AFTERGLOW (18 page)

"You know my father?" Mark asked, sipping his root beer, eyeing this woman whose black hair was bouncing all over her head.

Chelsea's eyes twinkled. "Yes," she said, "I guess I do know him, a bit."

"How long have you known my father?" Taylor asked.

"Not as long as I've known Torquemada," Chelsea said.

"Torque-who?" Mark asked.

"He was a very famous fellow who loved to ask people questions," Chelsea said.

"Oh," Mark said.

If the preceding minutes could have been called a conversation, there was a definite pregnant silence now.

Chelsea continued after a pained moment to Mark. "This fellow, Torquemada, if he didn't like the answers he got to his questions, he pulled out the person's fingernails." She splayed her fingers. "He wouldn't have had much luck with me, as you can see."

"Do you bite your fingernails?" Taylor asked, her voice a mixture of distaste and fascination.

"Only if I get mad at them," Chelsea said. "Actually, I type a lot and have to keep them short."

"You're a secretary?" Taylor asked, obviously horrified.

Chelsea cocked her head. Bloody little snob, she thought. David looked embarrassed. "And if I were, Taylor?"

Taylor realized she'd insulted an Adult and quickly retrenched. "Mother says that ladies don't work."

"And how about gentlemen?" Chelsea asked.

"That's different," Mark said.

"Why?"

David cleared his throat, wishing he'd never come up with this doomed idea. Before he could extricate everyone from this morass, Taylor said primly, "Grandmother Winter says that a lady is best served by allowing her husband to take care of her."

Dear heavens, Chelsea thought, that sounded like a recording! How ghastly! "How old is Grandmother Winter?"

"Old," said Mark.

"Her hair is silver," said Taylor.

"I suppose that's a step up from blue," Chelsea said.

"It is bluish," Taylor said.

Chelsea wanted a glass of white wine.

"Are you a secretary?" Taylor asked again.

"Tenacious, aren't you?" Chelsea replied.

"It's too bad you don't have a gentleman to take care of you," Mark said. "But your house is nice."

It's time to intervene, David decided at that last note of childish candor. "Chelsea is a lady, kids, and she isn't a secretary, she's a novelist. She writes books. Is that acceptable?" he added, his voice just a bit sharp.

Round, astonished eyes regarded Chelsea.

"Real books?" Taylor said.

"With covers and pictures?" Mark said.

"With sexy plots?" David said.

"Even with words and titles," Chelsea said, and burst into laughter.

"So that's why Dad bought you—"

"That's a surprise, Mark," David said quickly.

Children, Chelsea thought a moment later. What an odd experience, for sure. She rose. "Now, you guys, neither of you would last three minutes on a sailboat. You'd skitter off the deck with those shoes. Your father isn't in much better shape, either. Tell you what let's do, instead. Sausalito is a marvelous place to explore. We can do some shopping and feed the sea gulls and stuff ourselves with cookies."

Their eyes turned toward David.

"Sounds great to me."

They watched the ferry dock, wandered through the touristy shops and fed the sea gulls. "All right, sport," Chelsea said, turning to David. "Give me one of your credit cards. Taylor and I are going in this boutique and you, my dear, can take Mark shopping. This will be expensive, but, after all, you
are
a gentleman, and all of us are in need of care."

Both children looked dubious.

"David," Chelsea added just before they split up, "grubby stuff, okay?" She added to Mark, "Sailing is a messy business, but somebody has to do it."

"Now, Taylor, come with me. Meet you all back here in one hour!"

Taylor giggled at her image in the mirror. She was wearing prewashed jeans and a Sausalito sweatshirt. Pink sneakers were on her small feet.

The immense cost of looking casually grubby, Chelsea thought as she signed David's name to the credit card slip.

"What do you think, Taylor?"

"I think," Taylor said, her young voice suddenly very serious, "that Mother wouldn't like it."

"In that case," Chelsea said, "you can leave your things at my house. You ready to do a cartwheel for your dad?"

Margaret dropped her bomb the following afternoon. They'd just returned from Chinatown, and the kids' feet hurt from walking up and down all the hills. David wished he'd brought their sneakers home from Chelsea's house for them. Margaret looked as unmussed and immaculate as usual. "Children," Margaret said, "I want you to go into your room and play with the puzzle I bought you."

"Regular little soldiers, Margaret," David said.

"They mind," Margaret said. "And so should all children."

"I suppose so," David said wearily. "It's just that they don't seem to have as much life in them as before."

"How would you know about that? Did you expect them to hang about your neck with joy? You were home so rarely, after all."

He wanted to retort with something suitably snide, but there was a lot of truth to what she said. He'd wanted to avoid her, and thus had also avoided his children.

Margaret continued after a moment, her voice very matter-of-fact. "I'm delighted your attitude had become more parental—"

"What the hell do you expect? I love them, Margaret!"

"Yes, of course you do," she said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

He stared at her, then frowned. "All right. What's up?"

"He's a general in the army and I want to fly to Honolulu to see him."

