Joan Kilby - Spencer's Child

The elegant white three-story house came into view, afternoon sun glinting off the mullioned windows. Meg pulled up in front of the portico and got out She glanced at the conservatory but couldn’t see her mother’s slim figure moving among the plants.

Daddy was home, though, practicing his putting on the side lawn, his salt-and-pepper head bent in concentration. Meg waited till he’d made his shot, then called out. Roger McKenzie’s handsome face broke into a smile. Dropping his golf club into the bag, he strode across the lawn to envelop her in a hug. “Meggie! How’s my little girl?”

“Twenty-eight and all grown up,” Meg teased as she hugged him back.

Roger glanced hopefully at the car. “Is Davis with you?”

“No. I just came from the university.” Dam, why did she go and open that line of conversation?

“Have they found you a new supervisor yet?”

“Yes. An expert on killer whales from Monterey.” Daddy would have to know sometime that Spencer was back, but right now she didn’t have the time or the emotional energy to discuss it. The fact that Spencer didn’t even know he was a father had never absolved him of guilt in Roger’s eyes. “We’re going kayaking on the weekend to locate the group of killer whales I’m going to work on,” she went on. “I came to see if my kayak still floats.”

“Andrew used it a few times over the summer. I said he could. Didn’t think you’d mind. He said he replaced the ‘spray skirt’ because the neoprene rubber had deteriorated in spots.”

“That’s great. There’s nothing worse than getting soaked from the waist down because a leaky spray skirt lets water into the cockpit. Let’s go have a look.”

They went in through the open section of the fourcar garage. In the far slot sat Roger’s restored Model-A Ford next to his silver 500 SEL Mercedes. Helen’s smaller, cream-colored Mercedes was absent. The rest of the garage was given over to sporting equipment—skis and tennis rackets, snowboards and sailboards, golf clubs and archery sets.

Meg’s single-seater Orca kayak had been taken down from the overhead beams and was propped on wooden blocks at the back of the garage. She ran a hand down the shiny red fiberglass hull, then lifted the new spray skirt to inspect it. “Looks okay.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Roger said. “You know how finicky your brother is.”

“I’ll be sure to call and thank him for using my stuff,” Meg replied with a grin, and walked to the stern to test the rudder movement. “Where’s Mother?”

Roger’s voice became deliberately casual. “She’s looking after Cassie and Tristan a couple of afternoons a week. Maybe you haven’t heard—Anne’s gone back to work, part-time.”

Cassie and Tristan were Meg’s niece and baby nephew. Meg bit her lip, hoping the physical pain would override the inner pain. It wasn’t that she wanted to use her mother as a baby-sitting service, but never once had Helen offered to look after Davis. The few times Meg had asked, Helen had always been too busy. Finally Meg had stopped asking. Helen sent expensive and inappropriate gifts for Davis’s birthday and at Christmas, but Meg could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d gone out of her way to see her grandson.

“I’d better go,” she said. “I’ve got to pick up Davis at day care. He hates it when I’m late.”

“Is he excited about starting school?” Roger asked as he walked her back to her car.

“One minute he can’t wait and the next he’s not so sure.” Meg opened her door. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you be able to look after him on Saturday while I’m kayaking?”

“Sure! He can caddy for me.” Roger put his arm around her. “We don’t see enough of him, darling.”

Meg gripped her father’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “You know Mother and I can’t be in the same room for more than ten minutes without fighting.”

“Your mother is just proud and stubborn—like her daughter. She does love you, Meggie.”

Funny kind of love. “Bye, Dad,” she said, giving him another hug. “I’ll see you Saturday morning. Early.”

It wasn’t until she’d turned her car out of the driveway and onto the road that she remembered Spencer would be picking her up at her parents’ house at roughly the same time she’d be dropping Davis off. She had to decide fast what, if anything, she was going to tell Spencer about his son.

CHAPTER THREE

SPENCER SPOTTED the dusty Econoline van in the driveway and grinned. Ray was back.

He parked and ran up the steps, his jacket slung over his shoulder. The afternoon had warmed up and the front door was open to let in the sunshine. Through it came smells of cooking and the brassy sound of a blues band.

Spencer climbed onto the porch steps. He could see his dad moving around in the kitchen dressed in black leather pants and a dark blue shirt. He was singing along with the music, and when he stopped to play a riff on an air guitar, his body vibrated right up to his graying ponytail.

“Ray!” Spencer pushed through the screen door and dropped his jacket on the couch on his way into the kitchen.

“Spence, my man!” Ray came around the counter, arms extended, ebullient as ever. “Is this a coincidence or what?”

Spencer met his dad in a back-slapping embrace. “Sooner or later we had to land here at the same time. Sorry I missed you this morning.”

“I ran into an old buddy of mine in Victoria last night. We tied one on and I spent the night on his couch. When I got back to the cottage this afternoon and saw your note, I went right out and got us some grub and a bottle of Kentucky’s finest.” Ray moved back into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll pour you one.”

“Great.” Spencer walked over to the fridge and took a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. He dropped them into a glass and Ray sloshed in a healthy shot of Jack Daniel’s. “How long has it been since ’Frisco? Two years? Three?”

“Four, I think.” Ray grinned, his black eyes crinkling, and added more bourbon to his glass. “It’s a good thing we meet occasionally by chance.”

They raised their drinks, glasses clinking. The bourbon hit Spencer’s empty stomach like a fireball. The spreading warmth blended with the gutsy music and his father’s positive vibes. Let the good times roll.

“So when did you get into town?” Spencer asked, leaning against the counter.

“Coupla weeks ago.” Ray set his glass down to wrap a potato in tin foil. He did another one and tossed them in the oven. “What brings you up north? I thought you never stayed in the same place twice.”

“Not if I can help it. I’m teaching up at the university.”

“Coming back to your old haunts and teaching, which I know you don’t like as much as research. You’re changing, Spence. Here’s to it.” He lifted his glass.

Spencer shook his head. “Just doing a favor for my old prof is all.”

“Adults go through stages same as kids,” Ray said. “Some changes are harder than others.”

Spencer laughed. “Come off it, Ray, you haven’t changed a bit.” He opened the fridge door and peered in. The shelves, bare this morning, were now full. “What are you making? I’m starving.”

“The finest New York steaks money can buy. Outside New York, that is. I was there, let’s see, two years ago. Had a few gigs lined up, so off we went.” He brushed his palms together, one hand sweeping off in a curving arc. “What a life.”

“I attended a conference in New York last April,” Spencer said, grabbing an apple from the bottom rack.

“Crazy town. I love it.” Ray unwrapped the steaks from the butcher’s paper. “Did you get to any clubs?”

“One or two. Heard a few old tunes by my namesake.” He crunched into crisp green skin. “I like their style of bluesy rock and roll, but do you know how hard it is to go through life as Spencer Davis Valiella? People either think it sounds affected or that Davis Valiella should be hyphenated.” Grimacing, he recalled his encounter with Ashton-Whyte. “I don’t care for hyphenated names.”