Surrogate Dad Read online

  “I want you to date, Mom. I just don’t think Mr. Chadwick is the man for you. He’s too...too slick, too smooth.” David forked another bite of salad into his mouth and chewed contentedly.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He swallowed and waved his fork, dismissing West. “You were telling me about Mr. Quinlan.”

  Alexandra shook her head, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation. “He and Mr. Chadwick are friends and practice law together at the same downtown firm,” she said. “That’s how Mr. Quinlan knew the condo was available on a temporary basis.” She poured cream into her coffee and stirred absently. “David—”

  “Mr. Quinlan had a gleam in his eye when he looked at you, Mom. I think he likes you.” He grinned with a pseudosophisticated look in his eyes.

  If she was surprised before, she was stunned now. A hoot of laughter escaped and she tried to disguise it with a cough. She put her napkin to her mouth.

  An image of Lucius Quinlan rose in her mind. Horn-rimmed glasses, wing-tipped shoes, dark, conservative suits and a very serious demeanor. “A gleam in his eye? Honey, Mr. Quinlan is a very nice man, but he’s very quiet, very formal. I seriously doubt anything as frivolous as a gleam would appear in his eye.”

  David shook his head, smiling patiently as though she didn’t know what she was talking about. “I don’t think he’s so bad. At least he’s not slick.”

  She had to agree with him there. Lucius Quinlan was definitely not slick. And he wasn’t really bad-looking, or wouldn’t be if he’d just loosen up a bit.

  Controlled was a word she associated with him. He was...rigid. He rarely smiled and even when he did, it was a controlled smile. He was tall, but it was hard to judge his body type under the Brooks Brothers sack suits he wore. And his glasses had such heavy frames that his eyes were practically invisible.

  However, there was something about the man that made her wary, something about him that didn’t quite ring true. She forced her thoughts away from Lucius Quinlan.

  “Dessert?” she asked brightly as she rose with her plate in her hand.

  “I’m not through with my salad yet,” David said, looking puzzled.

  During the rest of the meal, Alexandra deliberately kept the conversation and her questions on his grandparents and his visit. As soon as they’d finished, he went to his room to tinker.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Alexandra was propped up against her pillows, making a list of all the things that had to be done to get her son ready for the new school year.

  She’d urged David to go to bed soon after dinner in an attempt to get his system adjusted to the change in time zones. He’d gone, but she could still hear the rhythm of drumbeats from his stereo.

  She was half listening to the eleven o’clock news, coming from the small television set in the corner. And thinking about her son’s observations of Lucius Quinlan.

  She laughed under her breath. A gleam in his eye? That stuffy man? Never. She shrugged away the thought and returned to compiling her list.

  Shoes were first on it. She hoped, without much confidence, that he wouldn’t want those hundred-dollar jobs all his friends were wearing, but this was his first year of high school—a milestone.... She tapped the pencil against her lip and stared at the flickering tube. Maybe she could find a discount outlet.

  Suddenly her gaze narrowed on the set. She gasped and grabbed the remote control. She fumbled to increase the volume, sending it blasting through the room before she finally got it under control.

  “My God,” she breathed.

  “Captain Brigadol’s body was found in the parking lot reserved for airport employees,” said the reporter. “Police suspect the murder is a possible link to a smuggling operation they have been investigating.”

  “My God,” she exclaimed. She threw back the covers and leapt across the floor to where she’d dropped her purse. She picked it up and extracted her sketch pad. The sketch of the man was near the front of the book, one of the first she’d done that afternoon.

  She stared at the handsome face, the tailored uniform, feeling sick. A few hours ago he had been alive. No, more than alive, she thought as she looked at his compelling smile. A few hours ago she had seen him, sketched him. Suddenly, she was horrified at the realization of how quickly a life could be snuffed out.

  “Mom? What’s going on? I thought I heard you yell.”

  She stared at her son.

  “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, I’m all right. It was just on the news. A man I saw today while I was waiting for your plane—he was murdered.”

  He climbed onto the bed and hugged her. The clumsily protective gesture made her smile, but she appreciated the effort. “Gee, Mom. That’s awful. Did you know him?” He gestured to the sketch pad in her lap. “Is that his picture?”

  “No, I didn’t know him. I was just drawing people in the crowd while I waited for your plane.”

  Horror stories on the nightly news had become commonplace, statistics that were horrifying to her but rarely within personal reach. She feared becoming desensitized like a lot of other Americans. Even worse, she feared her son’s becoming desensitized.

  But this man, this pilot’s face was one she would never forget. She felt connected to him, if only through her drawing. For a brief moment in time their paths had crossed, and now he was dead.

  David’s expression was worried. She touched his hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m fine, David. Really, I am. Go back to bed.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay.” He left. And she noted automatically that he was outgrowing his pajamas, too, that they would have to be added to the list.

  She leafed through the other drawings in her book. She had drawn the sailor and the salesman, the priest and the spinster, the harried mother and the haute couture model.

  Children especially delighted her. Their grubby fingers and tousled hair, the gaps in their grins, and best of all, the open, frank way they had of studying the people around them. Their faces were easy and amusing to draw.

