Sometimes when Susan had emergencies and her mother couldn't keep Jeffy, she left him at a nearby day care center. She considered her errand an emergency. Balancing the package in her arm, she maneuvered Jeffy's stroller across her yard to the car. Heat radiated from the ground. Another killer day in Biloxi. The temperatures had topped one hundred at noon. It was cooler now, but not much.
"We're going to the day care center, Jeffy. You know the place. All your little friends are there." There was no response. "Remember Ricky?" She stowed the cake box on the backseat, then bent over her son and tucked him into his car seat. "He'll be so glad to see you. And Miss Nancy? Remember how she reads to you? Maybe she'll read your favorite story."
She might as well have been talking to thin air. Sighing, she climbed behind the wheel. Defeat weighed down her arms and legs.
"Ready, sport?" She turned the key in the ignition, then sat waiting for the old engine to warm up. "Let's go!"
In the recovery group she'd attended after Brett's death, she'd learned that you couldn't give up. You couldn't take the easy way out and do nothing. You had to reach out. You had to keep trying.
She drove carefully so Jeffy's little head wouldn't bobble too much, then eased into the gravel parking lot. The Playhouse, a lopsided sign on the side of a small blue frame house said. Children raced around the fenced-in yard, screaming over who had the ball first and whose turn it was to go down the slide.
Inside, a woman Susan didn't know stood at Nancy Whiteside's desk.
"Can I help you?" Her smile of welcome froze when she saw Jeffy.
Susan cautioned herself not to make a snap judgment. "Actually, I was expecting to see Miss Nancy."
"I'm her new assistant, Joy Reeves."
"I'm Susan Riley. I've brought Jeffy to stay for about an hour."
"You'll have to take him somewhere that handles children like him. We're only equipped to deal with normal children here." The woman who called herself Joy regarded both of them with another of her frozen smiles. Susan wanted to claw it off her face.
She bent over her son, shielding him from the pathetic, callous woman.
"Are you ready to go, sweetheart?" She straightened his little baseball cap and smoothed down his collar. "We'll come back another time when Miss Nancy is here."
She could feel the hot flush of anger staining her cheeks and her neck. Don't make a scene, she warned herself. It would only upset Jeffy. Anyhow, the woman wasn't worth her anger.
She pushed the stroller toward the door, afraid even to say good-bye lest she lose control.
"Susan?" Nancy Whiteside stuck her head around the kitchen door. Her black corkscrew curls spewed out in all directions, and her nose was red from heat and exertion. "I thought I heard you out here."
Miss Nancy came forward and squatted beside Jeffy's stroller, smiling. "How're you doing, little man?"
Susan could have wept with relief. "I probably should have called before I came. I just need you to keep him for a little while."
"Of course. I'll take good care of him for you, Susan." Nancy smiled at her new assistant. "Joy, come over here and get acquainted with Jeffy. He's a great favorite of mine."
Joy came forward looking like an old cat that had been caught with her hand in the bird cage.
"You'll take care of Jeffy personally, won't you?" Susan had to know. She couldn't bear to think of Joyless handling Jeffy.
"As always, Susan. I promise."
"And watch the other children around him. I know how they love to roughhouse."
"I was taking care of children when you were still in diapers." Miss Nancy patted her hand. "Don't you worry about a thing."
When Susan got back in her car, she had to sit and collect herself before she could start the engine. She would worry, though. How could she help it? People like Joy Reeves made her so mad. They acted as if Jeffy had a big sign around his neck that said Damaged Goods.
Sitting there brooding wasn't going to help matters one bit. She started the car, then turned on the radio. An old Elvis song was playing. Susan made herself sing along.
By the time she got to the Oceanfront Research Center, her mood had lifted. And it was a darned good thing. In her condition she couldn't have cheered a toad, let alone a man who had lost his son.
No matter what her problems were, at least she still had her son.
She lifted her cake box from the car and made her way across the scorching parking lot. Damp curls clung to the back of her neck where her hair had escaped its ponytail, and her dress stuck to her torso in sweaty patches. As she approached the gates she suddenly
wished she'd freshened her lipstick. It was too late now. The gates loomed before her.
