17. Daphne
17
DAPHNE
I hear zip from Luke all weekend. I don’t catch a glimpse of him either.
I know I shouldn’t have expected otherwise, and I didn’t—but I did.
No doubt he’s ridden out of town when I wasn’t paying attention, content that he has set all to rights as he planned. He told me right up front that he’d leave and he’s evidently followed through on that. He’s probably forgotten all about me and Empire and Sierra by now. Maybe he’s even forgotten about the new café.
Maybe he’s calling Merrie and not me.
Maybe he’s calling Sylvia.
Maybe he’s with Sylvia, sorting out how they’ll be a happy family together. That’s the knife I twist in the wound in the middle of the night.
The truly crappy thing is that now I’m the one who wants more, and it’s too late.
And that’s what I get for believing people—well, one man—and feeling instead of thinking. Following impulse always leads me wrong.
We’re supposed to learn from our mistakes.
If I’m going to seize the day, I need to be faster.
I grumble about this to myself all weekend long, going through my usual routine. I clean the house on Saturday morning and do my laundry. I drive to Havelock and pick up some groceries in the afternoon, then have my weekly talk with Abbie. She’s annoyed about someone at work so I mostly listen. When she asks about Luke, I manage to deflect the question and admit nothing. I go to my dad’s for dinner on Saturday and he barbeques steaks. It’s almost warm enough to eat on the patio but not quite. He’s in a great mood even if I’m not.
I stay in bed to read on Sunday—wishing there was someone around to make coffee, someone whose butt I could admire while he was doing that—then Cameron texts me to go for a run on the beach at Port Cavendish. It’s such a beautiful sunny day that I go along, even if it means ignoring her questions and pointed glances.
I do check my phone a little bit obsessively, not that there’s any reward in that.
On Monday morning, I confront my sorry self in the mirror, tell myself to let it go, and head to work. My motivation is non-existent. I remind myself that I expected Luke to vanish. I expected once to be enough for him—even though I was wrong about it being enough for me. I expected him to be trouble—but I never expected him to be a delinquent father.
Well, that’s it and it’s huge.
It’s also stupid, because condoms fail, but still, I feel betrayed.
And that feels even more stupid. I barely knew him sixteen years ago.
My father is at work already, of course, and offers a cheery wave from his office. He seems to be highly amused, although I’m not in on the joke.
No one has mentioned the previous Friday morning, which is just fine by me—especially after Friday night’s revelations. I’m not sure anyone else knows about it, other than my dad. There is a bustle of activity across the street and I see Willow heading toward the bistro with purpose.
It seems my part in this particular drama is over.
Mrs. Prescott clears her throat, then indicates the office answering machine. (Yes, we still have an actual answering machine, a little box that sits on her desk with a red light that blinks when it’s done its job.) “I believe this is for you,” she says primly, pushes the button then goes into my father’s office. Normally, I’d be amused that she goes through the motions of giving me privacy to listen to a message that she’s already played, but not today.
Because it’s Luke.
“Hey Daph,” he says, his voice surprisingly rough. My heart does its caged bird thing, right on cue. “Looks as if I need an angel of mercy and I only know one good candidate. I’m a guest of the Havelock police, at least until someone helps me out, and I’m hoping it will be you. Thanks.”
I play it again, just to be sure, then straighten to find Mrs. Prescott watching me with undisguised disapproval.
Suddenly, I understand what my dad was smiling about.
I duck my head around the door to his office. “I have to go to Havelock this morning.”
“Oh?” He is not surprised. He’s enjoying himself—too much.
“Luke’s been arrested and told them I was his lawyer.”
My father chuckles. “Your young man,” he teases. “He’s more interesting than the last one, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s not my young man. He’s my client,” I correct and Dad laughs out loud. “Why is this funny?”
“It’s not funny.” He sobers with an effort but his eyes keep twinkling.
“You look like you’re planning to have a good chuckle with Patrick about this.”
“Not me,” he says with such resolve that I believe him. “But I was recently reminded that clever people need challenges to feel as if their efforts matter. I never expected this young man to step up so effectively.”
I’m going to ask who offered that advice—if that’s what it was—but the phone rings and Mrs. Prescott intervenes.
“Mr. Cavendish for you, sir.”
“Of course. Right on time for our call.” My dad reaches for his phone before indicating that I should shut his office door behind me.
Why is Luke in jail? What did he do?
When did he do it? Is this the reason he’s been AWOL all weekend? Or am I making excuses for him? Why would he call the office instead of my cell phone?
