He hurried to the door, scarcely able to believe it was time to meet his birth parents at last.
He wondered, as he bolted down three flights of stairs, if they were going to live up to his expectations-and, more importantly, whether he would live up to theirs.
Unlike him, they’d had twenty years to imagine what he was like.
What if they don’t love me?
Love you? an inner voice scoffed. They don’t even know you.
And they don’t even love each other.
If they did, they’d be together now.
So much for that fantasy family you always dreamed of, he thought dismally as he hurried out onto the boulevard and the waiting car.
To his surprise, the driver was a woman.
He didn’t know why that caught him off guard; it shouldn’t have. But somehow, he had pictured an elegant male chauffeur, not a dumpy-looking lady in a black suit, cap, and almost ridiculously oversized sunglasses.
“How are you today?” she asked pleasantly, opening the back door for him.
“Good,” he said briefly, and slid into the backseat, trying to act as though he did this sort of thing every day.
As they headed north toward the Triborough Bridge, Leo didn’t give the driver, or the route she was taking, another thought.
He had no way of knowing that later, he would regret it.
Wyatt heard the crunch of car tires on the driveway and looked up from the New York Times he had been reading-rather, trying to read-in his recliner.
Through the tall window overlooking the manicured front lawn with its towering shade trees, he could see a shiny black town car pulling toward the house.
Lindsay should be first to arrive. He’d told her driver to get to her house a bit early and had scheduled the other driver to get to Queens a little later than expected.
He didn’t want to spend a lot of time alone with Lindsay before Leo arrived, but he did think it would only be right for them to face their son for the first time as a united front.
And, perhaps, to discuss just what it was that they hoped to get out of this meeting today.
He set the paper aside, rose from the door, and walked to the front entry hall. He caught sight of his reflection in a long mirror as he passed and was glad he had opted for casual clothing today.
He was wearing loafers, jeans, and a polo shirt. He looked comfortable and unintimidating, like any other suburban dad.
Funny, because that wasn’t what he was at all.
It’s just what I wish I could be.
But maybe…
No. No expectations. Whatever is meant to be will be.
Steeling himself, he opened the door and stepped out onto the covered porch. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what he would do if his son had somehow arrived first.
But it was Lindsay who emerged from the backseat of the town car.
Unaware that he was there watching her, she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her pale green sleeveless dress and patted her dark hair, which was worn pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She’s nervous, he realized.
Somehow, that fact helped to put him more at ease.
She thanked the driver, turned toward the house, and stopped short, spotting Wyatt.
“Hi,” he said, wishing he had sunglasses on. He tried not to look her up and down, but there went those teenaged-boy hormones again.
“Hi.” She walked hesitantly toward him as the town car pulled away, and he remembered that he was the host.
“How was the drive up?” he asked cordially, as though he were greeting a new client.
“Fine. Was that your, um, driver?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “That was a car service I hire sometimes, though. For clients, or when I have to go to the airport or something.”
“Oh.” She glanced up at the three-story white Colonial, with its black shutters and majestic pillars. “I thought maybe you ride around in a limo all the time.”
“Nope. I do my own driving.” He wasn’t about to tell her that his four-car garage held four luxury cars that, along with the others he kept in storage near his winter place near Daytona, were worth almost as much as he’d paid for this house.
He could see that she was impressed as it was by his surroundings-not because she wasn’t accustomed to such things, but more likely because she was. This was her world, and now he was a part of it.
But not in the ways that count, he thought as he held the door open and ushered her inside.
She looked around the entryway, with its sweeping staircase, framed artwork, and hardwood floors. “This is nice.”
“We can wait for him in the living room.”
“So he’s not here yet, then?” She looked relieved.
“No. But he should be soon.”
He…him…
So neither of them could bring themselves to say their son’s name.
Or even just the word son.
He felt an unexpected bond with Lindsay as they sat down, somewhat stiffly, on the couch.
They both took care to keep a physical distance between them, but they were unmistakably in this together, whether they liked it or not.
“Thanks-what happened to your hand?” he asked, breaking a near silence punctuated by the ticking grandfather clock in the hall.
“Oh, this?” She lifted her bandaged finger. “I sliced into it with a dull knife this morning, trying to dice an onion.”
He winced. “Ouch. Why were you using a dull knife?”
“It was the only one I could find. I just started taking these cooking classes, and I thought I would give it a whirl at home, but I’m not exactly stocked up on the latest gourmet cutlery.”
“What kind of cooking classes are you taking?”
“Just the very basics. That’s right-you said you cook.”
“I do. Do you want anything to eat?” he remembered to ask belatedly.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“How about something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee? A shot of tequila?”
She looked up at him, startled, and he grinned. “Just kidding. Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
She smiled back, to his surprise. “Too bad. I was going to take you up on it.”
“Really?”
“No…but it was tempting for a second there. I guess I’m a nervous wreck. How about you?”
“Me, too,” he admitted. “How are we going to handle this?”
We.
The forbidden pronoun had popped out of him with surprising ease.
Which was interesting, because in all the time Allison had lived here-and in all the relationships that had preceded her-he’d had a hard time referring to himself as one half of a we.
“I don’t know,” Lindsay said slowly, and he couldn’t tell whether she was fazed by the we or the question itself.
“Have you talked to his mother? I mean, his adoptive mother.”
“I knew what you meant,” she said wryly. “No. I didn’t think it was my place. He’s over eighteen. And anyway, he asked me not to.”
“When?”
“When I called him back to set up today’s meeting.”
“Oh.” For a moment there, he had thought she might have already met Leo on her own, without him.
But he knew instinctively that she wouldn’t do a thing like that.
He trusted her.
Which was ironic, considering what she had already gone and done behind his back, then kept from him all these years.
Wyatt was surprised to realize that he held no deep well of resentment about that. What he had felt had faded considerably these last few days.
That was because he not only trusted her, he ultimately understood her motives.
She had believed she was making the right choice, the unselfish choice, for their baby. In doing so, she had shown more strength than he had known she had.
More strength-more selflessness-than he would have had himself.
Admiration was slipping in to replace his anger, and he didn’t know how he felt about that.
Anger made it easier to keep her at arm’s length.
Now that she was, quite literally, at arm’s length, it was all he could do not to turn to her and pull her closer, if only in a comforting hug.