I’m back.”
2
THE INACCURATE COMMENT had earned exactly the response Palmer was looking for. But that meant little when Penelope had walked inside the house with Barnaby, leaving him alone to see himself back out the garden gate.
“And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.”
The quote from Confucius that his mother had liked to parrot trailed through his mind as he walked toward the B and B. He slid his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants, considering the words of the other woman he had loved and lost. But this time to death.
Janice DeVoe had been so sweet that his father had once remarked that a body didn’t need sugar in his coffee when she was in the room. Of course, that had been long before things had turned sour. And before she’d gotten sick with an illness that she’d denied until it was too late.
She’d been fond of telling stories about her only child, the unchallenged sunshine of her life, of how he proclaimed nearly from the instant he could speak that he was going to be someone important, the richest man in the world and, if he could fit it in, president. And she’d encouraged him in whatever direction he wanted to go.
Until she lay near death, considering the son she’d loved so dearly … and the father that had initially been amused by the special mother-and-son bond, and then increasingly jealous of it.
That’s when Janice had spoken the quote one last time, calling on both of the men in her life to reconcile their differences and come together. Told them they would need each other now.
Then she was gone and he and his father had stared at each other, virtual strangers.
Shortly thereafter, Palmer had left. And aside from brief phone calls around the holidays and on birthdays, they’d barely spoken since.
Now, Palmer neared the corner of Maple and Elm streets and he stopped before crossing. Not because of traffic. There was none at this time on a Friday night. But because instead of walking straight toward the B and B he could turn right and within three blocks be on the street on which he’d grown up and had not been back to since he was nineteen.
“I’ll be in the area next week,” he’d said to his father during a recent phone call.
Thomas had made a sound. “I’ll alert the media.”
There had been no invitation to visit. No indication that he’d like to see him. Just a sarcastic remark that Palmer had left hanging in the air between them.
Before he knew that’s what he was going to do, he made that right and took the route he had taken so very many times before. Within minutes he stood in front of the house his mother had taken such pride in. A place he might not have recognized if not for the tilting, rusty mailbox at the unpaved curb that bore the family name.
The simple, one-story clapboard house had at one time been painted a brilliant white with powder-blue shutters. The flower beds had been full of color, the shrubs neatly trimmed, the grass mown. Now everything looked abandoned, as if the only owner had been his mother and no one had lived there since.
Palmer opened the gate that hung half off its hinges and stepped slowly up the weed-choked gravel path. The shrubs had grown unevenly to nearly halfway up the front windows and a newspaper sat on the cracked concrete front steps. He picked it up, verifying that it was today’s, and then leaned forward to knock. The screen door was so grimy that he hadn’t noticed the front door was actually open until he heard his old man’s gravelly voice as clearly as if he were standing next to him.
“What the hell do you want?” he called. “If you’re selling something, I ain’t buying.”
More words followed but they were said quietly and apparently not meant for whatever visitor stood outside the door.
How easy it would be just to turn away. To leave and pretend he’d never visited.
Palmer reached for the door handle only to find it was locked.
“I asked what in the hell you want.”
The old man stood directly on the other side of the screen door now, staring out at him.
Thomas DeVoe didn’t recognize him.
And Palmer wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the fact that he knew he was at the right house.
While his father had been tall, he seemed to have shrunk a few inches. Or maybe it was the way his shoulders curved forward as if unable to hold himself completely upright anymore. The three-day stubble on his face made it look even more haggard than it probably was, and his graying hair spoke of the fact that he was at least a month late for a visit to the barber’s. He wore a tank T-shirt that was more gray than white and his slacks would have fallen from his thin hips if not for the belt pulled tightly around them.
Palmer lifted the paper to wave at him. “Hi, Pops.”
Thomas squinted at him, the stench of liquor seeming to emanate from his every pore.
“I only have one son and you’re not him,” he said, and then reached to close the door.
No matter where you go, there you are …
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Barnaby asked Penelope for the third time in an hour.
Penelope slid her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked the fair paths, the scent of corn dogs and cotton candy filling the air along with the happy shrieks of children enjoying the carnival rides.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
Which was a bald-faced lie. She wasn’t fine. Her mind was still on the scene in the backyard before her date had arrived. And her body still hummed as if Palmer had touched her with more than his gaze.
She suspected the dream she’d had before encountering him hadn’t helped. But it was more than that. Putting together the Palmer of her past with the man of the present hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she’d thought it might be.
So many people she’d attended high school with had changed dramatically. Facial features had broadened or narrowed, grown fuller or thinner, some so much so that she often didn’t recognize them. Not Palmer. She could have picked him out instantly. Even in a crowd like tonight’s, her gaze would have immediately homed in on the man who was even more attractive now than he had been then.
Damn him.
“Would you like an elephant ear?” Barnaby asked.
Penelope squinted at him. “Pardon me?”
He pointed to a nearby food booth.
She laughed quietly in understanding, then looked down at where she absently rubbed her abdomen. She already felt as if she had a real elephant ear in her stomach and it was furiously trying to flap its way out.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Penelope faltered. “I’m sorry,” she said with genuine affection. “But I guess I’m not. I must have eaten something
