His Real Father (Harlequin Super Romance) Read online

  The temperature had turned brisk, a result of the Delta breeze, no doubt. Joe had always loved late spring in the valley. The fog was gone and the blast-furnace heat of summer was still a few weeks off.

  Maureen walked to the passenger door of her new hybrid sedan. “Don’t I need a key?” he asked, after settling into the driver’s seat.

  “Nope. Just push the button and put it in reverse.”

  Joe had known she was thinking of purchasing a new car a year ago, but after her diagnosis, all plans had been put on hold. He saw the fact that she felt well enough to invest in a big-ticket item as a testament to her good health.

  “I love it. Smartest thing I ever did. You wouldn’t believe the mileage I get. Did I tell you that, legally, I can drive in the diamond lane, even if I’m all by myself?”

  Joe smiled. Why beating traffic in the commuter lane was important to someone his mother’s age was beyond him, but he was delighted to know she was pleased with her purchase. “Is Brandon happy to have the old car?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Maureen said. “He thinks his mother and I are ruining his love life by making him drive an old-lady car, but I told him he’s too young to worry about love. He needs to focus on his studies.”

  Too young to fall in love. Joe had fallen in love with Lisa when he was younger than her son was now. Seventh grade. Her first day at a new school. Joe had been selected to show her around. There’d been a couple of other students in the group, too, but from the minute he’d seen her, Joe only had eyes for Lisa. Until his brother had staked his claim, of course. Once Patrick made up his mind to have something, everyone knew it was hopeless to fight. Patrick had been a force of nature. He’d swept through life, leaving a wake of destruction at times, benevolent gifts at others.

  “How’s Brandon doing in school?” Joe asked, as they exited the alley that provided access to both extra parking and the small fenced-off area euphemistically called the beer garden. The lattice-covered patio held a picnic table and half a dozen chairs for patrons who wanted to smoke.

  The path home was so ingrained in his mind, Joe could probably have closed his eyes and made every turn. But instead he looked around, taking in the changes. A few new storefronts, but nothing compared to the housing developments outside the city limits. Vast tracts of land that had once produced almonds—and provided spots for Patrick and his friends to throw keg parties—were now covered with homes.

  “Not bad,” his mother said. “Mostly Bs. Not as good as you, but better than your brother.”

  Grades weren’t his and Patrick’s only difference. Pat had been a star athlete. Joe could barely swing a bat. Gregarious and loud, Patrick Kelly had been the center of every gathering while Joe had stayed in the background.

  “Don’t bother my brother,” Patrick would warn people. “He’s storing up information for a future screenplay.”

  “So tell me more about this movie you want to make,” his mother said.

  Joe had waited until Brandon and Lisa had left to bring up the subject, but he suddenly felt dead tired. “Does corned beef have tryptophan in it?” he asked. “I feel as if I could sleep for a month.”

  Maureen turned slightly in the seat. “Stop teasing, Joseph. If you don’t want to tell me about it, fine.”

  Joe put on the blinker to pull into the driveway. A thirty-year-old square two-story with Tudor aspirations. The amber glow of the streetlight half a block away wasn’t enough for him to make out the new paint and shingles that he’d paid for last summer. The gifts he’d sent while his mother was puking her guts out from chemotherapy.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. This is important to me and I want to present it to you right.”

  Maureen didn’t say anything for a minute, then she asked, “Is that the real reason you’re here? Not my wedding or Lisa’s graduation. You came home to reconnect with your roots?”

  Was that his true goal? She made it sound so simple.

  “Every movie takes a recipe and ingredients. I’m still working on my recipe, but I picture interviewing old-timers and using some of those old movies of mine I shot when I was a kid. You still have them, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, her tone offended. “They’re yours. They might be valuable some day.”

  Joe doubted that but didn’t argue. “I shipped my tripod and the rest of my editing equipment by freight. It should be here early next week. I have until then to come up with a rough storyboard.” Or at the very least, an idea of what he wanted to accomplish.

  “What does Lisa think of this? She told you I’ve agreed to sell the place to her, right?”

