Real Men Don't Quit(17)

“Sounds impressive,” Luke reluctantly answered. His father had never been good with money, but maybe without a family’s demands he’d changed.

“I do okay.” His father rested his hands on his knees. “Not as good as you, though. You’ve hit the big time.” Smiling, he sat up, his eyes brightening. “I’m really proud of you, son. Really proud. I always knew you were special.”

Yeah, so special you couldn’t hang around. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t spoken the words, but the rigidness in his face must have given his father a clue to his feelings. Patrick leaned forward.

“Son, I know you’re angry, and you have every right.” The earnest dark eyes moistened ever so slightly. “I let you down. I let everyone down.”

Damn him. Why couldn’t he bluster and make excuses so Luke could tear strips off him? Why did he have to look so frigging sincere? Luke shoved to his feet and started pacing the floor.

“Easy for you to apologize now, but no amount of groveling will ever make up for what you did to Mum. You left her to cope on her own. Have you any idea how hard she struggled raising five children all by herself? Sometimes she went without eating just to meet the rent.” His insides seethed, and he couldn’t stop circling the same bit of carpet like a caged lion.

“I’m not making any excuses for myself,” Patrick said quietly. “I know I did the wrong thing.”

Luke twisted around to face him. “Then why? Why the hell did you do it?”

For a long moment his father was still, then he lifted his shoulders. “Because I’m a feckless bastard, of course.”

“Ah, jeez.” Sucking in a breath, Luke flung his head back and stared unseeing at the ceiling. Confronting his father was like trying to wrestle a shadow. “Why are you here? What do you want from me? Money, is that it? You heard I’m earning a fortune now, and you thought you’d get a piece of it? Okay. Tell me how much you want, I’ll write you out a check, and you can be on your way.”

His father rose to his feet, face paling. The afternoon light streaming through the windows picked out his wrinkles with cruel clarity. “I didn’t realize you despised me so much.” His voice quavered. “I expected the girls to, but I thought you were different. I thought we shared something uniquethose books I left behind for you”

Luke’s gut twisted at the memory of those books, the volumes of poetry and classics his father had placed in his bedroom the night before he’d left forever. Luke had read those books over and over, surreptitiously of course, never letting his mother know about them for fear she’d think he was disloyal to her. He’d wanted to throw them away, but he hadn’t been able to. Time after time the books had lured him, drawing him into worlds far beyond his small-town existence. But every time he’d closed the books and hid them under his bed, the guilt had surged back.

“I don’t despise you, Dad.” If he despised anyone, it was himself for keeping those books.

Patrick lifted his head, his expression heartened. “You called me Dad.”

Hell. Unable to look at his father, Luke walked over to the table holding his laptop and made a show of tidying up a few papers. “Was there a purpose to your visit? Because I really need to get on with my writing.”

“Oh, I don’t want to disturb your work.” Pulling out a pristine handkerchief, Patrick dabbed at his cheeks. “I thought perhaps we could go out for a drink, but only if it’s convenient for you.”

The hands holding the handkerchief were gaunt, and there was a faint stoop to his shoulders. Fresh, unfamiliar guilt jabbed at Luke. This aging man with his old-fashioned suit, spiffy shoes, and pomaded hair was his father.

Luke cleared his throat. “How did you find me?”

“I rang your agent and spoke to a nice young girl.”

He guessed his silver-tongued father had had no problem extracting the information from the assistant. “You drove all the way from Sydney?”

His father nodded. “It’s a nice drive, and I like being on the road.” He pocketed the handkerchief and smoothed down his hair. “Look, I shouldn’t have turned up on your doorstep without warning. I’ll leave my number with you.” He drew out a business card and slid it onto the coffee table. “I’m down here for a few days. Maybe when you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll give me a ring.”

Not knowing what to say, Luke watched as his father walked to the door. “Whatever you decide,” the elderly man said, “know that I’m proud of you, Luke. I always dreamed of being a writer, but it never quite happened for me. Yet you’ve gone and achieved what I never could. Well done, son.”

