A Dad Of His Own. Diana Whitney
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okay, I just wanna go out—” A knock at the door spun him around, flooding his tense features with obvious relief. “That’s Danny. Can I go, Morn?”
Heaving a sigh, she nodded, and watched her son bolt from the room. Bobby had been acting strangely for the past week. He’d been elusive, jumpy, even more anxious than usual. Just as disturbing was his refusal to acknowledge anything was wrong, let alone agree to discuss it.
Chessa knew her son, understood every nuance of expression, every subtle tilt of body language. He was biding something, something that both worried and excited him, something that, for the first time in his young life, he’d chosen not to share with the mother who adored him.
Lost in thought, she retrieved a paring knife and was absently eyeing the peeled apple in her palm when a peculiar sound caught her attention.
She returned the apple to the colander, laid down the paring knife and listened. It was a man’s voice, not a boy’s. A man speaking quietly, gently, in a tone too soft for words to be deciphered. Bobby’s response was choked, broken, inaudible.
Alarmed, Chessa rushed to the living room and nearly fainted. There he was, a specter from the past with the power to destroy everything she held dear.
From the doorway the man gazed over Bobby’s head, expectantly at first, then his eyes slowly clouded with confusion. “It’s been—” he paused, swallowed, studied her for a moment longer “—a long time.”
Her mouth went dry. She steadied herself on the doorjamb. The room continued to spin. It was her worst nightmare.
This time it was real.
She was beyond beautiful. The woman staring at him as if seeing a ghost affected him like a punch in the gut. A twist of sable hair above a fragile, heartshaped face with huge, liquid eyes so blue they took his breath away. It was a remarkable face, exquisite in its perfection even as its color dissipated to a sickly pallor. She clutched the doorjamb with a white-knuckled grip.
“Yes.” A whisper more than a word. “A long time.”
He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for having abandoned her so very long ago. He wanted to heap blessings and gratitude upon her for having gifted him with such a precious son. Most of all he wanted to know why he couldn’t remember ever having laid eyes on her.
This was a woman no sane man could forget.
Then again. Nick Purcell’s youth had been anything but sane. Town bad boy, blamed for everything and responsible for much, he’d been an angry adolescent who’d risen above poverty and abuse by having removed most of it from his mind. He could barely remember those years, didn’t want to remember them. That was his cross to bear, not this lovely woman’s. Clearly he’d hurt her enough. Nick would rather gnaw off his own arm than cause her more pain by confessing his own failure of recall.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” he told her, and meant it.
She swayed slightly, those gorgeous eyes so wide the China-blue pupils were completely surrounded by white. Lush lips quivered, moved slightly.
A sob, a sniff, a small hand clutched his sleeve. “I knew you’d come, I knew it.”
Dragging his gaze from the trembling woman, Nick knelt before the child whose eyes, as blue as his mother’s, gleamed with moisture and excitement. Words choked in Nick’s throat, caught behind a lump of emotion. Gazing into the face of his child was like a religious experience. His heart felt swollen, raw. His son, his flesh and blood. It was the proudest moment of his life. And the most poignant.
Bobby’s chin quivered. “Are you really my dad?”
In the breast pocket of his suit coat, a folded birth certificate forwarded from the St. Ives Law Firm burned over his heart. “Yes, Bobby, I’m really your dad.”
“Don’t go away again.” A tear slid quietly down his small cheek. “Please don’t go away.” With that, the child threw himself into Nick’s arms, sobbing.
Nick hugged him fiercely. “I won’t,” he whispered, barely about to choke out the words. “You’re my son, and I’ll never leave you. Never.”
The woman issued a strangled gasp. Nick barely heard it.
This wasn’t happening.
Icy fingers of fear closed around Chessa’s throat. Terror choked her dry. Dear God, she prayed silently. Let this be a dream.
Across the room that man, that horrifying phantom from the past, knelt down to gaze at her beloved child as if regarding a small god. In a blatant display of mutual veneration, Bobby focused on his newly discovered father with an expression of utter adulation that quite frankly drove a stake through Chessa’s heart.
For over nine years Bobby’s happiness had been the driving force of her life. Nothing else had mattered. Chessa had completely devoted herself to meeting her son’s emotional and physical needs. She’d thought it had been enough. It hadn’t.
That hurt.
There was more, so much more. Bobby didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that what he clearly believed to be the happiest moment of his life was in reality the worst thing that could possibly have happened. The joy in his young eyes would soon be replaced by pain and loathing. Chessa couldn’t allow that to happen but didn’t know how to stop it.
With a choked cry she spun back into the kitchen, staggered to the sink. Bracing herself, she gasped for breath, propped herself against the counter with widespread, trembling arms. Perhaps this was all a hoax, a cruel joke played by an impeccably groomed imposter wearing Italian loafers and a designer suit that probably cost more than her monthly mortgage. After all, the vision of prosperity in her living room bore little resemblance to the angry young man she remembered, the sullen adolescent in low-slung jeans and trademark black T-shirt with the sleeves torn out.
The young Nick Purcell had been wild, rebellious, always on the cutting edge of trouble, with a doleful James Dean sex appeal that teenage girls had found irresistible. He’d been the subject of gossip, whispers, speculation, and had been rumored to enjoy a love life more active than a rock musician.
Every town had at least one bad boy. The central California farming community where Chessa grew up had more than its share, although Nick Purcell had been far and away the most notorious. It was in the blood, folks had said. Like father, like son.
Like father. Like son.
“Chessa?”
She spun around, faced him with terror in her heart. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. She blinked rapidly. The image did not disappear.
He was there. He was real.
Extending a hand, Nick started to speak, then dropped his arm to his side with an anguished expression. His gaze flickered around the neat kitchen to settle on the plate of half-eaten pizza on the table. He smiled. “Sausage and mushroom,” he murmured. “It’s my favorite, too.”
Chessa found her voice. “Why are you here?”
The smile faded, tucked itself back into a face that was stronger than she remembered, but just as handsome. A square jaw. Perfect nose. Lips that were both virile and vulnerable, and dark eyes beneath a swath of brow that gave him a uniquely brooding appearance.
His sigh was nearly imperceptible, more sad than impatient. “I had to see him.”
She closed her eyes, clamped her lips together. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.
Pivoting around, she snatched a paring knife off the counter, grabbed an apple and carved frantically. “You had no right to come here.”
“He’s my son.”
Breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, then refilled her lungs and dug the paring