My Baby, Your Son. Anne Peters
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Название: My Baby, Your Son
Автор: Anne Peters
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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All of which made the reality of fatherhood, of actually holding in my arms the life I’d helped to create, more overwhelming and powerful than I have words to describe. I was thrilled, I was awed, I was scared. And, just like that, I grew up.
He, not I, became my reason for being. His happiness, not mine, came first Selflessness, I learned, is part of fatherhood. But so is jealousy, I came to find out when April reappeared on the scene. And fear, fear of loss.
It took me a while to realize that fatherhood combined with motherhood results in parenthood. And that since parenthood is the natural order of things, there can be no losses, only wins.
Fatherhood—I guess it made a man out of me.
Regards,
Jared O’Neal
New York City
“Excuse me, Miz Bingham…”
“Yes?” With a sigh, April turned her attention from the stunning view of Central Park in June to the shriveled- potato features of Spuds Miller, her twin brother Marcus’s portly factotum. “Is the limo here?”
“No, ma’am.” The old man extended a bulky manila envelope. “This just came for you by messenger.”
“Oh?” April accepted the package without enthusiasm. One of the drawbacks of being a renowned concert pianist was being inundated with a barrage of musical scores from struggling composers and wannabes. Usually, though, there were people around to intercept them. “Where’s my mother?”
“Miz Rhinegold and Mr. Marcus are in the den, having one of their…uh, discussions.”
“I see.” April grimaced. “And here I thought we’d for once be able to make an uneventful getaway.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With an inward smile at the old man’s pointedly non- committal attitude, April glanced down at the envelope. “‘Harper and Tymes, Attorneys At Law,’” she read, and asked Spuds with a frown, “Isn’t that the firm that handled Aunt Marje’s will?”
“I believe so, yes.” Much more than a servant, Spuds Miller was up on everything that concerned the Bingham family, but believed in keeping a low profile. “A Mr. Cur- tis, I believe.”
“Exactly.” Puzzled, April tore open the envelope. Let- ting it drift to the floor, she stared at the leather-bound volume in her hands. The initials M.B.S. were stenciled on the front in faded gold.
“Marjorie Bingham Smythe.” A small catch roughened her voice. “Oh, Spuds, I can’t count the times I’ve watched my aunt write in this journal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Spuds bent to retrieve the discarded en- velope, peered inside and extracted a folded sheet of vel- lum. “It appears there’s a letter to go with it.”
“Thank you.” One-handedly, April shook it open. In an undertone she read, “Darling April, by the time this reaches you, I’ll be dead and buried. Cliff House and the rest of my estate will have been settled, divided equally between Marcus and you. I’ve kept aside this diary for your eyes only….”
April’s voice faltered. In silence she rapidly scanned the few lines that followed and looked up. “I need to sit down.”
She groped for the nearest chair. Spuds rushed to pull it close. “Shall I—”
“No,” April interrupted with an emphatic shake of the head. “Just leave me. Please, I—”
“Of course.” Ever discreet, Spuds was already on his way. “Not to worry.”
Her gaze once again on the letter, April made no reply. From its pages, she read with eyes gone gritty and with the blood pounding in her ears, you will learn that a terrible secret has been kept from you, a secret I find I cannot bear to take with me to the grave. Darling April, your baby, your son, is alive….
Capstan, WA. One week later…
April hadn’t meant to stop at the school. She was on her way to Cliff House, which was to be her home for the next several months, at least. But driving by the school yard she’d noticed the Little League baseball game in progress and something had urged her to pull over and watch.
Nostalgia? Yes, but something else, too. Something less definable but more compelling. Something that had her threading her fingers through the chain-link fence and straining to see.
Just to the left of her, a scattering of spectating friends and family dotted the bleachers behind the backstop. Shouts of encouragement and advice for the batter blended with the twhack of the ball connecting with the catcher’s mitt and the umpire’s gravel-voiced call. “Steeerike!”
It was all so familiar, so very much like those other ball games during those other summers a decade and more ago, that April half expected to see her brother Mark in the dugout and Jared O’Neal winding up for the pitch. Why, even the blue-and-white uniforms of the Capstan Gulls hadn’t changed.
“Strike two!”
As jeers and cheers from the bleachers followed the um- pire’s cry, April stared transfixed at the young Capstan pitcher going through his spiel. Posturing and posing, look- ing this way and that before tucking his knee against his chest, he wound up for the next killer pitch. Watching, April experienced a sense of déjà vu so acute, she blinked to dispel the illusion that it was young Jared up there on the mound. The way the boy stood, moved, the way he tugged on the bill of his cap and cocked his head just that little bit…
Oh, God. Realization struck like a slap, making her body actually jerk away from the fence before her knees turned to mush and her fingers clung more tightly to the cutting cold wire for support. It was him, she thought wildly. It was Tyler. Her son. And Jared’s.
As if to confirm it, a raucous shout drew her attention to the left and she saw Jared O’Neal surge to his feet on the bleacher at the far side of the backstop. Cupping his mouth, he yelled something else to the boy, something April СКАЧАТЬ