Danielle Steel - Daddy

“How do you like the book?” she asked once as they pulled into another station.

“Not bad.” It was the hit of the summer, and he liked it, although he usually preferred not to read fiction. But Daphne had given it to him and insisted that he would enjoy it. “Is that your manuscript you're working on?” He was curious about her, and she laughed, shaking her head, and for an instant she seemed a little older. She was actually thirty years old, but her natural good looks reminded him of some of Mel's friends. She had a deep, friendly voice, and intelligent eyes, as she explained what she was reading and why.

“I'm an editor, and we published the book you're reading. That's why I asked if you like it. Do you live out here?” She was curious about him, but she seemed interested in everyone. She was open and easy, and he noticed in her summer dress that she had very pretty arms and shoulders.

“I used to live out here. I live in the city now. Most of the time anyway.”

Ah, she decided for herself. A weekend father. “Visiting your kids?”

He shook his head, amused by her straightforward questions. “No. My father.”

“Me too.” She smiled. “He and his wife just had a baby.” She explained that he was sixty-three years old, and married for the third time. Her mother had remarried too, and was living in London.

“Sounds like an interesting family.”

“It is.” She grinned. “His wife is four years younger than I am. Daddy's never been one to waste time.” She didn't tell him that her mother was married to Lord Bronson, and the talk of Europe with their castles and country homes, and glamorous parties. She had wanted to get away from all that, and had gone to work in New York, like the rest of the world. She had no great fondness for the jet-set life of her parents. “And what do you do?”

He suddenly laughed at her. She was a funny girl. Funny and open and nice and extremely attractive. “I'm in advertising.” She wondered then if he was married, but she didn't ask him.

“So's my dad.” She seemed amused. “Robert Town-send, maybe you know him.”

So that was who she was. Townsend was one of the most important men in the business. “I've met him. I can't say I really know him.” And then, he decided to introduce himself to her. “I'm Oliver Watson.”

She shook his hand with a firm grip of her own. “Megan Townsend.” She put her manuscript away then, and they chatted the rest of the way in. He liked talking to her, and he forgot about his book, and offered her a ride home when they arrived at Grand Central Station in New York.

She lived on Park and 69th, only fifteen blocks from his apartment, and after he dropped her off, he stopped the cab and decided to walk home. It was a warm night, and he liked being in New York during the summer. The city was almost deserted, except for a few real devotees, the hardworking stiffs like himself, and a handful of tourists.

The phone was ringing when he got home, and he assumed it was Daphne. No one else ever called, now that the children were gone, except occasionally his father. But he was startled when he heard the voice of the woman he had just dropped off. It was Megan Townsend.

“Hi there, I just had a thought. Want to come back for a drink and a salad? I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage that. I just thought …” She sounded suddenly unsure, and it crossed her mind that he might be married. At his age, most men were, but she figured that if she was barking up the wrong tree, he would tell her. He had looked like a pretty straightforward guy.

“That would be very nice.” It was a new experience for him, being picked up by a woman, and invited over for dinner on a Sunday night. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask for her number, and he realized then that Daphne was right. He was desperately out of practice. “Can I bring anything?”

“I'm all set. Say eight o'clock?”

“That's great,” and then, “I'm glad you called.”

“It's not exactly the thing to do, I guess,” she laughed into the phone, seeming perfectly at ease with what she had done, and he wondered if she did it often, “but life's too short. I liked talking to you on the train.”

“So did I.”

And then she decided to ask him before wasting too much time. Married men weren't her thing, although for an occasional dinner she didn't mind. “By the way, are you married?”

“I …” He didn't quite know how to answer her. He was, but not in any way that counted anymore, and he decided to tell her the truth. “I am … but I've been separated for seven months.”

His answer seemed satisfactory to her. “I figured you were out visiting your kids today when I first saw you.”

“They're in Europe for the summer, two of them anyway. The other one is in Port Chester, working.” But he didn't tell her that Benjamin was eighteen and living with a fellow dropout while they waited for the birth of their baby.

“See you at eight.” She hung up with a smile, pleased with what she'd done, and Oliver looked pleased too, as he strolled back down Park Avenue half an hour later.

Her apartment was on the top floor, with a very pretty penthouse garden. It was in a small, exclusive building and Oliver suspected correctly that it was a co-op. This was no ordinary working girl, and he knew that Robert Townsend was not only a major advertising success, but he was also from a very prominent family in Boston. And Megan's breeding was stamped all over her, from her hair to her shoes, to her well- bred voice, to the expensive white silk shirt she'd put on with a pair of jeans to greet him. Her hair was hanging loose, and he loved the way it flowed down her back and over her shoulders. She wasn't just pretty, he realized now, she was beautiful, and very striking. She had put some makeup on, and she escorted him into the airy living room, which was all done in white and chrome, with a black-and-white marble floor, and two zebra rugs tossed casually under an enormous glass table. There was one mirrored wall to reflect the view, and the glass table in the tiny dining room was set for two. And somehow, even though she wore only jeans and a silk shirt, she had an aura of great sophistication.

“This is quite a place!” He marveled at the view, and she led him out onto the terrace as she handed him a gin and tonic.

“It's my only case of excessive indulgence.” Her father had wanted to buy her a town house for her thirtieth birthday, earlier that year, but she had steadfastly refused it. She loved the place she had, and it was big enough, and Oliver certainly understood why she liked it. “I spend an awful lot of time here. I spend most of my weekends here, buried in manuscripts.” She laughed easily and he smiled.

“I can think of worse fates.” And then he decided to play her game. There was a great deal he suddenly wanted to know about Megan Townsend. “What about you? Married? Divorced? The mother of twelve?” although that at least seemed more than unlikely. Everything about her screamed that she was unencumbered and single.

“Never married. No kids. No cats, dogs, or birds.

And no currently married lovers.” They both laughed, and he grinned ruefully.

“I guess that leaves me out.”

“Are you going back to your wife?” she inquired, as they sat on two white Brown Jordan deck chairs outside.

“No, I'm not.” He met her eyes squarely, but he didn't tell her that until recently, he would have liked to. “Our lives have gone in very separate directions. She's a graduate student at Harvard now, and an aspiring writer.”

“That sounds admirable.”

“Not really.” There was still a trace of bitterness in his voice, whenever he talked about Sarah to strangers. “She walked out on me and three children to get there.”