I’m in my car before I realize that Luke could have called his mom for help. She’s right in Havelock. Should I be flattered that he called me instead?
No. His mom isn’t a lawyer. I’m more useful .
And of course, he’d want to protect her from this truth.
Breaking and entering. At the Foreman place, against every expectation. Why there? It’s been empty for years. Also, Patrick is the owner of the building. Did that contribute to Luke’s decision?
To the cop on the other side of the desk, it’s not complicated. A neighbour saw suspicious activity around an empty building and called the cops. They arrived, found Luke where he shouldn’t have been, and arrested him.
But there are no damages and nothing missing. To my amazement, the property owner doesn’t want to press charges. That seems out of character for Patrick, but I’m not going to complain. Even the neighbour doesn’t care anymore.
I do tell the officer which Luke Jones he is, and it turns out that Luke has fans in Havelock.
We agree that it’s mischief, that it won’t happen again, and that if it does, the repercussions will be more serious.
A big cop walks me down to the cell, I think maybe because he wants an autograph. The Havelock police station isn’t huge and it’s not stuffed to the rafters with dangerous criminals. There are a couple of holding cells, one of which is empty on this Monday morning.
I don’t expect Luke to be contrite. I’m not even surprised that he’s unrepentant.
I did not expect the jubilation.
But there’s no denying that Luke Jones is over the moon. He’s pacing back and forth, humming to himself and singing snatches of a song I don’t know.
Ivan Ross, Empire’s amiable town drunk, is propped up in the corner of the bottom bunk, watching Luke. Ivan looks rougher than the last time I saw him—a little puffier, a little paler, considerably less clean. You’d think the amount of time he spends in jail would loosen the clutch of his habit, but no luck so far.
“What do think, Ivan? This finale or the other one?” Luke hums something, his back to me as he waits for Ivan’s verdict.
“I like the other one,” Ivan says. “It sounds happier.”
“But it’s a ballad, Ivan. It’s supposed to sound romantic, not happy.”
“Ah.” Ivan straightens at the sight of me, and runs a trembling hand over his stained shirt as if that will make a difference. “Mz. Bradshaw! Come to spring me?”
Luke spins to face me and his eyes light. “Daph!” My heart goes skippity-bump with such predictability that I frown. Luke’s probably patented that expression of delight because it works so well on susceptible females. For all I know, it works on guys, too.
Ivan is watching him with a measure of adoration.
“Not today, Ivan,” I say, very aware of the cop who has escorted me. I look back and he murmurs something. “I understand that a counsellor from social services is on the way.” Ivan looks unhappy about this, but I’m relieved. I set that up for him the last time he was busted for singing in the middle of the night on Queen Street. He’s mostly harmless, but that doesn’t mean his addiction should continue untreated.
The cop remains behind me, his arms folded across his chest. I speak crisply, willing Luke to behave. It’s a long shot. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
He smiles just a little—yes, that smile—his gaze sliding to the watchful cop. “Good morning, Ms. Bradshaw. I apologize for interrupting your morning.”
“All in a day’s work, Mr. Jones.”
“I wasn’t sure you sprang felons free.”
“Small town.” I tick items off on my fingers. “I do divorces, real estate closures, power of attorney agreements, wills, bail hearings, court appearances, custody agreements, and whatever else the job demands. No criminal cases, though, so one day, you might be out of luck.”
He’s undaunted. “But today?”
“Breaking and entering downgraded to a public nuisance charge, which can be resolved by payment of a fee.”
“How much?”
I tell him. It’s nothing.
His dark brows rise. “Daph, what a shark you are,” he murmurs under his breath with a certain measure of admiration.
“I’m hoping you’re good for it,” I say.
“I don’t have any credit with you?”
I shake my head and he sobers, our gazes locking. He’s dead serious when he nods. “Understood,” he murmurs. The cop unlocks the cell and he steps out, then turns to wave to his former companion. “Be good, Ivan,” he says.
“And if I can’t be good, I’ll be careful,” Ivan agrees heartily.
We head out to settle everything up, the sergeant sticking close all the while. He’s young, younger than me, maybe even a rookie, but his size makes him intimidating. When everything is sorted and Luke is putting his personal possessions back in his pockets, I indicate our companion. “Sergeant O’Reilly was hoping for an autograph.”
The cop flushes, crimson rising from his neck to his hairline as we watch. “For my daughter,” he says.
“Of course,” Luke says smoothly. He visibly searches for a piece of paper and the sergeant pats his pockets, finally offering his notebook. “What’s her name?”
