Joan Kilby - Child of Their Vows

She had a bad feeling in her gut about Randall, and she didn’t think it was just because she was jealous of Lanni. Her and Max’s marriage had been on shaky ground for more than a year. If Max let this boy into their lives, he would turn them all upside down. He might somehow take Max away from her and the girls.

They got home late; the kids were in bed and Nancy was watching TV in the family room. Hiding her tear-stained face from the surprised teenager, Kelly went straight to the bedroom while Max made up some excuse for their early return. She heard the front door shut, and a few minutes later Max came into the room. He had a piece of folded foolscap in his hand. The letter.

“Would you like to read it?” he asked.

“No.”

He held out a photograph and tried to show her. “He looks like a nice kid.”

“I don’t want to see.” She pushed him away, then grabbed his arm. “Oh, give it here.”

Thoughts of DNA testing to prove paternity dissolved as she gazed at a younger version of Max. Randall’s eyes, the angle of his jaw, the slight tilt of his head were all pure Max, even if the boy’s coloring was not. Kelly’s head began to throb. She hadn’t wanted the kid to be real to her and now he was. “Let me see the letter.”

Reading Randall’s words compounded her mistake. She felt a physical ache in her heart from empathizing with the boy. No, she thought, deliberately shutting down her feelings. She could never feel anything warmer than dislike for Max’s son by another woman.

“He’s got a good home, with loving adoptive parents,” she said callously, thrusting the letter aside. “He doesn’t need you.”

“Maybe not,” Max agreed tightly. “Maybe I need him.”

Kelly closed her eyes on a sharp stab of pain, unable to speak.

“He wants to meet me,” Max went on. “I’d like to meet him, too.”

Opening her eyes, she reached for his arm. “Don’t go, Max,” she pleaded. “For the girls’ sake if not for mine. You can’t undo the past, but to some extent you can choose your future.”

“I want to meet him,” he repeated. “Kelly, he’s my son.”

“I…I’m not sure I can go on living with you if you contact that boy.” She knew she sounded melodramatic, but she was desperate.

“I can’t live with my conscience if I don’t contact him.” Max slipped the photo back into the envelope and spoke with a new determination. “Randall’s part of me, Kel. You can’t just ignore him, and I won’t. I’m going to Wyoming. I’m going to see my son.”

MAX’S LAST THOUGHT before his finger touched the doorbell of Randall’s house in Jackson two weeks later was, Am I doing the right thing? Then the chimes sounded, and whether or not coming here against Kelly’s wishes was right, the point became moot. He could hardly run away, or pretend to be a door-to-door salesman. Besides, now that he knew of Randall’s existence, nothing would stop him from meeting his son.

Yet he wondered at the wheelchair ramp that paralleled the steps to the front door. The photo of Randall had been head and shoulders only. Could he be handicapped?

Max heard footsteps inside the house and wiped his palms against his slacks; he hadn’t expected to feel so nervous. Would the boy like him? Would he blame him for the past? Could Max bear to find a son and not keep him? Would Kelly forgive him if he did?

The door opened. The boy in the photograph, standing firmly on two feet, stared back at him through clunky glasses. His pressed cotton shirt was buttoned up to the collar and his gabardine pants held a perfect crease. Randall turned a fiery red that clashed with his carroty hair and stammered a greeting. “H-hello. Are you…?”

“I’m Max. Hi, Randall.” Max reached for his son’s hand. The contact almost undid him; suddenly his throat was thick and his eyes moist. He coughed, Randall shuffled his feet, and their hands fell apart.

“Come in and meet my parents,” Randall said. “They’re in the living room.”

Randall’s parents had insisted on meeting him, and Max couldn’t blame them—for all they knew, he could be an ax murderer or a pedophile. But he hoped he and Randall would have some time alone; they’d need it if they were going to get past this awkward phase. Patience. He’d waited thirteen years for a son; he could wait a little longer.

He followed Randall into a room furnished with spare Scandinavian designs and a wall of books. A telescope on a tripod stood before a picture window looking across the broad valley known as Jackson Hole to the Grand Teton mountains. A baby grand piano dominated one corner, while precisely executed oil paintings of mountains and lakes lined the walls. The atmosphere was one of intellect and good taste, but to Max, used to the controlled chaos of life with four young children, the room seemed strangely sterile.

Mr. Tipton, dressed in a maroon cardigan and tie, rose as they entered and ran a hand sideways over his thinning pate, smoothing the sparse gray hairs into place. “Hello. I’m Marcus Tipton. This is my wife, Audrey.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Max said, extending his hand. “Are you the artist?” he asked Audrey, gesturing to the paintings.

“Clever of you to guess.” Audrey smiled warmly up at Max from her wheelchair. She had on black slacks and an ivory twin set, and wore her smooth gray hair in a chin-length bob. “I’ll get coffee. How do you take it, Mr. Walker?”

“Please, call me Max. Cream, no sugar. Thanks.”

Max settled onto the couch catercorner to the chair in which Randall sat, hands folded on his knees, and let his mind run over his first impressions. Audrey was in a wheelchair, and Marcus Tipton had to be well over fifty; how did they keep up with an active teenage boy? Although judging from Randall’s quiet demeanor that might not be a problem. No unrestrained bursts of youthful energy here.

Obviously, they’d managed perfectly well. Max was surprised and not very happy with his critical assumptions, and his protectiveness of a boy he hadn’t raised. He had no rights here, he reminded himself, only privileges.

“Did you have a good flight?” Randall inquired politely. The question had the air of being rehearsed.

“Fine, thank you. I had a window seat and got a good view of Jackson as we landed. I’d forgotten how beautiful the country is around here.”

Silence followed, awkward and begging to be filled. “Do you play any sports, Randall?”

“I played soccer when I was nine, but it was pretty wet and muddy and…” He glanced at his father, then at his hands. “I just didn’t care for it.”

“I see.” Meaning he didn’t see at all.

“Randall is more interested in intellectual pursuits,” Marcus interjected. “Piano, the chess club, debating society, art…”

“Very commendable. You must be very proud of him.”

Marcus smiled genially. “We are, indeed. He’s never been anything but a credit to us. Top in his class, well respected by teachers and fellow students alike.”

But did he have fun? Max wondered, then reproached himself for nitpicking. If any of his daughters achieved that kind of academic success he would be ecstatic.

He found himself looking for similarities between him and Randall. The boy had his build, tall and lean, and his long, tapered fingers. But Max’s love of sport and his easy athleticism seemed to be missing from his son. Hell, he thought, the ability to sink a basketball wasn’t exactly a genetic trait.

He turned to Marcus. “Do you have any other children?”

The older man shook his head. “Audrey and I weren’t able to have children of our own. We planned to adopt more after Randall, but when Audrey lost the use of her legs in a car accident we decided against it.”