Whisper Privileges (6 page)

Pleased, he ordered the drink, took a sip
from his beer and commented, “Your friend’s quite a pistol.”

“Yes, among other things.” Sydney smiled. “A
real live wire, that one.”

“She work with you and Charlie?”

“No. She’s a lawyer. Works with my cousin,
Diego.”

“He was the guy who stopped by the other day,
right?”

“Yes,” she replied, noting that
someone
has a good memory.

“So how did you fare in the tournament?”

“We won.”

“Way to go.” He brightened and raised his
drink in cheers.

Sydney gave a hollow clink from her glass to
his bottle and added, “My teammate sprained her ankle during the
last set, so it was a good thing it was our final match or who
knows. Things could have ended much differently.”

He grimaced. “Bad?”

“Nothing that won’t heal.”

He shook his head in admiration. “You two are
some amazing players.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, warmed by his vote of
confidence, though she doubted the man even knew what constituted
“good” when it came to volleyball. But did it matter? Sometimes it
was enough just to hear the words. She glanced at his left hand and
saw no ring. “So where’s your son?” She looked around, as though
she’d somehow see him. “Is he here?”

“No, not yet. He’s with my parents back home.
He comes down with his coach and the team on Saturday.”

“They fly in on private jets, don’t they?”
she asked, accepting her drink from the bartender with a nod of
thanks.

“That they do, the day before opening
ceremonies.”

Responding to the bartender’s questioning
glance, Sydney slid the twenty dollar bill toward him. “She said
this was for you.”

The man took it without hesitation. “Let me
know if I can get you anything else,” he offered, his previous
animation gone. Dutifully, he cleared Sam’s martini glass from the
bar and moved on to the next patron.

Sydney learned that the special flight
project that transported the athletes to the events started with a
couple of planes volunteered by Cessna and over the years had
blossomed into a major undertaking. But like most things associated
with the Special Olympics, it seemed volunteers signed on in
droves. This weekend they were expecting hundreds of private jets
to fly in, all provided free of charge to the athletes. She thought
it was an extraordinary venture in size, scope
and
generosity.

“It’s a very big deal for him,” Clay said.
“He’s so excited he can hardly stand it. These events are all about
the team, the competition, and as one of the better swimmers, he’s
feeling center stage right now.”

“You didn’t want to fly down with him?”

“When it comes to the national games,
families are welcome, but sidelined. We don’t get VIP treatment
like the athletes do.”

Sydney couldn’t tell if Clay viewed this as a
positive or negative.

“Actually, Q wants to hang out with his team
this week.”

“Q?”

“That’s my boy’s name—Q.”

“That’s an odd name,” she said, more thinking
aloud than anything.

He chuckled, unaffected. “I come from one of
those families that hands down names like most people hand down the
family jewels—or china—depending on where you come from. In our
family, every first born son is a Charles and I’m the third.”

“I didn’t know Clay was short for
Charles.”

“It’s not. I’m Charles Clayton Rutledge the
Third,” he said with an imperious flair, thickening his southern
drawl, exaggerating the importance of his title. “But as you’ve
already seen, we have quite a few ‘Charlies’ running around South
Carolina. No need for another.”

Her sentiments exactly, Sydney thought with
more than a touch of disdain. Yet she found this tradition curious.
“So you chose to go by your middle name?”

“Yes, ma’am. And my son is the fourth, so we
call him Q—short for quad.”

“Interesting.” Odd, but interesting at the
same time.

“Anyway, when my parents suggested I head
down early for a few days on my own to catch up with Charlie, Q
seemed happy about it. He’s staying with them this week and once
they see him off at the airport, they’ll drive down.”

“No wife?” she asked the obvious.

Melancholy deepened the blue of his eyes to
near navy and Sydney regretted asking.

“No.” He sipped from his beer. “She and I
divorced when Q was three. It was shortly after we received his
diagnosis of autism.”