Taking a big breath, she crossed through the gates and sent a prayer winging upward—Lord, give me courage —though why she was so nervous about a simple mission of mercy, she couldn't say.
o0o
"You did what?"
"I told Susan Riley where you live. She's on her way there now."
Paul swore royally, then sagged against the bed. At the other end of the line, Bill chuckled.
"You know that old saying about fools rushing in where angels fear to tread? Well, I think maybe they've got it wrong, that it's angels rushing in where fools fear to tread. The angel is on her way, Paul."
"Son of a gun. I ought to come over there and wring your neck."
"What you'd better do is get ready for Susan."
"I can't believe you did that."
"It got a rise out of you, didn't it? Got you off your butt and into gear."
"I owe you one, pal."
Paul hung up and sat staring at the wall. Susan Riley. Coming to his apartment. Susan Riley with her lovely eyes and her brave smile. Coming to see him. Why? He'd been so angry he hadn't even asked.
He jerked his shirt off the end of the bed where he'd thrown it earlier, then hurried to the bathroom and leaned over the sink. He looked like death on wheels. He hadn't bothered to shave that morning, and his eyes were bloodshot from too much booze. His hands trembled when he picked up the razor.
Disgusted he shut it off and went back into the bedroom. He'd just crawl into bed and pretend he didn't hear her. What did it matter that later he would hate himself for being a coward?
He was staring at the bed with his shirt hanging open when the doorbell rang. Automatically he started to the door, then remembered his shirt. He was fumbling with his buttons when the bell rang again.
“Damn.” He'd buttoned his fool shirt wrong. The tail hung crooked.
"Paul?" she called through the door. It felt strange to hear a female voice in his apartment.
"Coming," he said, stuffing his shirt in as he walked. Then he noticed he wasn't wearing shoes. Too late now. Susan Riley would have to take what she found.
He opened the door and there she was, lovelier somehow in the close confines of the hallway, more feminine, more dangerous. A small bead of sweat inched down her cheek. He couldn't take his eyes off that tiny drop of sweat.
"Paul? I hope I'm not intruding."
"No. Of course not." He held the door open. How could he do otherwise when she was standing so close smelling like flowers and looking at him with eyes brightened by expectation? "Come in."
Moving with the grace of a ballet dancer, she placed the box she was carrying on the table, then sat on the sofa with her soft skirts spread around her.
"You have a nice place."
Suddenly he saw his apartment through her eyes— the bare walls, the tables gathering dust, the almost empty bookshelves. When he'd left Jean he'd taken nothing except the things he needed to survive. His place wasn't nice, at all: it was empty and sad, even depressing.
He thought about standing so she would think she'd caught him in the midst of getting ready to go somewhere important, but in the end he sat facing her on a chair.
"Paul, I want you to know that I'm not in the habit of visiting men in their apartments." A flush tinged her cheeks, and she smiled at him almost shyly, like a young girl on her first date.
God. How he must look. Barefoot, unshaven, hung over. He hadn't even combed his hair. Once he'd taken pride in his appearance, and in the way women looked at him.
Trapped between shame and anger, he stared at her.
"I came by to apologize for my behavior yesterday at the dolphin pool." She moistened her bottom lip with her tongue—pink, delicate, sweet—and he knew that when he climbed into his empty bed that night he'd have a hard time sleeping. "I said some terrible things to you, things I never should have said, and I'm sorry."
"It's all right." He wished he'd at least taken time to put on his shoes.
"No, it isn't." She leaned forward. "I don't mean to be prying into your personal life, but when my mother told me about your son . . ."
He felt the blood drain from his face. A growl of protest rose in his throat.
"I'm sorry." She left the sofa and knelt beside his chair. "I'm so sorry." She caught his hand and held on, squeezing it gently.
A small rush of something like tenderness took him by surprise. Speechless and trapped, Paul could do nothing but sit in his chair, enduring.
"I baked you a cake," she said, standing. Paul felt relieved and unexpectedly deprived. "It's small recompense, but I wanted to do something to let you know that you're not alone, that I care."
"Thanks."
"It's chocolate."
Chocolate. Sonny's favorite.
"That was kind of you." He stood up. A signal that the visit was over. He had to get Susan Riley out of his apartment before he made a total fool of himself.
