The You I Never Knew Part 7

"So can I be excused?" he asked.

His mom nodded. "Go ahead, honey."

"Thanks... for dinner," he said, then hurried out into the cold night. When he got to his own room, he collapsed on the bed, clicked on the TV, and realized that working outside in subfreezing temperatures all day had made him more tired than he'd ever been in his life. He was asleep before he even remembered he meant to call Claudia.

Monday

Chapter 9.

You're kidding, right?" Cody asked at the breakfast table.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Cradling a coffee mug between both hands, Mich.e.l.le regarded her son in the clear light of the mountain morning. His cheeks were stuffed with blueberry m.u.f.fin. Chewing slowly, he washed it down with a big gulp of black coffee.

When did her son start drinking coffee-black, of all things?

He took a final swallow. "I said, you're kidding, right?"

She'd heard him the first time, but making him repeat himself for the sake of manners was ingrained in her. Funny how he'd never learned that lesson. The second time around, he was supposed to fix his tone of voice, ask his question politely and without food in his mouth. Yet in all his life, he'd never done it.

Maybe he kept thinking she'd get tired of correcting him. He'd worn her down on so many other matters. When he wanted something-ridiculously expensive shoes, a pierced ear, a s...o...b..ard-he became like water dripping on a rock: constant, incessant, wearing her away until she caved in.

"No," she said. "I'm not kidding. You're going back to Mr. McPhee's today."

"I'm not going." Cody jutted his chin defiantly and held up his hands, palms facing out. "I have blisters because I spent eight hours shoveling horses.h.i.t yesterday. Horses.h.i.t, Mom."

Mich.e.l.le felt her lips twitch. Laughing now would enrage him, so she composed herself. "When Mr. Bliss dropped you off yesterday he said there was lots more work to be done and to be there at nine again."

"That sucks." He shoved back from the table, giving his long two-colored ponytail an insolent toss.

"What sucks is backing the car into a guy's trailer," she reminded him. What sucks is that the guy's your father, and I have no idea how to explain it to you.

"So go get ready." She put the mugs in the sink. "I need to phone Brad, and then we'll leave."

"Hey, I was going to call Claudia-"

"Later. When you get home tonight-"

Cody curled his lip. "I'll call her when I d.a.m.n well please."

Her face felt hot, burning hot, yet the anger was directed at herself. When he spoke to her like this, she had no idea how to make him stop. It was frightening sometimes, knowing how completely out of her control he was. "Let's not argue, Cody. Gavin and I have an appointment in Missoula and we need to get going. In case you've forgotten, we're here for Gavin."

Cody tugged on his jacket, yanking out a pack of Camels, flashing them as he jerked open the door. "Yeah, I almost forgot. You're here to offer spare parts to your long-lost father."

The kid had great timing. He knew just when to pick a fight. She had to call Brad, drop off Cody, and accompany her father to Missoula. She didn't have time to deal with the rage and the hurt that had been ricocheting between her and her son since he turned sixteen.

The kid's mad at the world. Sam had seen that instantly.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and punched in Brad's number. He sounded groggy when he picked up.

"Oops," she said. "I forgot you're an hour earlier."

"Hey, babe." A sleepy smile softened his voice.

Mich.e.l.le tried to relax, but she was too jumpy. "I wanted to call and say hi. I miss you."

"Miss you, too. Is everything okay out there? Do you need me to come out?"

What she needed, she realized suddenly, was for him to come without asking. To understand her well enough to know that of course she needed him. She was facing a terrifying ordeal; he was supposed to support her.

Dumb. If he showed up now, he'd be bored and fretful about missing work, and Mich.e.l.le knew she'd feel guilty and that would make her cranky, and then she'd have a terrible att.i.tude about the surgery. She shook her head, trying to veer away from that line of thinking. It was enough that he'd promised to fly in the day of the surgery.

"No, we're fine," she said. "Did anyone call?"

"Natalie." Distaste rumbled in his voice; he'd never liked her best friend. An oft-unemployed cellist, Natalie Plum was the original free spirit. She drove a diehard planner like Brad crazy. "She's bringing her stuff over to your house today."

"Good. I was hoping she'd house-sit while I'm away. So how was your weekend?"

"Excellent. Dinner at Canlis with the Albrights. A round of golf at Port Ludlow. Babe, we should really look into getting a place up there. Mike was saying the lot values for the waterfront area have really shot up..."

She tuned out the monologue about real-estate investments. She did that a lot lately. He loved to collect things-resort property, sports equipment, luxury cars-displaying them to the world like hunting trophies. She admired his ambition, the way he was so driven to succeed in his career. In addition to the pharmacy, he had made a killing in the stock market, and money was an obsession with him. Sometimes she wished he'd slow down.

"... he's a vascular surgeon at Swedish, got into the resort development on the ground floor..."

Mich.e.l.le made the appropriate murmurs as her mind wandered further afield. She remembered the day she'd finally figured Brad out. He'd just put money down on a thirty-six-foot Hunter yacht, and she told him he was crazy. The vacation home, the ski lodge, the golf membership at Lakeside, the ski place at Whistler-he was wearing her out.