“Aurora,” the cop says and Luke signs a blank page in the notebook before handing it back. We leave the station together, and he starts to whistle the same tune he was humming to Ivan.
To be honest, it irks me that he’s not apologetic at all, much less offering an explanation. “Proud of yourself?”
“They used to know me well here.”
“It’s not something to be proud of.”
“Old times, Daph.”
“You look positively cheerful.” I stop beside the Honda, unable to explain why I’m so annoyed with him.
No. That’s a lie. I could make a list.
“I am.” Luke winks at me. “All’s right in the world, Daph, and not just because you rode to my rescue.” He stops on the passenger side of my car, watching me over the roof, so obviously waiting for me to ask that I do.
“Why is that?”
“Because the golden goose is back.” He flings out his hands. “I stink, Daph. I’m starving and I haven’t slept, but I can hear the music again, and let me tell you, that’s divine .”
“Glad to hear there’s an upside to being a delinquent father.”
“I am in an awesome mood.” He points at me. “While you are giving me your Medusa stare.”
“Medusa stare. Why do you say things like that?”
“Because I read mythology and fairy tales, and when I see a comparative, I call it. It was a scheme to add some depth to my lyrics, but actually, I really like those stories.” He nods at me. “And that expression could definitely turn a man to stone.”
I glare a little harder then unlock the car when it makes no difference.
“Are you offering me a ride or am I on my own now?”
“What do you want to happen?”
“I would like to explain myself to you.”
I raise my hands, inviting said explanation. Luke comes around the car to confront me. “You’re mad at me. That’s inescapable and so is my disappointment that I’ve let you down. But what you might not realize is that I am more angry with myself than you could ever be.” His eyes are dark and his voice is low. “I did the one thing that I was always determined to avoid doing, and I don’t even remember. What kind of garbage individual does that make me?”
He looks away, his throat working, and my anger dissolves.
“And there it goes,” he murmurs. “One great mood shot to hell by reality.”
“What did you do to end up here?” I ask quietly.
“I tried to remember. I retraced my steps from that night, the night I ran into Sylvia. And I remembered that she came out of the Grand Hotel, that she wanted to avoid Mike and his friends, that we went to the Foreman place, which was empty even then. Someone had left the bottle there and we went upstairs with it. After that, I have a gap. I remember being sick in the forest. I remember waking up on Una’s porch. In between, nada. And as I stood there, trying to remember anything about that night, the cops came.”
“A neighbour saw you enter the building.”
“I don’t doubt it. The cops emptied my pockets and took me to Havelock, and by the time I had the chance to make a call, my phone had died. I didn’t remember your number. You don’t have a landline, apparently, because there’s no listing for you, so I called the office and left a message.” He shrugs. “Not a lot of options.”
“You could have called your mom.”
“No.” He gives me an intent look. “Where did you think I was this weekend?”
“Gone.” I reach for the door handle but he stops me with a touch, his fingertips on my wrist. I look up. “You said you wouldn’t stay.”
“That was before , Daph.”
Before what? Before we had sex? Before he knew he and Sylvia had a daughter? I don’t know and I won’t ask. Once again, I’m awash in competing feelings and that makes me want to retreat to the safe territories of logic and professional indifference.
Fill that moat.
Lift that drawbridge.
Maybe get the boiling oil ready on the ramparts.
I open the car door. “Are you coming or not?”
“Not quite so Medusa,” he murmurs with appreciation. “Maybe one of the furies instead of one of the gorgons.” I look up and he grins. “I’m good with you haunting me forever, by the way.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m starving and I desperately need a shower. Both are significantly less chronic conditions.”
I fight a smile and get into the car. He gets in the other side and fastens his seatbelt. The car feels much smaller than I know it is, and his proximity can’t be ignored. I swear I can feel the heat of him—and he doesn’t stink, despite his insistence otherwise. I’m thinking inappropriate thoughts as I pull out of the parking lot. I’m intending to drive back to Empire and drop him off at the motel when he clears his throat.
“Actually, Daph, could we make a detour?”
“Anywhere specific?”
“Somewhere a little less glacial than inside this car,” he mutters, then continues before I can reply. “To my mom’s. I want to get my guitar. It’s maybe ten minutes out of your way, if you don’t mind.” He waits a minute, then continues. “I’d like also to consult you on a legal matter, so we can do that on the way, and you can bill me for it.” He casts me a sidelong glance. “Win-win, right?”
I’m skeptical, but I nod. He gives me directions and I head toward his mom’s house.
