For the Children. Tara Quinn Taylor
be some satisfaction, maybe even humor, in that. Another moment in another lifetime.
“She walked straight into my arms, broken, needy. Hurting so bad she was craving death….”
Kirk knew he had to stop. To think about his fingers on the phone.
Loosen up, man. Loosen up. It’s in the past. It can’t be changed. The future can be changed.
They were the only words that kept him sane.
“The woman I’d married, planned to grow old with, was in my arms. I walked her home. And when she didn’t want me to leave, I stayed.”
“I’ll make some calls.”
Troy’s voice was deadly serious as he rang off.
And Kirk was satisfied.
BY SUNDAY NIGHT, all the boys could talk about was the basketball tryouts coming up that week. There was a practice Monday after school and the actual tryouts were on Tuesday. Throughout the weekend they’d alternated between half killing themselves in the driveway, attempting to become shooting stars in two days, and driving her crazy with energy that only seemed to grow the more they expended it.
“Larry Bird flicked his wrist right as he threw the ball. That’s the trick,” Blake said, rolling the die but forgetting to move his little metal car along the Monopoly board.
“Dan Majerle was the best-three point shooter in the league. I think he flicked his wrist, too,” Brian added, staring at the board. “We need to flick our wrists…”
“And we didn’t practice that at all.”
Neither boy seemed to notice that the game in which they were currently engaged had stalled.
“Mom? Can we go shoot—”
“No!” Valerie laughed. “It’s pitch black out there, guys. You have tomorrow’s practice and you’ll have time before dinner tomorrow, too.”
“Do you think we’ll have to do one-on-ones?” Blake asked his brother.
The die still lay, double sixes, on the Monopoly board. Valerie was quite proud of her six red hotels and twelve green houses.
Her boys, who were usually land magnates, owned the utilities and a few of the railroads.
“I’m sure,” Brian said, frowning. “You don’t have to worry, though. Just steal the ball and blow them away.”
Picking up the Community Chest and Chance Cards, she put them in their storage slot on top of the one-dollar bills. Then she cleared off the rest of the board and folded it to fit inside the box.
The real estate didn’t really mean that much. She’d had no competition.
The twins continued to discuss everything from shoes and socks to ways they could maintain control of the ball, completely oblivious to the game’s disappearance.
“Let’s go get some ice cream,” Valerie finally suggested.
In tandem, the boys looked at her. At the empty table. And then back at her.
“Sorry, Mom.” Brian spoke for both of them.
She grinned. “It’s okay, guys. I’m glad to see you so jazzed about something.”
And she was. Overjoyed, actually. Brian had been eating all weekend. She realized this was just a temporary fix, but it seemed pretty obvious that basketball could be the thing they’d been searching for to help her son with his flagging self-esteem.
Talk of basketball continued as all three ate their ice-cream cones, filled with the strangest concoctions of vanilla ice cream and mix-ins they could come up with, stopped by the store for the week’s groceries, and then tried to focus on the boys’ homework. Brian hauled out a disgusting-looking object he’d been hiding, unbeknownst to her, wrapped in a towel under his bed.
“It’s my science project, Mom!” he’d protested when she insisted he throw it away immediately.
“What is it?” Valerie wasn’t convinced.
“A piece of bread I dipped in fabric softener. There’s another one dipped in diet soda.”
“Yeah,” Blake piped up from his spot on the living-room floor. “His theory is that one will be preserved and the other will be eaten away by the acid. Cool, huh?”
Yeah. Cool. She should’ve had girls.
“Mom?” Pen in his mouth, Blake was frowning as he looked up at her. “Dad would be really happy if he knew we were trying out for the team, huh?”
Valerie straightened the cushions on the couch. “Of course he would.”
“And he’d come watch every single game, wouldn’t he?” Brian asked, stopping on the way back to his room to return the experiment.
Blake chuckled. “Yeah, he’d be one of those dads who know every kid’s name and stats and shout from the stands like a maniac.”
It was clear the boy meant that as a compliment.
Valerie agreed with only one part. The shouting. But it wouldn’t have been from the stands in a junior-high gym.
“He wouldn’t have missed a single one,” she told the boys, leaning over to pick up some lint from the off-white carpet.
She was saved from any further sojourns down fairy-tale lane when, apparently satisfied, they returned to more immediate concerns. Algebra problems that were due in the morning.
Thomas Smith was dead. Leaving behind a memory that was mostly not bad to his sons. Valerie knew that was because the boys’ memories had become selective—the human mind protecting itself, she supposed. So wasn’t it kinder to let the myth perpetuate itself?
Or was she just weak? Choosing the easier way of pretending all had been well, rather than being honest with the boys.
Some things could remain buried forever, but there were others the boys would eventually have to know….
Not now. Not yet. They were still children. Her little boys.
And Brian was already treading such dangerous ground.
KIRK TOSSED his cell phone from one hand to the other and then back, looking down at the elegant kitchen tile again; 6:00 a.m. Arizona time meant that it was eight o’clock in Virginia. He’d put off the call all weekend. Another hour and it would be time for him to head in to work. He liked to be on the corner long before the first kid arrived at school, and there was an early choir practice that morning.
Another hour and he’d make it. He could do this—follow through on his decision to abandon his old life as CEO of Chandler Acquisitions, the career that had consumed him to the point of heartlessness. He could outlast the temptation of making a final perfect deal. He was actually gaining a measure of peace in the job his old friend, Steve McDonald, had offered him during a painfully dark night several months before. Back then he’d been slowly killing himself—with hard truths and liquor. These days, taking care of the children as he’d promised Alicia he would, he actually slept at night.
He could put down the phone; the number implanted in his memory would eventually fade, along with the rest of Friday night’s messages begging him to handle just one more deal.
Someday, maybe even his uncanny ability to remember them at all would disappear.
The Gandoyne company produced aluminum cans, specifically for food products. Aster Sealants owned the patent on a material that would seal and reseal aluminum lids. This sealant had various uses, but if it was put together with food-product storage it could make both companies wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.
The caller who’d left the number was Gandoyne’s son, who had no interest in taking over the business, who was worried about his father’s health and who had heard of Kirk’s win-at-all-costs reputation. He’d gone