  Joe nodded. “She told me. I was…surprised. To say the least.”

  He looked at his mother. Her head was resting against the seat and her eyes were closed. Her hair had returned pure white after her treatments, and Joe still wasn’t completely used to her fashionable bob. “You look exhausted. Should we table this conversation till tomorrow?”

  “It’s been a hectic few weeks,” she said. “And there’s still so much to do. First Lisa’s party, then the wedding.”

  Joe felt his stomach muscles contract whenever that word came up. He hoped his reservations were gone by the time the couple said their vows.

  She took a deep breath then opened the door. “You’re right, dear. We’ll talk in the morning. You know the way to your room.” She got out then leaned down to add, “I’m so happy you’re home. It’s been too long.”

  Joe watched her walk up the three wide steps to the front stoop. She moved with measured grace, but none of the energy he remembered.

  After pulling into the attached garage, Joe turned off the car and retrieved his luggage. When he picked up his carry-on tote, Joe remembered a second gift he’d brought for Brandon. The boy had been so thrilled by his poster, Joe had forgotten about the music CD he had for him.

  Modamu Davies’s new hip-hop group. Joe had heard the band’s name mentioned at the last party he attended in Malibu, but he didn’t know the music and was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it. The thought made him feel old.

  “Thirty-five is not old,” he muttered, digging through the outside pocket of his suitcase. Leaving his bags in what his mother called the mud room, Joe detoured to the backyard. Hopefully, the exterior speakers he and his brother had set up still worked.

  His mother’s stereo sat on an oak-and-glass étagère just inside the sliding glass patio door. Joe inserted the disk and turned the knob so the only speakers playing were the ones under the eaves. A few seconds later a chest-thumping beat filled the fenced enclosure.

  As he walked around, taking in the changes his mother had made to the landscaping, Joe tried to make sense of the rapper’s words. Was he speaking another language?

  Yeah, it’s called youth, a cynical voice answered.

  Joe followed a worn path in the grass and came up short when he spotted an unfamiliar gate. The Kellys shared a fence with Lisa’s mother, but this entrance hadn’t existed when Joe was a kid. His father must have put it in for Brandon. Maureen had told him that Joe Sr. and his grandson had been extremely close.

  No mechanical latch was visible on Joe’s side of the fence—just a four-inch-long piece of string that dangled through a hole in a wooden slat. Attached to the string was a small bell.

  He was tempted to walk next door and finish his conversation with Lisa. Sorely tempted. Something had sizzled between them tonight when he’d played that song.

  He started back to the house, instead. Any issues between him and Lisa were best ignored. They’d screwed up once and still lived with the guilt. His feelings for Lisa were complicated. Too complicated to resolve during a brief visit home.

  He’d barely taken half a dozen steps when a sound that didn’t belong on the CD made him freeze midstride.

  It was the tinkle of a tiny bell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE GATE OPENED with a bang. His nephew ambled through the opening.

  “Hey, man, I figured it was you,” Brandon
said. “I heard the music. Not something Grams would play. She’s into golden oldies like Joe Cocker and Rod Stewart.”

  Joe fought to keep from wincing. He liked that music, too. Damn, he was getting old.

  The boy came closer, his head cocked in obvious concentration. “Who is it?”

  Joe held up the jewel case that he still carried. “A new group. My friend’s label. He says they’re hot.”

  Brandon took the case from him.

  “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “Sweet,” Brandon said, squinting to read the label, but the glow from the low-voltage lights was too dim.

  “Let’s go inside,” Joe said. “If we keep the volume down, your grandmother won’t mind.” A gust of wind made him realize his thin shirt wasn’t adequate protection from the cool night air—a fact made all the more apparent by comparison to Brandon’s outfit.

  “Is that a letter jacket you’re wearing?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah. I lettered in football and track.” The boy tried to sound blasé but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  Joe kept his smile to himself. “I’m not surprised. Your dad was a jock, too. What about soccer? Patrick was killer at soccer.”

