Reilly 12 - Show No Fear (29 page)

Three weeks later

A
FTER WIPING PEANUT BUTTER FROM HANDS THAT HAD
amused themselves all the way from preschool smearing the inside window of her car, Nina extricated Bob from his car seat. He had had even more fun making this process as difficult as possible, holding his arms tightly against his chest, laughing, refusing to budge once she had him unshackled. Finally, firmly, she picked him up and set him down. He ran screaming around the front lawn. She loaded his backpack onto her shoulder. Dragging herself to the mailbox, she collected envelopes.

Matt stood on the porch, watching, then took pity on her. “At least it’s Friday,” he said, removing the backpack slung on her other shoulder. Inside Aunt Helen’s cottage, a fire crackled. Matt’s boots dried on the hearth, stinking like cabbage. His college-application notes lay piled on the coffee table and he hadn’t got to the dishes.

Nina felt as warm as the orange logs in the hearth at these sights of normal life. She hung Bob’s pack on a peg by the door after peeking inside to make sure nothing would rot there overnight.

Matt was back with Bob and her, clean and detoxed, helping as much as he could. She smiled at him and collapsed onto the couch.

“What can I get you?” Matt asked.

“White wine, a half bottle in the fridge. Majorly large serving.”

“You’re not nervous I’ll suck it down and substitute lemon-flavored water?” Matt asked from the kitchen.

She heard liquid glugging into a glass. “Should I be?”

He sighed. “Call me responsible. Yes, I’m reliable.”

She leaned back, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, her wine awaited, poured into an actual wineglass. She sat up and took a sip. Matt knelt by the hearth, poking at the logs, adding to them, apparently hoping to create a raging bonfire in Aunt Helen’s big old fireplace.

Her face flushing in the heat, Nina stretched. She used a fingernail to peel open the mail. She slit open the phone bill, the utilities bill, the newspaper bill, the water bill, and made a neat stack to be dealt with when she felt financially sturdy some fine future day. Eventually, after discarding the junk onto the floor, which Matt confiscated for the bonfire he was nursing, she came upon a white envelope addressed in Jack’s handwriting.

She opened it. Inside, on a kiddie valentine, a boy in overalls presented a girl in a pink dress with a flower. “To my funny valentine, Nina,” Jack wrote. “Love forever from your Jack.”

He was in San Francisco this week, interviewing with some firms for a job.

“Why, Jack?” she had asked him when he’d first broached the subject of leaving the firm. “I thought you loved it here. I never pictured you leaving.”

“Lots of people to help, Nina, even in the city. It’s a great opportunity. I feel obligated.”

“Dreamer.”

“And you love that about me. Come along for the ride?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Not yet?” he had asked, hopeful.

She remembered smiling.

She closed the note. Her mother’s problems, Remy, all this turmoil, all had conspired to bring her to her own career decision. She had decided to go into criminal law. Like Jack, she felt obligated.

She flipped open another envelope. “Uh-oh.”

Matt looked up.

“Paperwork from the County of Monterey.” Nina held up a thin sheet against the fire, as if she could see through the paper. “It’s the DNA test results.” Matt came over to stand beside her while she read the contents of the notification and read them again. “What the—oh, no. Someone screwed up big-time. This is impossible.”

“Let me have that.” Matt took the paper from her hand.

Nina rubbed her mouth, then grabbed her glass, downing its contents in a couple of gulps. She coughed, then jumped up and paced the room.

“Don’t you worry, Nina. There’s an explanation.”

“This is impossible,” she repeated.

“Or—now don’t jump on me, Nina. Is this impossible? Maybe you made a mistake?”

She leaned into the fire, watched it flick, felt her heart flickering. “Oh, my God.”

“Ah,” Matt said. “You are human. Just as I suspected.”

A laugh rose and grew inside Nina until she could no longer contain it. She felt tears, relief, fear for the future. Holding her stomach, she asked, “Where’s Bob?”

“Comfy in his room, playing his keyboard.”

“Ha-ha—Matt—oh, oh—”

“What? What, Nina?”

“Richard’s not Bob’s father!”

“So they say. But—”

“Oh, I just can’t—this is too much—”

“The tests are right, aren’t they, Nina? It’s not impossible at all. Bob doesn’t have any Filsen DNA in him, does he?”

“So it—ha-ha—seems!”

“So who is Bob’s father?”

