Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"Fifteen minutes or so," he replied.

"Then, we shall go along," she declared. As soon as she left, he closed the door and t

urned to me.

"I'm sorry. We don't have to have them come along."

"Actually," I said, "I like them. They're happy, never depressed and great fun to be with."

"Oh?"

"Not that you're not," I added with a smile.

"I'm glad of that," he said and finished dressing while I made another attempt to recite my speeches without mistakes. This time I did a lot better. Randall nodded.

"Good," he said. "I can see you're going to do well. Who knows?" he added with a wide, bright smile. "Maybe before then, we'll find your real father and if he is a Shakespearean scholar, he'll give you some pointers, too!"

I nearly threw my copy of Hamlet at him and he laughed. I wanted so to laugh about it all too, but those butterflies kept me tingling inside with just the thought of seeing him, much less meeting and speaking to him.

We took the tube to Piccadilly station. Although the day had begun overcast, the clouds were thinning out and breaking up, permitting sunlight to brighten the streets. Nevertheless, many of the places, especially the theaters, had lights on and there was a glitter and excitement in the air. Crowds of tourists had converged on the area that some called the Times Square of London. Everywhere I looked there was something or someone to capture my attention, especially the punk rockers in their leather and chains, the girls with multicolored hair, boys with heads shaved or carved into strange styles. Catherine and Leslie exchanged remarks and comments with some of them.

We browsed a flea market, window shopped and went in and out of unique stores, some reminding me of thrift shops back home, selling things from old shoes to used jeans and very old records and books. For lunch we had pizza and afterward, we walked and walked until we reached the river and then sauntered along, stopping to look at street artists and listen to street musicians. It was another fun day.

Neither Randall nor I mentioned our intention to play detective and locate my real father. It wasn't something I wanted Catherine and Leslie to know. We parted company late in the afternoon when they met two friends from school who were going to a rock show.

Randall thought we should return to the residence hall to do our research and then go for supper nearby. He located the phonebooks in the lobby and we sat copying out the numbers and addresses for all the Larry Wards. It turned out there were more than twenty, some called Lawrence, but most simply Larry. Then we went to Randall's room and used his phone. My fingers actually trembled with the first number I dialed.

Three out of the five people we called either didn't answer or had been disconnected. The other two were definitely not my father, one a man who sounded as if he was well into his eighties or even nineties. I had to repeat everything and shout half the time. I hung up, disgusted.

"Let's take a break and go grab some supper," Randall suggested, seeing the frustration and annoyance on my face.

"It's stupid," I muttered. "It's a stupid way to go searching for your real father. I feel uncomfortable doing it."

"Okay, okay," he said, "let's not push it. Come on. I'm hungry."

I grabbed my jacket and followed him out. We went to his favorite restaurant, what he called a Mom and Pop place run by a couple from Ireland. Their specialty of course was Irish stew and I had to admit it was the best stew I had ever eaten. Good food and a cozy atmosphere with friendly people put me back at ease. I listened more to Randall describing his life back in Canada, some of the happier moments, the fun things he was able to do. Whether it was part of his musical ability or whatever, he seemed to have boundless verbal energy, his face bright-. ening with excitement, eyes twinkling like Christmas bulbs, his laughter melodic. He reached for my hand and held it while he talked about the first time he kissed a girl.

"It was very disappointing," he told me.

"Nicolette Sabon, your eleven-year-old?" I asked. He looked surprised that I had remembered.

"No. We never really kissed. It was someone else, someone I didn't tell you about."

"Oh? Why not?"

"She was my cousin," he said. "We were both about fourteen and it was more like an experiment. Her experiment," he emphasized.

"I don't understand."

"She told me she was doing a science project about kissing and kissing me would be part of the research," he said.

"You believed that?" I asked. He blanched at my accusing him of being naive.

"Well, I couldn't think of any other reason why she wanted to kiss me," he replied.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I couldn't!"