A Son's Tale

“Nine.”

“I’ll be ready at eight.”

She wanted to be strong enough to show up alone. To show them she could. To let her father know that he didn’t scare her. “Okay.”

“You got any wine in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Drink some. And then lie down and get some rest.”

Morgan poured herself half a glass of wine. She took a few sips, staring at the dining room table. She’d expected her mother to call. To care enough to touch base, if only to beg Morgan to do as her father wanted.

The phone didn’t ring.

Dumping the rest of the wine down the sink, Morgan took Julie’s advice and went to lie down.

On the floor of Sammie’s room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE WINE WAS GOOD. So was the company. Cal grilled the steaks. He talked to Kelsey about France. He’d been there once, during college. She’d studied in Paris for a couple of years. They’d frequented the same quaint little coffeehouse on a street just off the Champs-Élysées.

He wondered how Morgan was holding up, the night before court. If she’d given him any encouragement at all that morning, he’d have called her to find out. As it was, the barriers she’d erected had been very clear and he had to honor them. She had to handle things in her own way.

“See, we’re kindred spirits.” Kelsey smiled at him over the wrought iron table by the pool in her very private backyard. Her red hair was down and flowing wildly around her shoulders, the curls as sexy and bold as the woman herself. “With all of the places to drink coffee in a two-mile radius, we both chose the same one.”

“Either that or we share an uncanny ability to find the best coffee around.” He smiled back at her. Her eyes were a cross between green and blue and sparkling with pleasure. Life. He could almost feel the energy she exuded. “And enough of an addiction to have to go back once we find it.”

“I think we share more than that,” she told him. Their plates were empty. Her wineglass was not.

“You do, huh?” His smile was slow, telling her about the kind of warmth he’d like to share with her.

“I think we share a need for independence while recognizing and appreciating our deeply sensual natures.”

She got all that from a staff meeting and a few dates? He chased the thought away with another—she was probably going to be his next relationship. Yet oddly, he wasn’t all that thrilled with the prospect.

“You’re a passionate guy, Cal. You’re always looking for deeper meaning, in literature and in life. I like that.”

She wa

sn’t wrong about that.

“And I study art for the same reasons. To find the heart of people. To understand the communication that is too deep for words.”

Cal moved in his seat. Adjusting his weight. Repositioning his backside. Hearts weren’t something he discussed. Mostly because to discuss others’ hearts would mean he’d have to discuss his own and he didn’t do that. Even with himself.

She took a sip of wine, studying him, as though she knew what he was thinking. And then she stood.

“What do you say we go swimming?” She reached for his hand and he allowed her to pull him to his feet. This was what he wanted.

“I study romance in literature,” he told her, because he felt he had to. He still had a hold of her hand. “But I don’t do romance.”

“No hurt feelings or expectations,” she said, as though she’d read his mind. Or his life.

“Right.”

“I know.” She nodded and the glow in her eyes didn’t change at all. “Me, neither. So, you want to swim?”