"It was the least I could do." Smiling, she made her way to the door. "I'll see you next week?"
"Yes. Next week."
After she left he stood barefoot inhaling the scent of chocolate and the lingering fragrance of her perfume - vivid reminders of how empty his life had become.
o0o
Susan almost ran a red light on her way back to The Playhouse to pick up Jeffy. There was a powerful sexuality about Paul Tyler, even in his condition. Something in the dark eyes, she thought. Or perhaps in his voice. She shivered.
Had she gone to his apartment merely to deliver cake? It wasn't something she wanted to think about.
o0o
Paul gave the cake box a malevolent glance, then shot out of the parking lot as if he could outrun his gift even though it was sitting on the front seat beside him.
He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his right hand. Thank God he was sober enough to drive, otherwise he would be trapped in his apartment with the lingering scent of Susan Riley's perfume and the damnable cake.
"Daddy, I like chocolate the bestest, don't you?" Chocolate smudges decorated Sonny's face. Four candles burned brightly on the birthday cake.
"Make a wish, Sonny."
Laughing, with his rosebud mouth puckered and his black eyes dancing, Sonny blew out the candles. "I wish I'd be just like you when I grow up, Daddy."
Paul's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. The fragrance of chocolate assaulted him.
Blindly he swerved into a convenience store lot, turned the car around, and headed back down the tree- lined avenue. On his right, the gulf lapped against the shore. Afternoon sun filtering through the oak leaves and the Spanish moss cast a lacy pattern on the dashboard. Sea gulls screeched at children building castles in the white sand along the beach, and young girls, wearing more oil than swimsuit, lay upon colored towels like long-stemmed flowers wilting in the sun.
It was the same as a hundred other afternoons when Paul had driven home. He used to drive with his windows open so he could hear the sounds of wind and water and children at play.
He didn't think about where he was going; he merely guided the car. Beaches and screaming sea gulls gave way to crape myrtle trees dripping pink and white blossoms onto wide, well-kept lawns. If there were children at play, they were hidden behind brick fences and wrought iron gates.
The neighborhood whispered prestige. The houses whispered money.
Although the inside of his Corvette was a comfortable seventy degrees, Paul was damp with sweat. It beaded his upper lip and ran in rivulets down the sides of his cheeks. He took a curve onto Shady Lane and slowed the car. Old brick taken from a felled Georgian mansion formed a graceful wall around the house. A Louisiana raised cottage, the architect called it, although there was nothing small and cottage-like about it. On its fine sweep of lawn behind the double wrought iron gates it had the look of a Southern plantation rich with years of good manners and good breeding.
Paul stopped the car. Like a man in a long-forgotten dream he walked slowly across the street, never taking his eyes from the front door. Any minute now a dark- haired little boy would catapult through and fling himself into Paul's arms.
His throat ached and his chest felt tight. When he reached the gate he pressed his face to the wrought iron bars and clung to the ornate pineapples at the top. He'd had the gate designed and made in New Orleans. Pineapples. The symbol of welcome.
"Welcome home, Paul," he whispered, clinging to the gate like a prisoner.
o0o
Something brought Jean out of her sleep.
She sat up on the sofa and listened. The sounds of her house slowly filtered through the Valium haze of her brain. The clock that had belonged to Paul's great-grandfather ticked in the entry hall. Air conditioning hummed with oiled efficiency. Out in the kitchen Sonny's parakeets chattered to each other. On the marble-topped table in the corner of the den, Sonny's aquarium bubbled oxygen through the clean water, although the tank had held no fish in six months.
Hairs along the back of Jean's neck stood on end. She huddled under the hand-knit afghan, a gift from Maggie.
"Sonny?" she called.
The house was quiet.
"Sonny," she whispered.
Pictures in their gilt frames stared back at her— Sonny taking his first step, Sonny with his first tooth, Sonny on his first day at school, Sonny and Paul in the boat, the three of them at the beach, Sonny on his fourth birthday with chocolate on his face.
Moving like an old and very tired woman, Jean left the sofa and crossed the large room. The white woolly afghan trailed behind her, then snagged on the corner of the piano and lay on the polished floor like a slaughtered lamb.