  Brandon shook his head. “I played one year, but our coach was more into flirting with my mom than teaching me the game. Kinda sucked.”

  Joe had wondered about Lisa’s love life over the years. She was so pretty and desirable. Although his mother had never mentioned any serious attachments, Lisa must have dated. “Did she like him?”

  His nephew made a wry sound. “Hell, no. She wound up getting him kicked out of the league and coached my team herself. We made it to the finals, but afterward, we both decided soccer wasn’t our sport.”

  Joe couldn’t keep from grinning.

  They’d reached the patio, where the lighting was brighter, and Brandon looked at him questioningly, obviously trying to figure out what his uncle’s smile was all about. To mask his true feelings, which Joe wasn’t sure he understood himself, he said, “I was trying to picture what would have happened if any of my Little League coaches ever looked twice at Mom.”

  Brandon’s eyes went wide. “Gramps would have kicked some serious ass.”

  Joe laughed. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Gramps was a great guy. I really miss him. But he could blow up like a firecracker if you pushed him wrong.”

  Joe knew that all too well. Patrick had butted heads with their father all the time. The only big fight Joe had ever had with his father was the one about selling the bar. “Your son died from drinking too much. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Joe had cried, desperately seeking someone—something—to blame.

  He turned abruptly and opened the patio door. The music was a little raucous for his taste, but he planned to keep his opinion to himself. He didn’t want his nephew to think he was uncool.

  “This would probably sound better on a car stereo,” he said, walking to the stereo where he pushed the eject button.

  “Yeah, it rocks,” Brandon said when Joe handed him the silver disk. “Thanks.”

  Joe felt pleased. “You’re welcome.”

  They faced each other awkwardly a moment, then Joe said, “Isn’t it a little early on a Saturday night for you to be home?”

  “There was a party. I didn’t want to go.”

  Joe had a feeling there was more to the story, but he didn’t push. He could hardly expect Brandon to open up when they barely knew each other.

  Brandon shrugged off his jacket and dropped it in a chair, then sat on the couch and plopped his feet on the cluttered oak coffee table. His sneakers were a molded design in yellow leather with no visible laces.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Joe turned off the stereo then walked to the chair across from Brandon and sat down. He didn’t have a lot of experience with teens, but he knew his ex-girlfriend’s daughters would never have asked permission to speak. Nor would they have listened to anything he said.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Do you know why Mom never talks about him anymore?”

  “Who?”

  “My dad. It’s like he never existed. The other day she introduced me to some lady at the grocery store as Joe Kelly’s grandson. Isn’t that kinda weird?”

  Joe didn’t know what to make of it. Was it Lisa’s way of moving on? “Maybe this is what happens when a person dies young. Pat’s still eighteen in everyone’s mind. Too young to be the father of a boy who is nearly the same age as Patrick was when he died.”

  Both were quiet a moment. Then Brandon said, “I suppose it could be that. She talked about him more when I was little, but now she gets tense whenever I mention his name. Grams thinks it’s because Mom is worried about me driving.” He lowered his gaze and added, “And drinking.”

  Joe sat forward. “You don’t, do you?”

  “Drink?”

  By Brandon’s hesitation, Joe could tell the boy was tempted to lie, but after a few seconds said, “Everybody does. But I’ve only been drunk once. A bunch of us were at a sleepover at a friend’s house. We raided his father’s liquor cabinet. When his parents came home, we were all puking our guts out.”

  Joe and Patrick had pulled the same trick, only they’d sneaked into Joe’s Place to do their drinking. The twins and three of their friends had told their parents they were staying at each other’s houses. In the morning, Joe Sr. had unlocked the door to find them all passed out. To everyone’s surprise, the boys’ only punishment had been scrubbing the barroom floor on their hands and knees once they were well.

  Joe vaguely recalled overhearing his parents arguing about letting them off too lightly.

  “They’re just kids,” his father had maintained. “Better they drink in the bar than out on the road.”

  Joe frowned. Would Pat be alive if their father had come down on him harder after that first incident?

