Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot

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СКАЧАТЬ Taylor stood at the top of the driveway studying the large two-story log home shrouded by blue spruce and boasting a view across the tarn of craggy peaks. Unaccustomed to the altitude, he drew a labored breath, concerned that the next few hours would be awkward at best and difficult at worst. However, there was no turning back. For his peace of mind, the meeting was vital. And long overdue.

      His strategy was surprise. Otherwise, immediate rejection was too real a consequence. But so was the possibility of shattering a family. He reminded himself it was too late for second-guessing.

      The wide front porch, bedecked by hanging baskets, was inviting, serene. He paused, tension rooting him to the spot. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re a forty-year-old man, not a six-year-old.

      Lungs working overtime in the thin air, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his ski jacket and walked toward the massive front door where a woodburned sign above it read Welcome To Lamberts’ Lodge. Closing his eyes, he mumbled a quick prayer, then pressed the bell. And waited.

      An attractive older woman dressed in khaki slacks and an oversize flannel shirt answered. She looked like a friendly type with short salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines framing her mouth. “May I help you?” She held the door, poised to shove it closed.

      He found his voice. “Mrs. Lambert, is your husband home?” Wariness clouded her expressive brown eyes and she pulled back.

      Before she could answer, he went on. “I’m sorry. That question must’ve alarmed you, and that is certainly not my intent. My name is Mark Taylor. I’m an attorney from Savannah. I’m here to speak with your husband. On a personal matter.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, but he is unavailable at the moment. Was he expecting you?”

      “No, we’ve never met.” Hope warred with a panic he was helpless to control. A chill mountain breeze slithered down his back. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia. It’s important that I talk with him.”

      “What could possibly be so urgent that you would travel halfway across the country to meet my husband without an appointment?”

      He controlled himself with difficulty. “I’d rather not say, ma’am. May I just wait for him?”

      “I don’t think that’s advisable, particularly since I’ve never heard my husband mention you.”

      “But you don’t understand—”

      “No, I don’t. I’ll tell him you came by, but now you’ll have to excuse me.” She moved to shut the door.

      Momentary dizziness swept over him and involuntarily the words spilled forth. “Wait! I just want to meet my father.”

      The woman stared, mouth agape, color leeching from her face. When she finally spoke, he could barely hear her. “Your father? What on earth are you talking about?”

      He took a half step forward, silently pleading for her help. “There’s no easy way to say this. I have reason to believe your husband is my father.” He hesitated, trying to keep the longing from his voice. “I, uh, want to meet him.”

      “There must be some mistake—”

      “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Did your husband serve in the Vietnam War in 1968?”

      Mutely, she nodded, her hands locked on the door.

      Gently he continued. “He knew my mother there.”

      The woman raked her eyes over him as if assessing his resemblance to her husband. Time stood still. Only the cries of mountain jays broke the silence.

      At last, with tears pooling in her eyes, she whispered, “Come inside.”

      CHAPTER ONE

      I THOUGHT MARK TAYLOR would never leave. Now I’m pacing from room to room, disbelief lodged in my chest. Never once with Sam has there been a whisper of another woman. Yet in this young man’s tall, well-built frame, the way he tilts his head when listening and the matchless blue of his eyes, I see my husband. Everything in me screams denial, but the truth is hard to escape. Even if Sam was ignorant of the pregnancy, as Mark claims, did he think this chapter of his life could remain forever closed?

      Oddly, despite my anger and hurt, I found it impossible to ignore the entreaty in Mark Taylor’s voice or to doubt his sincerity. But I know Sam. A sudden confrontation between the two of them would never have worked. Even so, I resent having to be the one to break the news when he returns from Boulder where he’s helping our younger daughter Lisa paint her living room.

      I’ve taken Mark Taylor’s contact information and encouraged him to return to Savannah if Sam doesn’t phone him at his motel within a couple of days.

      Numb, I wander to the picture window overlooking the tarn, now turning steely under gathering clouds. All my certainties are evaporating like a shifting mountain mist. In their place, questions and accusations swirl.

      THE NEXT EVENING, I hardly let Sam hang up his jacket before turning on him. “You’ve been keeping quite the secret all these years. Did you ever plan to tell me or was I just supposed to drift along in ignorance?”

      His eyes widen with incomprehension. “Tell you what?”

      “About your fling during the Vietnam War. About the total stranger who appeared at the door yesterday announcing himself as your son.”

      “What in blazes are you talking about?”

      With barely controlled fury, I repeat Mark Taylor’s claim. About his mother Diane and her gallant sacrifice in not telling Sam she was pregnant. About Mark’s stateside birth and his mother’s marriage to Rolf Taylor, whose name is on the birth certificate. “He’s a grown man now. He wants to meet you.”

      Sam turns to granite before my eyes. “I have no knowledge of any baby. I won’t see him. He’s nothing to me.”

      I am speechless, appalled by his cold indifference to his son and to my feelings. Finally I choke out, “Was she also nothing to you?”

      “For God’s sake, Isabel!”

      “Answer the question.”

      “Do you think I’d have spent over forty-five years of my life with you if she meant more to me?”

      “Well, you certainly spent a bit of time with her. Enough to impregnate her.”

      “Christ, Izzy, I was lonely and scared.”

      “Welcome to the waiting wives’ club. Do you think it was any picnic being at home and imagining the worst?”

      His shoulders slump. “I don’t know what to say to you, except I’m sorry. I never wanted you to find out.”

      “I can believe that. But you should have told me. Then I wouldn’t have had to open the door yesterday and get blindsided by Mark Taylor. Who, by the way looks just like you. He wants to meet you. Whether I like it or not, you owe him something.”

      “Not now.” The grandfather clock sounds like a ticking bomb. “I can’t deal with this just like that.” СКАЧАТЬ