Holding to the furniture and the walls for support, Jean made her way to the front door. Bleary with drugs and sleep she watched the fanlight over the door waver then right itself.
She should go back to the couch before she fell.
She made a half turn, then changed her mind. Something was drawing her on, something on the other side of that door.
The brass door handle felt cold, and she hardly recognized the hand resting on it as her own. Blue veins showed through the thin white skin. Her rings twisted on skinny fingers, held in place by the knuckles that poked out like knots on a willow tree. Gone was the tan she'd once sported year round.
Gone, too, was the strength she'd always been so proud of. By the time she had pulled open the heavy door, she was drained, physically and emotionally.
Bright sun hurt her eyes. Squinting, she leaned against the door frame. There was a figure at the gate. Jean shaded her eyes.
Late afternoon sun glinted on hair as black and glossy as patent leather.
Paul.
Jean clutched her chest as time spun backward. . . .
Blood spattered Paul's white coat. Sonny's blood. Two nurses held her up as her husband bent over their son.
"Breathe, dammit, breathe." Paul's eyes were so bright and wild that she didn't dare look at him. He issued orders with machine gun precision. Nurses and interns scurried to do his bidding.
Everything was going to be all right. She kept telling herself that. Paul was a doctor. He was the best. He'd make everything all right.
Stainless steel instruments glittered in the harsh lights, and people spoke in quick, urgent voices.
"He's gone, Doctor."
"Goddammit, don't you tell me that. He's not dead. I won't let him die."
Jean moaned, leaning into the arms of a woman she didn't even know. She could see her son's still heart as Paul bent over the small bloody cavity that used to be Sonny's chest.
"Come on, Sonny. You can do it. Live, dammit! Do it for Daddy." Sweat poured down Paul's face and dripped onto his coat to mix with the blood.
"I'm afraid it's too late, Doctor."
Paul, who was not a violent man, almost hit the senior nurse. "Goddammit, I won't let him be dead. Do you hear me? I WON'T LET HIM!"
Remembering, Jean couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.
Paul clung to the gate and watched her with piercing black eyes, eyes that used to light up every time she walked into the room. Had he come back for her, then? Had he come back to say, Let's start over? Let's go to another city and build another house and have another little boy?
"Nooo." Jean clutched her stomach, moaning.
There could be no going back for them. There could be no other child, no other Sonny.
Faint with grief and regret and Valium, Jean clutched the door frame and stared at her estranged husband. Their gazes met, and for a moment something sparked to life inside her. But it died as quickly as it had come.
Her dreams were dead. She'd buried them all in a small casket with brass handles; then she'd stood in the rain and watched men cover them over with dirt.
Across the yard Paul watched her. There might as well have been the Gulf of Mexico between them. She couldn't have taken a step toward him if her life had depended on it.
Ever so slowly he turned and walked away.
Jean went back inside her house and bolted the door.
o0o
As Paul hurried toward his car he noticed that he'd left it parked in the middle of the street. Somebody could have come along and smashed it to pieces.
Not that it mattered.
He slid under the wheel cursing the impulse that had brought him to Shady Lane.
What had he expected to find? Certainly not Jean standing in the doorway like a ghost. She had looked so thin, so pale. What was she doing to herself?
He should never have gone there. It was all the fault of that damned cake Susan Riley had given him, that chocolate icing heating up in the sun and stirring up memories.
Paul drove fast—a man with a mission. The cops wouldn't stop him. Although he hadn't practiced medicine in nearly a year, to them he was still Dr. Tyler who had saved their wives and their mothers and their sons.
He had saved their sons, but he couldn't save his own.
The lights of Sam's Place flickered up ahead, green and orange neon, the P so dim it was almost invisible. He slowed the car, almost stopped. It had been a month since he'd been inside, a month since he'd felt that destructive, reckless need to leave the safety of his own apartment and wallow in public pity.
Poor Doc. Lost his son and his wife too.
Sam had taken him home that night, taken him all the way inside and put him to bed. Even dead drunk he'd hated his weakness. Crumpled on his bed with the room swaying around him and Sam's face barely visible, he'd promised to do better.
Paul rammed his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward. Sweat poured off his face.