  “What happened?” he asked his nephew, curious whether or not parents were tougher these days.

  “His folks called everyone’s parents. Mom and Grandma Constance got there first. Grandma C checked each of us out then jumped down our throats for subjecting our bodies to alcohol poisoning.” He made a face. “She practically made us all sick again when she described what a liver looks like after years of alcohol abuse.”

  He shook his head then added, “I couldn’t drive for six months and was grounded for two. Plus, I had to go to Alateen. That’s Al-Anon for people my age.”

  In Dead Drunk, Joe had followed a family whose teenage son was killed in a drunk-driving accident. The siblings of his screen family had all attended the support group for teenagers dealing with alcohol-related issues. Unlike Joe’s real family, who had never acknowledged Patrick’s dependency problem.

  “Did you get anything out of the meetings?” Joe asked. What he really wanted to ask was “Did you quit drinking?” But Joe didn’t have the right to be that nosy.

  “I guess so. I mostly went for my mom’s sake. She’s a total narc about drugs and alcohol. When my friends ask why I’m not drinking, I tell them it’s because my dad died in a DUI, but some of them don’t get it.”

  Joe had abstained from drinking for years. “I know what you mean,” Joe said, sitting forward. “I was a pariah in college. Everybody knew me as the guy whose brother died in a drunk-driving crash. They were sympathetic for a while, then they’d say things like, ‘Lighten up, man. Everybody’s gotta die some time, right?’”

  Brandon nodded in agreement. “Exactly. My friends act like I’m a freak for not wanting to put my mom and grandma through that again.”

  Joe’s heart went out to his nephew. “Nobody thinks what happened to Patrick will happen to them. Nobody,” he repeated, shaking his head. “And you can’t tell them otherwise. I tried. My movie tried. People still drink too much then get behind the wheel…and die because of it.”

  “Do you drink?” Brandon asked.

  “Not if I’m doing the dr
iving.” Joe wasn’t a complete teetotaler anymore. “I’m a big fan of taxicabs,” he said. “And if you ever need a ride anywhere, you call me and I’ll pay your cab fare on my credit card.”

  Brandon gave a small chuckle. Joe could tell he didn’t believe the offer was real, but Joe meant it. “Thanks, man. You’re cool.” He jumped to his feet. “Well, I guess I’d better get home. Mom’s probably sitting up pretending to study. I don’t know what she’s going to use as an excuse to wait up for me once she graduates.”

  Joe smiled. He liked this kid. A lot. He stood up, too. “My mother was usually sitting here sewing when Pat and I came in. On nights she really wanted to heap on the guilt, she’d be patching our blue jeans.”

  Brandon rolled his eyes in sympathy, then held up his CD and nodded. “Later.”

  He was just about to the door when he paused and looked at Joe. “I’m glad you’re here. This probably sounds stupid, but it’s kinda like having a piece of my dad around.”

  A surfeit of emotions welled up in Joe’s throat, threatening to choke him. He swallowed then said, “I’m glad to be here. But you do know we weren’t identical twins, right?”

  “Sure. There’s a photo of the three of you at the bar. Mom’s got a copy, too. It’s of you and my dad and her sitting on the dock at some lake. You’re all three wet and laughing. You can see a lot of family resemblance.”

  Joe knew which photo Brandon was talking about. He had a copy, too. On his bedroom dresser.

  “Actually,” Brandon said looking pensive. “It’s the only picture of him in the house. I asked Mom the other day why she didn’t have a picture of just her and Dad.”

  “What did she say?”

  Brandon’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Something like, ‘This is who we were back then. It was always the three of us.’”

  The boy slid the door open. “Well, I’d better hit the sack. Grams wants me to clean the garage in the morning. She’s trying to decide whether to sell this place or rent it out. I vote rent it—to me,” he added with a laugh.

  After he was gone, Joe locked the door and turned off the lights. His mother had left the hallway light on upstairs—as she always had when he and his brother were young. Joe trudged up each step, exhausted yet restless and unsettled. Maybe that was what coming home was all about.