His father left. A minute later, Luke heard the faint sounds of a car pulling off. Swearing under his breath, he stalked out the house and down the driveway, making it to the street just in time to see a navy-blue Mercedes gliding away.

As he watched, a bus lumbered to a halt a few meters away, obscuring his vision. Belatedly he saw Tyler and Chloe getting off the bus. Weighed down by shopping bags, Tyler was struggling to keep hold of them, her daughter, her oversize handbag, and her sunglasses. Without a word Luke walked over and relieved her of the bags. She started to thank him, but he was already marching to her door, where he waited for her to catch up and open it.

“Thanks.” She gave him a sunny smile, but for once its magic failed to lift his spirits.

Still silent, he followed her inside and dumped the bags on the kitchen floor.

Tyler tossed her handbag aside and pushed her sunglasses up to her hair. “What’s the matter?” she asked without preamble. “You look like your computer crashed and you lost all your work.”

Considering the state of his writing, that wouldn’t be much of a disaster. He eyed the skintight jeans and flimsy silk top she was wearing. After a hard day’s work and a bus trip, she still managed to look radiant and free-spirited. Under the balm of her presence, his boiling tension ease down a few degrees. He’d intended going straight back next door, but now the thought of his empty house didn’t appeal. For the first time in ages he felt the biting need to be with someone. No, not just anyone. He wanted to be with Tyler.

“What are you doing right now?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “Right now I’m planning on getting my ice cream into the freezer before it melts. I really need to get my car fixed soon. Catching a bus with my groceries is a nightmare.”

“Can I take you and Chloe out to dinner?”

Her eyebrows inched up even farther. “Now?”

He had no idea what time it was, but the sun was slanting in low through the kitchen window, so it couldn’t be far off dusk. “Yeah, an early dinner. Do you know any place around here we could take Chloe?”

“The Red Possum has a beer garden and bistro that caters to children.” She rested a hand on her hip, studying him pensively. “Are you sure nothing’s the matter? You look weird.”

“Not weird as in Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining weird, I hope.” He tried to relax his facial muscles. “I’ve just had a long day, and I could do with some company.”

She patted his arm. “We’ll be ready in a minute. Let me put the cold stuff away first.”

Half an hour later they were seated at a wooden table in the courtyard of the Red Possum. Chloe had found some playmates at the climbing frame set up in one corner, leaving Luke and Tyler free. Luke had a cold beer in front of him, but Tyler had stuck to Coke.

“I have to do a bit of work later on when Chloe’s asleep,” she explained. “I need to finish that Crystal Kerrigan piece. Then I can get my car running again.”

She talked some more about her jewelry making, and he listened keenly, eager to submerge the feelings his father’s visit had provoked. He thought he succeeded. Their meals arrived, and the food and Chloe’s chatter further distracted him. But after their empty plates had been cleared away, Tyler rested her elbows on the table and fixed him with a purposeful look.

“Now,” she said bossily, “are you going to tell me what’s biting you?”

No tiptoeing around the subject for Tyler. That was what he liked about her, one of the many things he liked about her. She knew something was worrying him, and she wanted to help. “My father showed up today. I hadn’t seen him since I was eight.”

Her eyes widened. “Tell me about him.”

So he did. He told her about his handsome, charming, shiftless father who couldn’t keep a job, couldn’t stay in one place, couldn’t remain faithful to his wife. A father who couldn’t provide for his family but built castles in the air. A father who couldn’t be there for his son but beguiled him nevertheless.

“Often he’d come home late from the pub, not drunk but a little tipsy,” Luke said, nursing the empty glass in his hands. “He’d wake me up and read me stories or poetry. I’d be half-asleep, struggling to stay awake while he read. I didn’t understand most of it, but I could sense the meaning through his voice and the rhythm of the words.”

“He nurtured your imagination,” Tyler said matter-of-factly. “You’re a writer partly because of him.”