Dream Baby. Ann Evans
was green and lush. It wasn’t a ghost town bypassed by progress. The people on the streets looked energetic and involved in life, and overall, the place had an open, friendly feel.
Beside him, Charlie was still in a trance of stunned surprise.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jake said. “Don’t panic.” The boy rolled his eyes, but remained silent. “I’m getting hungry. Let’s see if we can find a place to get some food and information.”
They discovered some activity around what seemed to be the only red brick building in town—the Whispering River Café and Outfitter’s Post. Colorful rows of kayaks and canoes leaned against the building, and several huge tubs of dainty flowers led the way to the entrance.
The interior of the store wasn’t the dark, backwoods outpost Jack expected. It was bright, upscale, full of environmentally correct merchandise. As Jake led his son toward the back of the store where the café seemed to be, they wove past listening posts of New Age music, stacks of camping gear and a bulletin board fluttering with offers for guided float trips down the river.
The café was also a surprise. The room was small, but bathed prettily in mild sunlight coming through large arched windows. Unframed artwork decorated the walls. There were leafy alcoves for privacy. According to the menu posted at the entrance, vegetarian dishes seemed to be the heavy favorites.
They found a table for two against one wall. Almost before they sat down, a tall, good-looking fellow in jeans and a Save-The-Planet T-shirt placed menus in front of them and promised to return in moments.
For the first time, Charlie seemed to be interested in his surroundings, and Jake realized it was the artwork that drew the kid’s attention. Charlie’s gaze traveled over the numerous canvases that lined the walls, then settled on the one right beside their table. And suddenly Jake could see what had caught the boy’s interest.
Trendy as the Whispering River might be, whoever had decorated the place had made one huge mistake. The artwork was awful. Amateurish. They were all oils, the majority of them landscapes, but there wasn’t a stroke of talent in any of them that Jake could see.
Like Charlie, he peered closer at the one nearest them. It was a Florida beach at sunset—lifeless and boring, with wheeling seagulls in the sky that looked unpleasantly like flying worms. Jake’s eyes slid down to the artist’s signature. NLH, it said, and Jake noted that several of the surrounding works bore those small slashing marks in the right corner. He hoped to heaven that NLH hadn’t quit his day job.
He shook his head. “I guess now we know who actually buys all those Starving Artist paintings,” he muttered.
He hadn’t expected a reaction from Charlie, so it surprised him when the kid gave a little snort of amusement. Not an all-out laugh, really, but it was a more encouraging response than Jake had elicited from the boy so far.
He said softly, “You know, when you were five, you drew this great picture of a fish. Your mom put it on the refrigerator.” He motioned in the direction of NLH’s landscape. “In a head-to-head comparison, I think yours is better. At least I could tell it was a fish.”
Charlie turned his head to look at his father. “Mom still has that picture,” he said coldly. “It’s in a box with a bunch of my old stuff. Guess that’s all she’s gonna have of me now.”
Jake felt his heart rate slow to a crawl. So much for connecting. One step forward. One step back. “You’ll still be visiting your mother.”
Charlie’s gaze was openly dubious. “You won’t let that happen.”
“That’s not true. I want you to keep in contact. But there have to be some guidelines to your visits. She can’t just...there has to be someone looking after you.” Jake unfolded his napkin carefully and placed it across his lap. Criticizing Thea wouldn’t accomplish a thing except send Charlie further away. Quietly he added, “Right now your mother’s career is very important to her, and she doesn’t always think about her responsibilities.”
“Like you thought about yours five years ago?”
Jake lifted his head and met his son’s eyes. He wasn’t in the mood for apologies and justifications, but neither would he allow Charlie to believe everything Thea had probably told him about his father.
“When your mother and I broke up, I had a job that kept me out of the country for months on end,” he declared firmly. “Bridge construction often takes place in locations that barely have indoor plumbing. I couldn’t drag a little boy off to an environment like that. It seemed best to let your mother have full custody. She gave up modeling when she married me, and I had no idea she was so involved again. I thought—”
“She’s famous,” Charlie flared. “She doesn’t need you for anything. She’s a supermodel, and everyone loves her.” He turned his attention back to the painting on the wall, and Jake watched while muscles jumped and twitched along the tight ridge of Charlie’s jawline.
The boy was right. Everyone did love Thea. If you could believe half of what you read in the tabloids.
While heavily involved in rebuilding the family construction company, Jake had heard all about his ex-wife’s life. The New York parties that ran until all hours of the night. Rubbing elbows with the Hollywood elite. He was glad he wasn’t part of that lifestyle, but he’d never begrudged Thea any of it. She’d always been a good mother. There was never any mention of Charlie in those tabloid stories and Jake had been confident his son was safe. That Thea had never drawn him into her social life.
Until he walked away from a Nigerian newsstand six months ago with an American paper in his hands and saw the media coverage of Thea’s latest New York party. A glittering montage of celebrities and social arbiters all laughing, drinking, pressed close to one another. And in the middle of it all, his son Charlie. He knew in that moment that for four years he’d been fooling himself, and that as fathers went, he’d been pretty damn negligent.
It was an interesting bit of irony to discover that he’d failed miserably as a father on the same day that he was to make a catastrophic mistake with his own brother as well. That afternoon Jake had been furious with Thea, and three telephone calls to his lawyer in the States that wouldn’t go through hadn’t helped. The hill crew had yet to check in, and after the road foreman had asked a second time what they should do about it, Jake had snapped at Bobby to take care of it. Bobby, who’d never questioned a directive his older brother gave him. Bobby, who had always looked up to him and counted on Jake...
The waiter brought tall glasses of water to the table. He didn’t carry a pad to write down orders, and the small badge over his left breast said his name was Ben. Beneath it was a button that proclaimed, “Yes, I’ll remember what you want.”
“The special today is sliced turkey on mixed rye and pumpernickel,” he said with a genuinely friendly smile. “The soup is tomato bisque. Can I get you something to drink?”
Charlie swung his attention from the painting on the wall and scowled up at Ben. “A blind man could paint better pictures than these!”
“Charlie!” Jake snapped. “Apologize.”
He and Ben exchanged glances, and Jake had the oddest notion that the man knew the boy’s anger was not really directed at him. “No, that’s all right,” Ben countered. “Everyone’s an art critic. To tell you the truth, I’m not that crazy about them myself.” Then, with a wink, he added, “But you ought to see the artist.”
Charlie had subsided into sulky silence. Jake tried to fill the void. “Good-looking, huh?”
“Nora Holloway’s one of the prettiest girls the Springs ever produced. So what if she ought to be painting barns instead of beaches?”
“So the owner thinks he’ll win her over if he buys a few of her paintings?”
“I’m the owner,” the waiter said with a light laugh. “No, we tried a few years back, but it was plain as pudding we didn’t click. So what can I get you