"What?"

"His name is General Nathan Monroe, and I met him at a party in Boston. He's a very nice man, a widower, and I want to spend some time with him. That's why I brought the children here, to you."

She's acting like a child who needs her parents' permission, David thought blankly, staring at his ex-wife. Did she believe he would have refused her if she'd called with her plans before flying out?

"That's great," he said for want of anything better. A general, for God's sake! He pictured his children goose-stepping, then chided himself for being ridiculous.

"How long do you plan to stay in Honolulu?"

He watched, fascinated, as a flush spread over her cheeks. It brought back an ancient memory. Before they were married, he'd asked her to spend the weekend with him at the Cape. Hadn't she flushed then, just as now? And she'd said yes then, too.

"Actually," Margaret said calmly, "Nathan and I plan to spend a week in Honolulu, then a couple of days on Maui. Then we play to fly to Washington to spend a couple of days with his daughter and son. I was hoping you wouldn't mind if the children accompanied us to Washington."

"I see," David said. "That will be fine, of course."

"If it's all right with you, David," she continued, "I should like to meet this Chelsea person. Mark mentioned that he'd never met a lady like her before. Taylor said she wrote books. Is she a proper person for them to know? Or is she
very …
California?"

"What exactly does that mean?" he said.

Margaret shrugged. "Well, I'm not really certain. Being from California brings a certain
image
to mind, I suppose. Hippies and drugs and all that."

"Margaret, that was back in the sixties."

"No need to raise your voice, David. If you aren't concerned about the type of person you introduce our children to, I am. It's important that they aren't exposed to any bad influences."

He could only stare at her. He said finally, "Chelsea Lattimer isn't a type, Margaret. She is, as a matter of fact, a very loving, warm person, who also just happens to be very talented."

"What type of books does she write?" Margaret asked.

"Long historical novels," David said absently. Then he smiled. "They're the ones with the wild covers, filled with adventure, romance and intrigue."

"Good heavens," Margaret said suddenly, "I thought her name sounded familiar! I've seen her books, if one could call them books!" She shuddered. "Not exactly biographies of Winston Churchill, are they?"

"No, and I imagine that she sells a good deal better," David retorted. "Her novels are not only well written and historically accurate, they're excellent escapism, just downright fun, as a matter of fact."

"Yes, certainly you're right." Margaret turned toward the window, saying over her shoulder, "As I recall, you don't approve of women who are, shall we say, independent, out on their own, without male protection. It surprises me that you would see a woman who is that way."

There was a brief, pained silence. Was I really such a jerk? David was asking himself. Out of self-protection, he didn't decide at that moment on an answer.

"I gather she makes a good deal of money?"

"I don't know what she makes. It's none of my business, but I should say that she does quite well."

Where the hell is all this leading? David wondered. All too soon he discovered the circuitous direction of Margaret's thinking.

Chapter 11

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^
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"
H
ave you met the Winston-Barnetts?" Margaret asked, turning from the window to face him.

"Certainly," David said. "Mr. Winston-Barnett—Andrew, I believe—is a broker on Wall Street, isn't he?" At Margaret's nod he said, "And he has a son and daughter. Why do you ask?"

"His daughter, Andrea, is now living here, in San Francisco."

"So?"

"As you know, she and I went to school together, at Vassar. She's a widow now, but her husband left her quite well off. I thought it would be
…
kind of you to see her."

David pictured an Andrea of nearly ten years before. Tall, very Nordic-looking, with pale blond hair and light blue eyes. He said only, "I seem to remember her."

"She, of course, doesn't write books or anything like that, but she has our—your—background, David. She admitted to me a few months ago that she would very much like to see you. After her husband's death she went back to her maiden name."

"Must take up a lot of space on a check," David said.

"She is a very well-bred, lovely lady," Margaret said, keeping her temper in check. One could never tell with David. Particularly since he'd left Boston. She did not appreciate unpredictability. It was, in fact, rather annoying. Thank heaven Nathan was enchantingly predictable.

"I'm certain she is," David said. "Honestly, Margaret, this sounds perilously close to wife swapping!"

"Her husband died in a plane crash," Margaret said. "There is no swapping involved, David."

"Why the devil is she interested in seeing me?"

"She has always admired you," Margaret said, her voice cool now, her tone denying that she approved of this idea. "As I said, she is also financially independent, just as
your …
friend is."

"Can it, Margaret," David said. "I have no interest in Andrea. I never did. If I recall correctly, she appeared about as warm as a fish that had been on ice for six months."

"She doesn't wallow in things like that," Margaret said, her cheeks flushing just a bit, not with embarrassment, but with anger. "If sex is what you're referring to."

David grinned; he couldn't help himself. Then he laughed. "I don't suppose you told her that I was a sex fiend?"

"I expected that you'd gotten over that some years ago. At least, you did with me."

"It isn't that I got over it," David said, still chuckling. "It's just that I gave up on you. Incidentally, just how old is this general fellow? Perhaps he's given up on sex?"