Whatever I’m expecting him to say, it’s not what he does say.
“So, Daph, if I want to pay child support to Sylvia, how do we make that happen?”
I miss a gear, and Luke doesn’t miss that.
“What? You didn’t expect me to do the right thing?”
“Sierra is fifteen. She won’t be a child much longer.”
“I didn’t know about her.”
“Because Sylvia didn’t want you to know.”
“Well, now I do and I want to make it right. Better late than never.” He sounds determined and I can’t help respecting his choice.
And he is my client. Okay.
“Well, there would be a negotiated agreement, a payment, probably paid monthly, in exchange for either custody or visitation. Basically, your financial support of Sierra buys your access to her. Visits are usually forfeit if payments are missed.”
“Sounds cold,” he says with disapproval.
“By the time parents get lawyers to sort things out, all friendly avenues have usually been exhausted,” I note and he nods. “Sylvia might just welcome a lump payment, given Sierra’s age, or she might not want anything from you.”
“She can’t deny me outright, though, can she?”
“You’ll probably want to request a paternity test to avoid that eventuality. It’s a wise choice before you make that kind of commitment anyway,” I say, sounding like the lawyer I am.
Luke is visibly indignant. “Because Sylvia wouldn’t know who fathered her child? I’m not going to imply that she’s a liar. She says it’s me, so I’ll respond accordingly.”
I frown. She hadn’t actually said it was Luke, though the implication was there. Before I can make that nit-pickity distinction, Luke continues.
“It sounds very carrot-and-stick the way you explain it, but does it have to be that way? Of course, I’d like to get to know Sierra and have a part in her life, but I don’t want the exchange to be defined so specifically. I’d prefer to support her, and get to know her if and when she wants to know me. Is that crazy?”
“No,” I admit. “It sounds nice. Respectful of her space.” I slant a glance his way. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“It’s right , Daph.” He’s glowering out the windshield. “Why wouldn’t I do what’s right? Why does everyone assume I’m an asshole?”
“Because you have been in the past?” I suggest.
“I’ve been angry in the past, but I’m over that.”
Fair enough.
When he looks at me this time, there’s a glint of humor in his eyes. “And even if I’ve been a dick in the past, Daph, remember, I’m on a quest to set that right.”
“So, support for Sierra.”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I do that?”
Ah, the Devil’s Advocate. One of my fave speaking roles.
“Well, it would have been right for Sylvia to tell you, but she didn’t. And it’s not like you’ve been difficult to locate.” I’m not really making excuses for him, just reviewing both sides of the issue. And, even though I didn’t consider it earlier, this result isn’t all Luke’s fault.
His tone turns fierce. “I’m doing it, Daph.”
I have to know. “Why? Sylvia’s not asking for it, and she might turn you down.”
“Then what happens?”
“You could sue her. There would definitely be a paternity test then and a lawsuit…”
“And all the lawyers make money,” he says with exasperation. I don’t argue because it’s true. “Let me put it this way, Daph,” he says and I feel the weight of his conviction. “I am the one person who knows how lousy it is to grow up in Empire, knowing you’re a Cavendish, having everyone else recognize that you’re a Cavendish, while Patrick tries to erase your existence. It’s more than ignoring you. He goes out of his way to make his views known and to turn others against you. And so, okay, I survived it and maybe it made me a stronger person, but that doesn’t mean that I want to stand by and watch him do the same thing to Sierra. And he will, Daph.” He’s grim. “He will .”
I have to say it. “After you leave town, you won’t see it.”
“Wherever I am, I’ll know . And if Sierra’s well-being is the reason we finally have it out, Patrick and me, then I’m ready for it. I’ll fight for her the way I didn’t fight for myself.”
“You don’t think you fought?”
“I made trouble. I stirred things up and provoked Patrick when I could. Then I left. I succeeded despite him. That’s not the same as holding your ground and fighting back.” He takes a breath. “And the worst part of is that she’s here , in Empire, within his range because I meddled . You were right, Daph. I should have minded my own business, but now I have another mess to fix. No one is going to stop me from doing it.”
I’m impressed. And I’m touched by his ferocious need to protect this girl without knowing more about her than he does. I think that Sylvia is going to have to go some to turn him down, and I have no doubt that she’ll try, but I’d put my money on Luke.
He’s frowning at the streets we pass, and indicates that we need to make a turn. It’s a residential area, neither new nor old. Maybe 80’s. The houses are similar but not the same and when he points out the one, I’m surprised. It’s a bungalow, probably the smallest house on the block, neatly kept with a tidy garden out front.