“I’m so happy it’s not Richard! I never saw him in Bob, but I thought that was because—oh, this sounds terrible, but it is absolutely true. I never wanted to see him in my son.”

“Nina—” Matt paused. “Do you now know for sure who Bob’s father is?”

She slapped his arm. “Of course I know.”

“Hey, I’m just asking.”

“I can’t think about what this means right now! I can only celebrate. Isn’t that awful?”

“You’re evading.”

“No. I just have to think.”

Matt stirred the fire. “Okay, so now what?”

“No idea.” Nina tossed down a handful of peanuts from a bowl. “Excuse me, Matt. I’m going to have a shower, then hug Bob till he screams for mercy. Then I am going into my room to laugh. And cry. Then I’ll be really hungry for dinner.”

“I’m making quiche, okay?” Matt said.

“You know how to make quiche?”

“Well, as a way to cope with the shakes and the shivers and the sweats, we had various life lessons. This one took. I mean, it’s not so hard: frozen crust, eggs, milk, and whatever the heck else spices you can find.”

“You found actual useful food in my fridge?”

“Leftover sausage. Leftover chicken. Leftover spinach. Chunks of cheddar and Havarti cheese. I bet you throw this stuff out, mostly.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, not tonight.” Matt moved toward the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway, silhouetted, still heartbreakingly young and so vulnerable. “I’m feeling pretty good. Guess what. I met someone.”

Nina thought about what that might mean. “Another recovering addict?”

“No. She’s a social worker named Andrea. Funny, huh? I think I’m in love.”

She hugged him. “I’m so glad for you.”

Moving into the hallway, Nina listened to Bob’s dissonant music. She heard Matt clanking around in the kitchen, finding lids, chopping on the wooden board. In the backyard, the sun turned vague as the evening fog drifted in.

Her mother’s favorite chair sat out on the front porch, rocking
slightly in the coastal wind. Nina gave herself a minute to sit out there on the porch step, feel the coolness, remembering. Early budding crocuses reminded her that spring was not so far away. Winter in California could end in a blink.

Spring, season of new starts.

Jack came up the walk.

Her heart lurched, watching him approach. She wanted to be in love, but she could settle for this good, warm man for now. Didn’t she deserve that much?

But she had made mistakes. Shouldn’t she avoid mistakes?

She doubted that she could. As her mother had said numerous times when she was young, before she got sick, and as Nina herself had repeated in her mind, if it’s not terrifying, it’s no fun.

Jack took her in his arms, and they watched together as the sun set in a riot of rose over the Pacific. Matt, with a delicacy she didn’t know he had, left with Bob as soon as they all finished eating.

Still holding each other, Nina and Jack staggered off together to her soft bed, the one she cried in and loved in and one day many years from now would probably die in.

O
UR GRATEFUL THANKS TO THE PEOPLE AT
P
OCKET
B
OOKS
/
Simon and Schuster who worked with us on this book: Louise Burke, our dedicated publisher; Carolyn Reidy, CEO and advisor; Dahlia Adler; Steve Boldt, meticulous copy editor; Lisa Litwack, art director in charge of the smashing jacket art, and above all, Maggie Crawford, who edited the manuscript with an unerring eye.

At Lowenstein-Yost Associates Inc., we want to thank Nancy Yost, as always, a powerhouse and rock all in one; her indispensible assistant, Natanya Wheeler; and Zoe Fishman, their foreign rights associate, who has been a vocal supporter.

Nita Piper, our dedicated assistant, has helped us with the business side and been a great friend, too.

Andrew Fuller, Steve Parker, and Joseph Ferguson all made valuable suggestions that helped the manuscript, as well as offered encouragement that was much appreciated.

Mary would like further to acknowledge the following people: Brad Snedecor, Doyle Maness, Bill and Ruth Dawson, Pat Spindt, and Jim Nicholas, for their unfailing humor, suggestions, and support; Pell Osborn and Joanna Tamer, who read the book way back when, and took it seriously.

Pam would also like to express appreciation to Michael Fuller,
Bruce Engelhardt, Caroleena Epstein, Cindy Chen, Elizabeth Vieira Pittenger, Harry Berger, the folks at Poetry Santa Cruz, and her friends and colleagues at tcp.com, who have been so generous with their time and talent.

And a tip of the hat to Kanani Cherry, who kindly made a charitable donation in order to have her name in our book.