"Brad," she'd told him last summer while standing on the dock next to the gleaming new sailboat. "Wouldn't it be easier simply to become a doctor?"

His reaction had been unexpected and sharp. "No, G.o.ddammit. It wouldn't. What the h.e.l.l sort of question is that?"

He so rarely spoke in anger that she didn't press. But she knew she had touched a raw nerve. He used to want to be a doctor the same way she used to want to be an artist. Now he owned a chain of pharmacies and she was a commercial ill.u.s.trator.

She listened patiently as he finished his recitation. She waited for him to ask how Cody was doing, but he paused in the middle of talking, yawned, and said it was time to get up and into the shower.

"Wish you were here," he said, the suggestion in his voice both s.e.xy and familiar.

"Me too." Out the window she could see Cody puffing away on a cigarette. Dear G.o.d. Her kid was smoking, and she had no idea how to stop him. She wanted to tell Brad everything-that her father still had the power to make her cry. That Cody was doing his best to drive her crazy. That she had met Sam McPhee again.

That she couldn't think of anything but Sam-oh, s.h.i.t. She'd have to tell Brad. How was she going to tell him?

"I'll call you later, Brad."

"Yeah. Take care, babe."

She gathered up her coat and purse, pausing to glance into the mirror over the hall tree. What, exactly, did one wear to meet a transplant team? They sounded so important, so intimidating. Would they think her red wool blazer was too boldly colored? Should she have gone with the black angora instead?

She shoved aside the ridiculous questions. She was nervous about the appointment. She was nervous about being with her father again. She was nervous about Sam. Clothes should be the least of her concerns.

She stepped into boots and went out to find Cody. He tossed his cigarette b.u.t.t into the snowy yard.

Fixing a glare on him, she groped in her purse for car keys. "You know, you really should take up bungee-jumping from live power lines. It's a lot less risky than smoking."

"Very funny." He got in the car.

She didn't want to launch into yet another big lecture about smoking, not this morning. She had to be focused on her father.

When she'd first found out about his illness and bullied Gavin into the transplant, she started some of the tests in Seattle. Once she'd qualified as a donor, she had donated some of her own blood for the surgery ahead of time, and it had been shipped from Seattle and stored. She had more blood and X rays taken, did a lung capacity test, and did the twenty-four-hour urine collection study, a delightful routine she hoped she didn't have to repeat.

She felt as if she had been holding her breath for twelve weeks, and she was about to let it all out soon.

At today's appointment, the team wanted to go over more details, schedule a renal angiogram, and make sure she was mentally prepared for this.

She was not doing so hot on that count.

"So," she said, flexing her hands on the steering wheel. "What did you think of Mr. McPhee?"

"He said to call him Sam. And the other guy said to call him Edward."

"So what do you think of Sam?" She tried to keep her voice light, casual.

"He's okay."

"Just okay?"

"You want me to think he's great for making me work in the freezing cold like a farmhand?"

"Ranch hand."

"Whatever."

"I think, given the circ.u.mstances, you're lucky to get off with a few days' work. So you like him?"

"Did I say that, Mom? And why do I have to like anyone around here? We're leaving as soon as you finish this thing with your-with Gavin."

"I'm not leaving him until the critical period is over." She shuddered inwardly, horrified by the possibility that the surgery wouldn't work, that her kidney would be rejected. "It wouldn't hurt to make a few friends."

Trying to push that worry aside, she watched the scenery. The morning sun on the majestic landscape brought out the harsh poetry of the high country. The sight of blanketed fields and soaring mountains filled her with a strange yet familiar yearning. The truth was, she needed the mountains, the air, the clarity of light found only in Montana in order to paint. And maybe she needed to be the person she had been all those years ago, too. A person who dared to love, dared to dream.

But she knew of no way to recapture that young, naive self. The disappointment ate at her, a quiet dull pain, the surrendering of hope. Sometimes she believed her gift was only slumbering or maybe frozen inside, waiting. When she was pregnant with Cody, she had enrolled in a small liberal arts college, and for one glorious semester she had painted. She had a rare talent, and she knew it. Her instructors knew it. The gallery owners who approached her knew it. But making a career as a painter would take years of work and study and time.

After Cody was born, reality intruded. She counted herself lucky to land an entry-level position at an ad agency. Late at night, after Cody was asleep, she'd fall into a dream world that was hers and hers alone. Those hours were precious; the work she did was dark, important, and expressive. She produced dozens of paintings, working from pain rather than joy, producing fast as she was wont to do. Perhaps a part of her understood that the creative burst would fade away.

Time crept on, eating secretly away at her soul. Inch by inch, her imagination and energy deteriorated until she simply stopped painting. She dropped her art cla.s.ses and changed the direction of her dreams. It was easier to collapse on the sofa, take her precious baby boy in her lap, and read stories to him. Those paintings lay stacked against a wall in a spare closet. She rarely looked at them. Once Cody started school, she had more time to pursue her art, but she never did. The prospect terrified her. It was like standing in front of the door to a dark, forbidding room. She'd be nuts to go there.

At the firm she did good work, got promoted through the ranks, achieved some recognition in her field, and quit thinking about painting.