His wife left after the diagnosis
?
Instinctively, she reached over but stopped short. She hardly knew
the man. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and closed her fingers into her
palm. He looked at her hand. Slowly, she pulled it back adding,
“That must be so hard on you.”

Clay drew his beer closer and stared at the
bottle as he seemed to consider her comment, turning it about in
his mind as if evaluating its validity.

A man leaned over the bar to her right, his
body so close they nearly touched. Catching a rise of his cologne,
the musky scent reminded her of Javier. Sydney turned her shoulder
away as the bartender clicked into service. “What’ll it be?”

“Two Coronas,” he ordered.

The bartender nodded. “Coming right up.”

“It can be tough,” Clay said, drawing her
back to him. “But I have family back home. They help out a
lot.”

“Sure, but they can only do so much.” Unless
they lived together. She sharpened her gaze on the blond stranger.
Did Clay and his son live with his parents
?

“That’s true,” he agreed. “But for me, it
always comes back to how hard it must be on him. Everything
requires more effort for Q than most.”

“I can
imagine
.”

“It’s not that hard,” he remarked.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like
that
,” she
said, the tips of her ears flushing hot. “I only meant that it must
be hard to deal with, you know, with his special needs and all...”
Sydney hated that she stumbled, but she had no sense of how to
respond. This was not her department! Kids were not her
department!

“It’s okay,” he replied quietly. “Unless
you’ve rolled out from my side of the bed you can’t possibly know.”
He brandished a smile.

“I guess,” she stammered. Sydney slid her
drink closer. Was he
flirting
with her?

Clay assumed a playful tone and said, “Sorry.
Couldn’t resist.”

She smiled, uncomfortable but enjoying him at
the same time. “No problem...”

“Your smile is nice.”

The abrupt switch tripped her pulse. “Thank
you,” she replied, then dodged his gaze again. She encircled the
stem of her martini glass with her hands and stared at the orange
liquid. But rather than do the same, she could feel Clay staring at
her.

“That shade of blue is pretty on you.”

“Thank you
again
...” she said,
stressing in her tone that they weren’t talking about her, but his
son. Struck by his ease with compliments, she turned to him.
Growing up, no one ever told her she was pretty. Not her mother,
not her father. They told her she was good at sports. As an adult,
the compliments came to her but she chalked them up to one thing:
men wanted sex. Men would say most anything to get sex.

Allowing his gaze to linger, Clay shrugged
his shoulders. “What can I say—life with Q is complicated. Even at
twelve, he requires a lot of attention. While I love him to death,
it can be hard on me. He’s made a lot of progress, but we still
have frustrating days.”

Frustrating
? Sydney couldn’t imagine
what his average day must be like when things were going
well
let alone on a bad day. She envisioned it would require
constant care—every minute, every hour. Could the boy ever be
alone? Could he feed himself? Bathe himself? Sure he wasn’t here
with him now, but only because his grandparents were caring for
him. It must require his time 24/7 to care for his boy.

But with no personal experience, she felt at
a loss for something intelligent to say. It seemed like a sensitive
subject to her and she didn’t want to say anything stupid or
hurtful—though she found herself intrigued by the situation. “How
could a mother leave her child?” she asked, before common decency
had a chance to intervene.

“Q wasn’t what she expected and she couldn’t
handle it.”

“I’m
sorry
—” Her pulse thumped against
her ribcage. “That was rude of me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t. I offered the information.”

But seriously, she calmed the pound of her
heart with a deep breath, she couldn’t comprehend the mother
leaving just because her child had autism. Fathers left, sure. But
mothers? Sydney wanted to say something meaningful to demonstrate
that she understood, but she didn’t. Instead, she chose to sip from
her martini. If Clay wanted to continue, he could—but she wasn’t
about to push. Aware he was watching her, she mis-sipped causing
the alcohol to tingle across her lips.

“That good, huh?”

“What?” she asked, the tangy mango still wet
and heavy on her lips.

He shook his head and emitted a half-chuckle.
“Nothing.” But his smile suggested otherwise as his gaze idled on
her mouth.