In the gathering dusk the city lit up—gaudy neon signs pointing the way to tee-shirt shops, discreet gaslights separating the ritzy hotels and restaurants from the cheap motel rooms and the fast food joints, fluorescent bulbs shining down on shoppers crowding the malls. Paul was aware of nothing except the smell of chocolate and his overpowering need for oblivion.
Swearing, he braked the car sharply at a corner and began to make his way back, back to Sam's Place. Tonight he had to have the company of strangers and peace at any price.
Paul parked his car on the small crowded lot and grabbed the cake box. There was a large garbage can just inside the narrow door. In the semi-gloom of the bar he lifted the lid and started to heave the cake inside.
Suddenly his hand stilled. Guilt smote him. Susan Riley had probably spent hours laboring over that cake. He could picture her as she moved about her kitchen, baking and humming.
"Damn." He couldn't just throw the cake away. It would be wasteful, even sinful in a world full of hungry people.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Joshua Jones, the neighborhood's friendly hobo, seated at the corner table, his bony fingers wrapped around a beer someone had bought for him. Although Sam didn't allow soliciting in his place, he was too tenderhearted to throw Joshua out.
Candles poked into empty beer bottles lit Paul's way as he moved toward the corner table.
"What'cha got in that box, Doc?"
"A chocolate cake." Paul placed it on the table. "It's for you."
Joshua's grin showed a front tooth missing. "Now who'd be baking a cake for me?"
"A pretty lady."
Joshua snorted. "I ain't seen no pretty ladies since Buck was a calf." He slapped his thigh and laughed some more. "Tell me, Doc, how come this pretty lady got us mixed up and give my cake to you?"
"She was blinded by kindness."
Joshua slid the cake box closer and lifted the lid. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled.
"Ain't that heaven?" He poked one finger in the cake and came up with a gob of icing. His eyes rolled back in his head as he stuck his finger in his mouth and licked off the chocolate. "
Want some, Doc?" He dug out another glob and offered it to Paul.
"No, thank you."
"You look like you could use a meal."
"I'm not hungry." Paul began to inch away. He hadn't intended to get into a conversation.
"I'll have Sam send you a fork."
"Much obliged, Doc." Joshua dipped his dirty finger into the cake once more. "You tell that pretty lady next time you see her that old Joshua said she makes the best golderned cake this side of the Pearly Gates."
"I'll do that," Paul said, knowing he wouldn't. As he hurried toward the bar, regret filled him. He should have taken at least one bite of Susan's cake before he gave it away. She was bound to ask how he had liked it. And even if she didn't ask, she would be expecting him to say something about it.
The next time he saw her he'd say it was good. If he saw her again. Maybe he'd get lucky and she wouldn't come back.
Paul slid onto a stool, hooked his feet over a brass rail, and leaned his elbows on the wooden bar worn smooth by years of use.
"Evening, Sam."
"Evening." Sam didn't look too happy to see him.
"The usual."
"I didn't expect to see you tonight, Doc." Sam mixed a double scotch on the rocks and handed it to Paul. "I thought you were going to ease off a bit."
"This is my first."
"For the day?"
"For the evening."
Sam polished the bar with a cloth that had strings hanging from the edges, going over and over the same spot.
"I guess I ought to be minding my own business." Sam's face always got a pinched look when he was working up to one of his lectures.
"Then do," Paul said. He was in no mood for a lecture.
"You saved my kid."
Paul didn't want to be anybody's hero. Especially not tonight.
"That's what you paid me for."
Sam didn't flinch. He had heard worse. Shaking his head sadly, he rubbed at a water spot on the bar.
"You're one of the kindest men I know, Doc. It breaks my heart to see you doing this to yourself."
"I used to think kindness was necessary in the world we live in." Paul downed his drink and passed the empty glass back to Sam. "I don't believe that anymore."
For a moment Sam looked as if he were going to refuse to refill the glass. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he mixed the drink and handed it to Paul. "I'll have Danny take you home tonight. He'll take good care of you."
Danny was Sam's son, a big strapping boy of seventeen. Once Paul had saved Danny, and now Danny would save him.
For a moment he watched the dark amber liquid swirl in the glass; then he lifted it to his lips.