  The images progressed from her keen eye to a recognizable likeness on the page with a minimum number of lines. Indeed, the people she sketched were identifiable more by attitude and bearing and some small, original characteristic that made them unique, than by a realistic portrayal of any one face.

  Alexandra didn’t think of herself as an artist; she was a caricaturist. And she did it very well.

  Daniel’s death in a plane crash had altered overnight what was to have been a comfortable, if predictable, suburban life, altered it to a solitary struggle.

  The grief had been staggering, the first months a nightmare. She’d had to learn to function totally alone, while at the same time fighting to keep the despair and disruption of her son’s life to a minimum.

  She’d won some of the battles and lost some, she decided. Daniel would have had suggestions for improvement, of course, but he wouldn’t have been profoundly disappointed in her.

  She returned to the picture of the pilot. I’m so sorry, she said to the man, touching his smiling image with her fingertips. She would find out if he was married and had children. If so, maybe his family would like to have the drawing.

  Smuggling, the newscaster had said. Did he mean the pilot had been suspected of smuggling? She briefly considered calling the police.

  What for? What would she say? She’d drawn a picture of the man they’d found murdered this afternoon? They’d think she was certifiable.

  Chapter 2

  Friday morning, Alexandra was washing dishes when she heard David talking animatedly to someone outside on the porch. Curious, she picked up a towel to dry her hands and went to the window.

  It was Lucius Quinlan. Dressed for work in his customary dark suit and conservative tie, he stood, briefcase in one hand, keys in the other, listening to David. From this angle, and in contra
st to David, Lucius appeared much taller than she’d thought he was.

  As she watched, he tossed the keys and caught them several times. The activity might have been a sign of impatience, she couldn’t tell, but she stood ready to intervene.

  Finally, he nodded and said something that brought color and an embarrassed grin to David’s face. Then he headed down the flagstone path toward his car. He raised his hand in casual salute to the boy as he drove off.

  David waved back, seemingly unconcerned, then stood looking after the car until it rounded the bend and disappeared. The set of his shoulders seemed tight, somehow almost defensive.

  Alexandra snapped the towel over her shoulder. On impulse she knocked on the window. If that man had said something to hurt or embarrass David, she would give him a piece of her mind.

  David hesitated for a heartbeat. Then he turned, grinning, and gave her a thumbs-up. She felt her tension ease.

  * * *

  The Braves won. The game was a high-scoring, hit-and-run, four-pitcher, screamingly wild rout. They were on their feet almost as much as they were in their seats.

  It was exactly what Alexandra had needed to chase away a blue mood. Her sadness at the news of the pilot’s death had lingered for the past two days. She had not been able to get the man’s face out of her mind.

  When she, David and his two friends had arrived at their seats in the stadium, David’s friend Bill had come out with one of those silly, teenage kinds of questions. “Those seats are great, Mrs. Prescott. Who did you have to kill to get us right behind the dugout?”

  At any other time, the comment would not have even registered. But at his words, the pilot’s features had floated across her vision. She had attempted to shrug off the boy’s comment. “One of the players’ wives, who bought a sketch of mine at Christmas, called the art shop last week, Bill,” she said. “She wanted a present for her husband’s birthday. We swapped.”

  “Mr. Quinlan told me this morning that this series is sold out,” David said importantly. “He tried to get tickets, too, but he couldn’t. He said I was lucky to have such a resourceful mother.”

  So that was what the conversation had been about. “And don’t you forget it, buddy.” She tugged affectionately at the bill of his Braves cap. She wore one, as well. He’d insisted that she get one for herself, too, when she’d stopped outside the stadium to buy hats for all three boys. He’d given her a very adult grin when she’d put it on. “Lookin’ good, Mom.”

  She dropped the boys at their homes and was assured that she had their undying gratitude. “If you ever need anything, Mrs. Prescott, I’m your man,” said Eddie, a freckle-faced urchin with eyes like dark chocolate. “Anything.”

  “Thank you, Eddie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Why don’t we stop for dogs at the Varsity?” David asked when they were alone. “We could take them home and save you from having to cook supper.” The sun was gone but darkness hadn’t yet settled on the city. The heat was still heavy in the air.

  “How thoughtful of you to suggest it,” she answered with a wry chuckle. The Varsity drive-in, near the Georgia Tech campus, had a colorful history and a reputation for the best chili dogs in the country.

  She glanced at him, noting that his nose and cheeks were red. She felt a twinge of guilt because she hadn’t thought to bring sunscreen. A smear of catsup on his wrinkled T-shirt bore witness to the hamburger he’d had at the game. She should insist on vegetables for dinner, but he’d told her more than once that she had to stop treating him like a kid.

  Sometimes she feared her own inadequacy. She tried hard to be a good mother, to see that David had the right kinds of foods, to keep close tabs on his schoolwork, to include his friends in their lives. As he matured, she had been careful to give him more freedom. So far, he had abided by the responsibility that went along with it.

  Unfortunately, her purchase of the caps hadn’t kept the sun off any of their faces. She could feel the sting of her own skin and wondered if her nose was as red as David’s.

