blinked twice, he’d have missed her. And the spectacular view.

  A tousled head of blond hair had poked cautiously through the door. She’d looked around, and, satisfied that no one was watching, had darted barefoot to the edge of the porch to retrieve the morning paper. She had worn a faded T-shirt that barely covered her butt. He’d choked on the coffee.

  Since then, it had become an interesting routine. Her sleepwear was diverse, to say the least. One day it was a football jersey; the next a granny gown. The morning she’d come outside in a purple teddy, he’d almost had a heart attack.

  A day after the first experience, she had opened her door as he was driving away. He would have been hard-pressed to recognize her. From her early-morning behavior and dress, he had assumed she was young, vivacious. Instead, she was sleekly groomed and sophisticated.

  Then there was the day he’d first heard her speak. He’d grown used to southern drawls, some drippy and sweet, some nasal and sulky. Alexandra Prescott’s was like honey—deep and elegant, feminine and sexy, and so rich it should have been listed in the Fortune 500.

  She was certainly a woman of many contrasts, he thought as he watched Alexandra and her son disappear inside. As Luke turned away, he saw their other neighbor, West Chadwick, pull into his parking space.

  Luke grimaced. It was because of West Chadwick that he’d come home with more extra work in his briefcase than usual. The two of them were working together. One of the senior partners in the law firm where they both practiced was transferring his files in preparation for retirement. Luke had an idea that the other seniors in the firm were making this a competition between West Chadwick and himself. That was fine with Luke; he didn’t mind competition.

  He watched West enter his own condo loaded down with at least as much work as Luke had brought home. The sight left him feeling satisfied.

  * * *

  David came out of his bedroom, whistling. “Something smells good,” he announced. His grin turned into a delighted laugh when he saw the dish she had taken from the oven. He reached up to kiss her cheek. “Tamale pie! Mom, you shouldn’t have,” he said expansively.

  “I know. Your arteries are clogged enough.” She carried the casserole to the small dining room table and set it on a sturdy iron trivet. David followed with two tall glasses of milk. “I decided homecoming was a special occasion. But you have to eat all the salad, too. Did you finish unpacking?”

  “Yep. And put my dirty clothes in the hamper. And stored the suitcase.” He spoke with the long-suffering tempo of youth.

  She grinned as she pushed his hair out of his eyes and gave him a quick hug. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said softly.

  “Me, too. I needed to be here, especially today.” His voice was quiet and choked. “But I think it was hard for Gramma and Grampa to say goodbye to me.”

  Neither of them had to spell out their feelings on this anniversary of Daniel’s death. “I’m sure it was.” Alexandra hugged her son again, and this time he held on tight for a long time.

  “Daddy would be very proud of you, you know,” she whispered.

  “He would be proud of you, too,” he answered. He finally pulled away, blinking rapidly, and smiled lopsidedly. “After dinner I’m going to install the new microphone Grampa gave me.”

  That was all the communication they would share for now. It was enough to know that they each had healthy memories, that they could speak of Daniel with ease. The first year or so, it had not been that easy to say his name aloud.

  “A microphone?” she asked. Daniel’s father loved electronic gadgets and he’d passed the love to David, who was as talented in tinkering as his father and grandfathe
r. She didn’t pretend to understand how those things worked, but David understood well enough. “What kind?”

  “It’s really simple. I just mount it on the wall and I can turn on my computer with my voice. It responds to sound waves.”

  He kept up the technical description when they sat down and began to eat. Alexandra let him ramble, asking a question occasionally.

  When the edge was off David’s appetite—and his emotional response under control—he took a long swallow of milk. “The casserole is terrific, Mom. Now, tell me about Mr. Quinlan.”

  Alexandra shrugged. “I don’t know much about him. He’s very quiet and very reserved. West—Mr. Chadwick—”

  “West?”

  She should have known he’d pick up on her use of West Chadwick’s first name. She looked at her son. “I went out to dinner with Mr. Chadwick a few times while you were gone. Does that bother you?”

  He dug his fork into his salad and avoided her eyes. “I don’t like him.”

  She knew that; he’d made his feelings clear, almost too clear. On occasion she’d had to warn him to keep his remarks to himself. But she wasn’t sure of the reason for his dislike—David had always been friendly and outgoing to everyone—unless it was because he thought West was attracted to her.

  She had not dated since Daniel’s death. Not only did she still feel frozen inside, but there had not been time for men. It was inevitable that David was going to feel some disillusionment when she began.

  “Honey,” she said gently, then hesitated. How to handle this? If she told him she’d been lonely while he was away, he would become protective and refuse to leave her again. On the other hand, he needed his own interests and so did she.

  Teenage boys were so complicated, she thought with a silent sigh. In the end she opted for a coward’s way out. “We just went to dinner. I have no intention of getting serious or remarrying—”

  “Well, you should remarry. You’re a young woman. I’m going off to school in four years and then you’ll be all alone.”

  Alexandra hid her surprise. They had never discussed this subject, but she’d assumed it would be a touchy one. Suddenly the light dawned. Her in-laws had a man for her to meet. They must have had a lot to say to David during his visit.