Nothing about it says ‘my son is a rock star.’
“This is the house you bought your mom?”
“It’s the one she wanted.” I feel the weight of his gaze. “You look surprised, Daph.”
“I expected a mansion, some huge fancy place.”
Luke smiles and there’s affection in his expression and his tone. “Then you don’t know my mom very well.”
I don’t. She used to cut my mom’s hair. I would say they were acquaintances, not friends. Friendly. I haven’t seen Louise since my mom’s funeral, an unexpected realization that catches me a little.
“She wanted a place she could manage herself, that she could stay in for the duration. She wanted a garden and a spare bedroom and her dream kitchen.” Luke raises a hand. “This is it. She said she knew it when she saw it.”
“Impulse runs in the family then?”
“Or maybe I came honestly by my inclination to trust my gut. Are you coming in?” he asks. “I won’t be long, but she’ll give me hell if I leave you to wait in the car.”
I smile at the prospect of anyone chewing Luke out and turn off the engine. “Yes. I’d like that.”
I’m curious, naturally, but that’s about more than the house. I want to see Luke and his mom together.
And I’m not disappointed. Louise is clearly delighted to have a surprise visit and almost smothers Luke in hugs and kisses. He appears to tolerate her fussing, with some objections, even though he’s a good foot taller than her. I can see that he’s loving it. He protests that he was there a couple of days ago, but she ignores that. She tousles his hair and tells him he’s too thin, then welcomes me with a radiant smile.
She’s a very pretty woman and looks younger than she has to be. Perfectly turned out. Her hair is dark, too, though not as black as Luke’s. More of a deep brown, and there are a few silver hairs mixed in. Her eyes are thickly lashed like Luke’s and clear green. She’s also tall and slim, so the genetic legacy was consistent. She’s comes across as warm and kind, the kind of person whose presence makes you smile. I remember that my mom really liked her.
In no time, we’re seated in her kitchen—which is cozy and yellow, with wooden cabinets and counters of veined stone with metallic flicks in it. The sunlight streams through the window and there’s a line of herbs on the sill, all thriving and green.
“I suppose you’ve come for a reason,” she says to Luke, her tone teasing.
“Actually, I came to get my guitar,” he says and something in his tone catches my ear. “And to see you, of course. Daph was good enough to drive me.”
He doesn’t mention where he spent the last two nights so I won’t either.
Louise turns to look at him, bracing her hips against the counter and folding her arms across her chest. “Your guitar?”
“Yes.” Luke is obviously discomfited.
She doesn’t relent. “You’re taking it away.”
“Yes.” He’s practically fidgeting.
I’m officially and unofficially intrigued.
“After all this time, you suddenly want your guitar?”
“What difference does it make?” he asks her. “I thought you’d be glad to have it out of your way.”
Louise exhales, the kettle boils and she turns around to make the tea. “Where are you going to keep it?” she asks, then glances at me as if she knows the answer already.
Why does this matter?
My mom was a huge fan of Neil Simon’s work. We used to have movie marathons on Friday nights when my dad was working late. The Odd Couple. The Sunshine Boys. Sweet Charity. Barefoot in the Park. The Plaza Suite. The Heartbreak Kid. She loved them all, the dialogue and the characterizations, and I loved them because she loved them.
That’s when I have it.
The Goodbye Girl. In that movie, the heroine is finally convinced that the hero is coming back because he leaves his guitar at her Manhattan apartment when he accepts an acting job elsewhere. The last actor she loved never came back from a distant job, so she had issues.
“I’m not sure,” Luke says, avoiding her gaze. “I just want to have it.”
“Doesn’t fit on your bike well,” she notes. “Are you getting a car?”
“No.” Luke sounds stubborn now. “I can take it back to Empire in Daph’s car.”
“And when you leave Empire?”
He gives her a warning look. “I’ll sort it out.”
Louise’s gaze slides to me and she smiles. The back of Luke’s neck is red and he pushes to his feet. “Didn’t you want me to check on that downspout that keeps disconnecting itself?”
“It’s probably the neighbour’s cat, knocking it loose on his midnight rounds.”
“I’ll put a couple of screws in it,” he says gruffly then makes what is obviously an escape.
“Take a shower while you’re here,” she shouts after him and I hear his grunt of agreement. Louise smiles at me. “And I’ll make lunch.”
I smile back. “Thank you,” I say and mean it. “That would be great.”
But what I’m really wondering is where Luke intends to keep his guitar.