  Ah, well, the damage will not be permanent and I am not going to worry about it today. Today is for fun.

  She sighed. “Okay, the Varsity it is.”

  When school started, their free time would be sharply curbed, defined by David’s homework and school activities and her own erratic schedule. Occasionally she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off going to a job with regular nine-to-five hours.

  Sometimes she had days, even weeks without a major sale. Then she would receive a special order and have to work nonstop until it was filled. She loved the way she worked but it wasn’t routine. And, though she was coping, it certainly wasn’t financially secure, either.

  Recently she’d been approached by a local ad agency to go to work for them full-time. The job would mean predictable hours. She preferred drawing spontaneously. But maybe she should try it.

  * * *

  The mouth-watering smell of chili dogs and french fries filled the car. Alexandra braked to let a dark van turn left out of the complex before she drove through the gates. She continued around the well-lighted ellipse to park in front of their building.

  “I’ll get the food—you unlock the door,” David offered.

  “Okay.” She unlocked the door. Leaving the key ring dangling, she reached inside to flip the light switch, and stood back to let David precede her. She paused to retrieve her keys.

  “Uh, Mom...” David had stopped just over the threshold in the small entrance hall. The two bags with their distinctive red-and-gold Varsity logo dropped at his feet.

  “David, be careful,” she scolded. “You’ll spill...” Her voice trailed off as she saw what had prompted his mishap. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  The room beyond was a wreck. Chairs overturned, picture frames lying in pools of broken glass, empty spaces in the bookshelves where television and stereo had been.

  David started to move forward.

  “No!” Alexandra grabbed his shirt and began to back up. “Come on,” she whispered.

  “But my room. I have to—” David began in a normal voice.

  She shushed him as she pulled him out and closed the door behind them. “Someone may still be inside.”

  “Mom, if anyone were there, they would have heard us by now.”

  Nonetheless, she kept a hold on her son as she headed for West Chadwick’s condo. The lights were on; she rang the bell. Hurry, hurry, she chanted silently to herself, watching over her shoulder, ready to scream bloody murder, if necessary.

  West opened the door, dressed in shorts, a towel slung around his neck. “Alexandra. What a pleasant surprise. Hello, David.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Alexandra pulled her son through the door and slammed it behind her. “Call the police!”

  “What?”

  “Call the police!” she demanded, her voice rising. She realized her body was shaking. “I’ve been robbed. The condo—”

  David stepped in at that moment. “We just got home,” he told West calmly. “Someone has trashed our place. May we use your phone?”

  Her son was more composed than she was, thought Alexandra. “Yes, yes. Please.” Her hands fluttered uselessly through the air.

  West had not waited to hear more. He was already at the phone, punching in 911. He gave the operator the details. “Have a seat,” he said to the two of them when he’d hung up. “I’ll get dressed.”

  They waited in the living room. Alexandra’s fears had calmed and the inevitable concerns were beginning to crowd her mind. How had the thieves gotten past the guard at the entrance to the complex? And how had they gotten inside her condo? The door had still been locked.

  She sat gingerly on the edge of a chair while David roamed around the room. Beyond the hallway, a sliver of another room, intended as a den or a second bedroom, was visible. In their condo, the room served as a studio for Alexandra, but West had set it up as a weight room.

  “He’s a bodybuilder.” David said th
e words with a tinge of scorn.

  “An exercise freak,” West corrected as he joined them, buttoning his shirt. He viewed David with a lifted eyebrow but didn’t comment on the sarcasm. “Sitting behind a desk all day rusts the joints. You’re welcome to try out the equipment sometime, David.”

  The boy turned away. “No, thanks,” he muttered.

  His voice bordered on insolence. Alexandra opened her mouth to berate him for his manners when suddenly the sound of sirens reached their ears. She settled for a glare and they all went outside to meet the police.

  And Lucius Quinlan. He burst through his door, looking ready to do battle. He still wore his suit trousers and dress shirt. But his tie was missing, his shirt open at the collar, his sleeves turned back. In the light from the revolving blue bubble atop the police car, which reflected from the lenses of his glasses, he looked dangerous. “What’s going on?”

  David headed across the porch and answered for them. “Hey, Mr. Quinlan, guess what? Someone broke in while Mom and me were at the ball game.” He joined the first policeman who had hurried up. “Mister, I need to check on my room. I’ve got some important stuff in there!”

  “Stand back, son.” The man hadn’t drawn his gun, but he looked ready to.

  Alexandra caught David’s arm. “We will check everything, David. As soon as the police say it’s all right.”

  He turned back to Luke. “Our place is really trashed. You should see—”

  “David!” Alexandra remonstrated. She realized that he was beginning to relish this situation with too much adolescent glee.

  Two more uniformed officers had arrived; they approached her. Another patrol car pulled in. A couple of neighbors, out for a walk, wandered over.

  The porch seemed crowded, too crowded. The whirling blue lights distorted faces, turning them into unearthly masks. Alexandra had trouble getting her breath. Despite the late-summer weather, she suddenly felt chilled.