Sydney rolled her lips together and avoided
his eyes—hot eyes, blazing eyes—eyes that were taking her in even
now as she tried to evade them.

“We were young,” he continued, as though
nothing passed between them—but something had—Sydney was sure of
it! “She worked the beauty pageant circuit and didn’t know much
else. She had big expectations from life, from marriage... From
everything, really.” He shrugged again. “They didn’t pan out for
her.”

The sentiment was stated so plain and casual,
Sydney couldn’t be sure if he was sad, mad, glad, or indifferent.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. Weak, but it was all she had. Parents
left. It happened. Life wasn’t always fair. Ask her, she could tell
you. Though leaving a child with special needs seemed a heck of a
lot harsher than leaving a perfectly normal teenage girl.

“It’s past tense,” he said. “But when she
left I realized I had to buckle down. My son needed me and there
were no other options. I was it. I wasn’t going to abandon my son.
Whatever happened, whatever the future was going to bring, he would
always have me.” Clay took a swallow from his drink and tossed
Sydney a smile. “It’s pretty much been smooth sailing ever
since.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

But Clay shook his head. “With the right
attitude, it’s true. Once we set our mind to something, we can do
anything. At least I can.” He winked. “Which means I’d be careful,
if I were you.”

Sydney’s heart caught. “Why?”

He walked his fingers across her wrist then
pointed at her. “Cause I’ve got my eye on you.”

Sydney felt a hot rise to her cheeks at the
startling shock of intimacy. Cloaked in casual touch, it sent a
rampant heat across her breasts. While she enjoyed the attention,
she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. She’d never dated a man
with a child, let alone a special needs child.

And
date
? Who even said anything about
dating? She raised her glass for another sip, the mango losing the
crisp edge of its chill. They were just chatting. Sam ditched her
and she was finishing her drink, nothing more and nothing less.
Okay. Her second drink. The man was flirtatious. It didn’t mean
anything.

“But in all seriousness,” he changed subjects
easily. “I will tell you that it’s my ex-wife’s loss.”

The statement gave her pause.
Was that
conceit talking
? She slowly turned back to him.

“I’ve learned more from my son than anywhere
else. Q has taught me how to be patient. He’s taught me to be
grateful for the things I have and has shown me what’s truly
valuable in this world.”

The statement tugged at her heart and Sydney
felt every bit as captive in his gaze as if he had pulled her into
his arms and closed tight.

“Life’s pretty simple when you have a handle
on the important stuff.”

“I guess...” Sydney murmured.
Depends on
what you’re looking for
, if you asked her.

“Do you have anyone special in your
life?”

She shrank from the pointed question and her
initial instinct was to tell him it was none of his business. But
after what he’d shared, Sydney decided there was no harm and
confessed, “Not really. Not anymore.” Uncertain as to why she added
the last part, she wondered if Javier ever really meant anything to
her. She’d believed he did at the time, but since? She peered at
Clay and considered his situation. While she and Javier may have
felt madly in love, almost intoxicatingly so, she didn’t think it
rose to the level of what this man was talking about.

Clay clued in to her silence. “Makes a
difference.”

Sydney mulled over the assertion. Yes, it
does.
Unfortunately, not always a positive one
.

Chapter Five

Sydney balled up the pink message paper and
threw it at her computer screen. She didn’t want to call the
Mayor’s office. She didn’t want to speak at opening ceremonies. She
shouldn’t have to, either. Maybe a last ditch plea to Javier would
work. She’d force some sense into that dense skull of his and
convince him it was a mistake.

Her phone rang and she snatched it from its
cradle. “Sydney Flores,” she fired into the receiver.

“Hey, Sydney.”

She clenched the phone and replied, “Hi, Dad.
What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you had those tickets for
me for the golf tournament.”

“Sorry, but I’m not working the event.”

“But you can still get your old man some
tickets, right?” he asked, unconcerned with what it would require
on her part. He only cared that he wanted them.

“I can try.”

“Great. I’ll need four. Can you drop them by
the house this afternoon?”