Grant heard Ryan clomp down the tiled hall to his room. His door slammed, and instantly the house pulsed with the sounds of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Grant shut his eyes, took a deep breath and reminded himself that Ryan was still just a kid. A kid who’d had too much autonomy for too long. That was Grant’s fault.
In sudden need of air, he fled to the patio. He’d hired a pool service, but brushing off the day’s accumulation of dust from the pool’s pebbly sides helped clear his mind. He didn’t think he could be of any use to Rebecca Geroux. Not without widening the rift between him and Ryan. Grant had been aware of their rift even before Teresa died. His dilemma had always been that he didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to explain his and Teresa’s marital problems to a boy who worshipped his mother. And was it too late to explain it all now?
Crap! Let Rebecca Geroux solve her problems by herself. Lord knew he had enough of his own. Problems that dated back to when he wasn’t much older than his son.
Teresa had come into his life at a bad time. They shouldn’t have stayed married, but she didn’t want a divorce. And her mental and physical health had been fragile, or so Grant assumed. Too late he discovered a lot had been manipulation.
Whether she meant to or not, Teresa had let her histrionics drive a wedge between father and son. And after her untimely death, Grant’s guilt kept him even farther from Ryan. He’d floundered, and that wasn’t the military way. So, he’d put the problem out of his mind.
Grant hung the pool brush on its pegs and headed back to the house. He should probably find Rebecca and explain why he couldn’t help her break the kids up. He also wasn’t happy with the way he’d let her leave the café.
After more internal debate, he decided to phone her. Since asking Ryan for the number wasn’t an option now, he turned to the phone book. Only no Rebecca or R. Geroux was listed in the San Antonio telephone directory. Thank heaven for the Internet. It was a little scary to see how easily he turned up her supposedly unlisted number.
Grant shut his bedroom door to make the call in private—not that Ryan would hear anything over the blaring music. On his first attempt, Grant misdialed. On the second try, a boy answered. Grant remembered Ryan’s saying Lisa had a brother. “May I speak with Rebecca?” he asked.
“She’s at work. Who’s calling, please?”
“A friend. I suppose I could drop by and see her there.”
“Yeah, sure. Anyone can eat at the Tumbleweed. But she’s always busy.”
Grant heard someone in the background ask who was on the phone. The boy obviously covered the mouthpiece before saying, “Some dude wants Mom. Okay, okay, Lisa. Uh…I’ve gotta go,” the kid said. And he hung up.
The Tumbleweed wasn’t hard to find in the directory. The place was open until ten, which gave Grant plenty of time to get the kids some takeout once Brandy got home. He just had to come up with a good excuse for leaving after dinner.
Greeting her at the door when her friend’s mother dropped her off, he took in his daughter’s smiling face. “Did you have fun with Kiley?”
“Uh-huh. She has a puppy. He’s so cute. Can I get one?”
“We’ll see. Puppies need a lot of care and attention.”
“I know. Kiley’s mama said puppies are like babies. The vet gave Kiley a book that’s got everything a pet owner needs to know. She said I can borrow it. I’ll bet Ryan would help me.”
“Help you what?” Brandy’s brother suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“My friend Kiley has a new shih tzu. I’m trying to talk Daddy into getting me a puppy from the same breeder.”
“I’d rather have a real dog. Like a shepherd,” Ryan said. “I came out to see when dinner is. I’m starved. What are we eating tonight?”
Grant reached for a folder of take-out menus. “I thought pizza. You two decide what kind.” He hesitated. He ought to eat with the kids. But then what excuse could he give Rebecca for going to the Tumbleweed? “I’ll place the order and give you the money to pay the delivery boy. I have an errand to run. I’ll grab something while I’m out.”
“What kind of errand?” Ryan asked, sounding suspicious. “You haven’t gone out at night by yourself since we moved here.”
Ignoring Ryan, Grant passed the pizza menu to his daughter.
Brandy wrinkled her nose. “Why can’t we have real food, Daddy? Kiley’s mom was baking chicken and it smelled so yummy.”
“That’s what moms do, kid,” Ryan said, plucking the menu from her hand. “Dads are pretty much worthless in the kitchen.”
“I beg your pardon. Some of the world’s greatest chefs are men,” Grant protested.
“You, then,” Ryan stressed. “Why don’t you hire a cook like you did in Germany?”
Brandy climbed onto one of the breakfast-bar stools. “I don’t want a cook. I want a mom.”
“Brandy, don’t be a dork. Moms aren’t as easy to get as puppies.”
“I am not a dork, Ryan,” Brandy said huffily. “Our room mom, Mrs. Sanchez, is supernice, Daddy. I’ll bet you’d like her. Manny Sanchez says it’s awful not having a dad to help at home.”
Ryan smacked his sister lightly on the head with the menu. “You are so lame. For parents to hook up they have to meet, hold hands and kiss. Can you picture Dad kissing your room mom—or anyone else?”
“All right, you two,” Grant said loudly. “Enough with trying to arrange my love life. What kind of pizza will it be tonight?”
“Hamburger and tomato,” Ryan said. “And I wasn’t arranging anything. I was explaining to Brandy how low the chances are that any woman would want to date you.”
Grant glared at his son as he dialed the pizza parlor’s number. “I’d like to place an order. One large tomato-hamburger pizza for delivery.” When he hung up, he realized Ryan’s declaration had shaken him. Grant had never considered himself vain. However, as he set out money for the pizza it was all he could do not to recheck his appearance in the mirror. How would Rebecca Geroux see him? But he refused to admit any interest in the woman beyond explaining that he really couldn’t help her.
“I’ll be back before Brandy’s bedtime,” he muttered, his hand on the doorknob.
“Will you look at puppies while you’re out?” Brandy pleaded. “Oh, and remember you said you’d look at clarinets.”
“Not tonight, honey. We’ll make time for that soon, though.”
Ryan glanced up from returning the menu to the take-out folder. “I have plans for the last weekend next month. Saturday afternoon and evening,” he said. “I thought I’d tell you in advance since you didn’t bother to ask if I was busy tonight. You just expect me to watch Brandy anytime it suits you.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan. If you have plans, I can do this another night.” Grant, who was partway out the door, turned back.
Ryan was obviously spoiling for a fight, and his flustered backtracking was almost comical. “I’m staying in tonight,” he mumbled. “But from here on, you’d better check with me first, all right?”
“That’s fair, Ryan. I want us all to get along.”
“Well, okay then,” the boy said, sounding surprised.
AFTER REVERSING his car out to the street, Grant massaged the tension from his neck. He shouldn’t have waited so long to start being a father to his kids. Work had always been his excuse. Now he had to feel his way through the minefield that Ryan, especially, delighted in laying down.
At