He was dead? he thought incredulously. Emily had simply erased him from this world with a few carefully chosen words? Yep, Trevor, your dad was a super guy but, hey, he croaked in a car wreck. Tough luck, kid, you’re joining the rank and file of the multitudes being raised by a single mom because your daddy is dead, dead, dead.
My God, Mark thought, dragging both hands down his face, not only had Emily never felt about him as he had about her, she had been capable of wiping him off the face of the earth. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of her heart where he had never really been.
“Incredible,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Just when did you drop this bombshell on my son?”
Emily sighed. “Trevor has always had a great many father figures because of the size of the MacAllister family. It wasn’t until he started school that he questioned why he only had uncles instead of having a daddy, too.”
“So I died, so to speak,” Mark said tightly, “when Trevor was about five years old.”
“Yes. I informed everyone in the family that that was what I had told him and they agreed, although reluctantly, to go along with it. I also told them that I would never divulge your name to Trevor, would tell him just to envision a special angel in heaven whenever he wanted to think about his father. Trevor, I’m thankful to say, has never brought up the subject again.”
“How convenient for you.”
Mark ran one hand over the crown of his head. It was a gesture that was so familiar to Emily, so endearing, a telling sign that Mark was upset, stressed, and one that Trevor executed whenever he was emotionally disturbed about something.
“You never loved me at all, did you?” Mark said, narrowing his eyes. “Jessica was the homecoming queen, the cheerleader, the president of the student council and on and on. Trip was in her own little world of rebellion that set her apart from the ever-famous MacAllister triplets. You were caught in the middle, always trying to please everybody, attempting to…hell, I don’t know…find your place, or space, or something.
“Then here I was, arriving in our junior year in high school. Poor funny-looking Mark Maxwell, whose mother had split when he was a little boy and who was being raised by an alcoholic father who finally wiped himself out by driving into a tree when he was drunk as a skunk.
“You found a purpose, a cause. You’d take pity on the weird new kid, be his girlfriend, which would give you a status you’d never had before. Plus you were romantically involved with a guy, which was great because neither Jessica nor Trip were going steady with anyone. And, hey, wow, you would even lose your virginity before your sisters did. Score points for Emily.”
“Oh, Mark, don’t, please,” Emily said, feeling the sting of unshed tears burning her eyes. “I did love you—as much as any seventeen-year-old can understand love. Don’t make what we shared ugly, tacky, something to be ashamed of. It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” he said. “You sure were capable of turning that love off like a faucet after I left here. Then I was killed and became an angel five years later? Oh, yeah, that’s really strong evidence that you loved me. What a joke. You used me, Emily, to feel special, to make it possible to have something your sisters didn’t. You really outdid yourself, didn’t you? I mean, hey, you even had a baby out of wedlock. Neither Jessica nor Trip would top that one.”
“Don’t,” Emily whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Please.”
“The truth bites, huh? Well, there’s a lot more truth where that came from. Truth…I’m Trevor’s father. Truth…I’m alive and well. Truth…I intend to tell my son exactly who I am.”
Emily got to her feet and started across the room, stopping in the middle and pressing clutched hands against her stomach.
“Listen to me, please, Mark,” she said, her voice trembling. “I know you hate me, but don’t destroy my…our son because of your feelings toward me. I know I can’t keep you away from Trevor, but won’t you just be his friend, get to know him, let him get to know you? Then, when you’ve built a firm foundation with him, we’ll find a way to tell him that… Oh, God, how do I tell my child that I lied to him?”
“Write him a damn letter,” Mark said, getting to his feet.
“Mark, I’m begging you, please don’t shatter Trevor’s world. Don’t do that to him. Think about him, what it will do to him if you just blurt out the truth. Can’t you find it in your heart to take this slowly and…forget how you feel about me. Put Trevor first.” Two tears slid down Emily’s face. “He’s just a baby who needs to be treated gently, kindly, with love. Oh, Mark, please.”
Mark planted his hands on his hips and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, before looking at Emily again.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do this your way…for now. For Trevor’s sake. Make certain you understand that, Emily. I’m doing this for my son. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Emily nodded jerkily.
“I’ll be here to have dinner with you and Trevor tomorrow night.”
“What?” she said.
“You heard me. You invited your old school chum, as you so quaintly put it, to share a meal with you and your son. There’s nothing unusual about that. Trevor and I can talk, chat while we eat, which will break the ice. What time?”
“I…”
“What time, Emily?”
“Six o’clock,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “We always have dinner at six.”
“Fine. I’ll be here,” he said, then started toward the door.
“Do you still like sun tea with honey, instead of sugar?”
Mark spun around. “Don’t go there, Emily. Don’t even think of trying that routine. Don’t attempt to soften me up with cute little trips down memory lane because it won’t work and…” He paused and frowned. “Why did you remember a dumb detail like that, my liking honey in my sun tea instead of sugar?”
Because I loved you, you dolt, Emily thought. You don’t like cloth napkins. You eat the seeds in watermelon because it’s too much trouble to pick them out. Your favorite color is pale pink like the inside of a seashell, but you thought that sounded too girly so you always said it was blue. You like French fries but detest hash brown potatoes. These aren’t dumb details, you idiot. They’re memories. Mine. To keep…forever.
“Forget it,” Mark said, continuing on to the door and opening it. “Good night, Emily. No, correct that. There hasn’t been one good thing about this night. I’ll see you at six tomorrow.”
Mark closed the door behind him with a quiet click as he left, but even so, Emily cringed, feeling as though she’d suffered a physical blow. Two more tears slithered down her cheeks, and she dashed them away. She returned to the chair and sank onto it, staring at the door.
In the next instant she got to her feet and went into the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator freezer and reached for some comfort, some food, her shaking hand gripping a carton of ice cream. She snatched her fingers back as though they had been burned, and slammed the freezer closed with more force than was necessary.
Nearly running, she hurried to her bedroom, opened the top drawer of her dresser and picked up an exquisite mother-of-pearl hand mirror, which she hugged to her breasts as she settled onto the edge of the bed.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to float back to the day in January when her grandfather had asked her to come to his study to receive the special gift he’d spoken of at Christmas. Each grandchild was to meet with Robert MacAllister privately and be given a present he’d selected just for them.