But sometimes she still wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

"I used to know Sam," she said carefully to Cody.

"I figured that out when he called you by name after I hit his trailer."

"He worked at my father's place. I met him when I came here after my mother died."

Before her death, Sharon Turner had advised Mich.e.l.le to start college straight out of high school. Always chilly, self-absorbed, and distant, Mich.e.l.le's mother had suggested a practical course of study in design or architecture. Her death had left Mich.e.l.le adrift, vulnerable. Terrified. And then, like the cavalry riding to the rescue, Gavin had made his offer. "Don't go rushing off to college at a time like this, honey," he'd said, his charm and warm sympathy palpable. "You'll never again get a year of your life to do anything you want. I showed your work to a local teacher, and he agreed to meet you. Come to Montana."

And so she had gone, never asking herself what he expected from the relationship, what he hoped it would become. Perhaps she had wanted to believe he acted out of selfless compa.s.sion, opening his home to the grieving daughter who hardly knew him. If there was such a thing as the cla.s.sic absentee Hollywood dad, Gavin was it. He had sent checks, phoned her, and showed up on significant occasions-her first ballet recital, her Bluebird fly-up, a dressage championship-and she'd been thrilled to stand back and let him be the center of attention. She remembered her first communion at All Saints in Beverly Hills, the girls in stiff white dresses and new gloves. She'd felt like a bride that day, and when her father, incandescent as the Holy Ghost and twice as handsome, came striding across the parking lot toward her, she'd squealed and wrenched her hand out of her mother's grip. Racing to greet him, she flung herself into his arms and he picked her up, swinging her round and round as she laughed with joy. She could hear camera shutters clicking and people whispering Gavin Slade. It's Gavin Slade. He's even better-looking in person.... The days with her father, few and far between, stood out vividly in her memory. When his visits ended she always experienced a gaping emptiness. The world was duller, flatter, when Gavin wasn't around.

She glanced over at Cody, waiting for him to say something else. Waiting for him to ask more about Sam.

But Cody said nothing, and neither did Mich.e.l.le. It wasn't the right time to bring up all the events that started here so long ago. They'd need hours for that. You always need hours to recover after a bombsh.e.l.l drops into the middle of your life, thought Mich.e.l.le. She pictured them buried by the rocks and relics heaved up by her confession. Each bit of rubble would have to be removed with care to avoid damaging the fragile, angry victim beneath it. Hours, yes. Maybe days. Maybe a whole lot longer.

When they arrived at Sam's place, Edward greeted them and set Cody to work loading avalanche fencing onto a stone boat on stout wooden runners. Sam was already gone, Edward explained, pointing at a snowmobile trail leading into the low, distant hills. A mountain lion had been lurking around, and Sam went to check it out.

Her eye wandered along the corrugated track while her knees turned to lime Jell-O. A reprieve, she thought weakly. For now, at least.

Chapter 10.

Gavin insisted on driving to Missoula. Mich.e.l.le couldn't discern his state of mind. He seemed quiet, preoccupied. A crimson rash marred the side of his neck. She wanted to ask him about it, but she didn't. Somehow it seemed too personal.

It was going to get worse before it got better, she knew. He'd told her this morning, a little sheepishly, that his last mistress had left him when she found out how sick he was. She'd recently sold her story to a sleazy magazine. Once it hit the stands, it was sure to bring the paparazzi flocking around like carrion birds.

Mich.e.l.le felt a peculiar violence when she thought about the mistress. Her name was Carolyn and she was about Mich.e.l.le's age. If I ever run into her, thought Mich.e.l.le, I'll set her hair on fire. It was one thing to sponge off a guy when you're his mistress, but to sell the story after dumping him was disgusting.

The road to Missoula rolled out in front of the chrome-grilled truck, and the land was deep and stark, lit by a sun that shone brighter than anywhere else in the world.

"It's a boring drive to the city. You might want to get some shut-eye," her father said.

A little hitch of disappointment caught in her chest. Part of her wanted to talk with him, to get to know him. But another part kept its distance, circling warily around the whole bizarre situation. It would be n.o.ble indeed to insist she was going through this because of the selfless filial love she felt for him, but how much of that love was a sense of obligation?

And was there any way to tell the difference?

She used to know exactly what love felt like. She closed her eyes against the glaring snowscape and let the years roll away until she was back in the past again, the week before Thanksgiving, 1983. A fresh snowfall had blanketed the farm. Flush with excitement, she'd rushed into the guesthouse Gavin had set up as an art studio for her. There, on a sunny morning not much different from today, she had finished the best painting of her life. After laboring over theory and composition with Joseph, she had produced something of merit and value. She couldn't have known back then that she would never again equal that effort.

She had painted for hours, stopping when Sam came in from work, his cheeks chapped and his lips cool until he warmed them by kissing her. She was covered in paint and all awash with the wonder of creating a work that grew from every level of her heart. He'd peeled oranges for her and brewed steaming cups of tea while she worked. And when she took a break, he'd made love to her.

"It's unbelievable, Mich.e.l.le," he'd said that chill November day, tackling her on the low sofa in front of the woodstove.