She knew he was staring at her, but she could not meet his gaze. "He wanted you to know-"
"I can read," he said. "May I take it with me?"
She nodded. "Be careful. It"s old." For the first time, she felt old.
He stood. "I"ll leave now."
She looked at him then. When had he developed Craven"s blank gaze, his unreadable expression, his bland tone?
Just as quickly, he changed. "You"re right," he said. "I could make a movie of this. Call it My Two Dads. Or The Boat With No Sail. No, not creative enough." He scoffed as if he hadn"t intended to say that. "I have to give this some thought. Excuse me." He left the room. He left the house.
He left this stranger.
72.
From the time Beau began to grow inside her, Lydia had kept him safe with lies. Now she"d lost him with truth. She"d tried to give him his natural dad but took away the only one he ever knew.
Two weeks later, he appeared at her door. They shared no smile, no embrace. He suggested they go into the library.
Neither were comfortable. She saw it in his face. Heard it in his voice when he admitted it. "I"ve tried to absorb what you told me, and give some kind of response." He lifted his hand helplessly. "I can see a script, hear the lines, even know what they should be, but when it comes to talking about my own feelings, it comes out jumbled."
She smiled then. "John was like that. The more meaningful something was, the fewer words he could speak. He had to write them."
"That"s the way of the writers I work with."
"Maybe I can make it easier. I"m not the mom you knew. I"m a stranger."
"Oh, far from a stranger. You told me everything."
Yes, and she would take whatever criticism he needed to fling at her. "Go on," she whispered.
"When I left here, I didn"t know what to say, what to feel. At first I felt I had no dad. But I did, and do. I loved and respected Dad. And he seemed to be a good husband to you."
She couldn"t know if Craven were the better man, but she could say, "The best."
He acknowledged that with a nod. "Then I realized I have two dads. But that flippant remark I made lodged in my mind. A boat with no sail." He scoffed self-consciously. "It"s true."
She clasped her hands on her lap.
"I went out on a boat." He added quickly, "with a sail." The tension in his face eased. "I thought about Dad demanding I remember who I am. Could we have coffee?"
She nodded. He went over to the intercom and asked the maid to bring it. He returned to his seat. "David knew who he was at age six. He knew when your feet don"t touch bottom, swim. I thought of all that." He grinned. "You can"t be around the Bettencourts without having to think, beneath the surface."
That truth made her smile again.
"I never had to rebel against you."
Until now.
"You loved me every moment of my life. Never did I doubt."
Oh, I do. Can you love me?
"You were the perfect mother. And at the same time, the most beautiful woman in the world, who knows all the right things to do and say, to live the good life and be married to a successful, revered man." He heaved a deep breath. "I lived with that. My life and opportunities have been amazing. There"s been no reason I shouldn"t succeed."
She thought he was doing quite well for one who couldn"t speak his mind.
"And then, as you talked to me that day, Mom began to fade like a scene in a movie when the camera moves away."
She was going to break her hands if she didn"t unclasp them. No, that was all right. They would match her heart. Fortunately, Myrna entered then with a tray and set it on the coffee table. She couldn"t reach for hers with numb fingers.
Beau picked up his cup and drank from it.
She waited for the final blow. He was dismissing her. He was a grown man, but he was her child, her baby. She sealed her lips as best she could and swallowed the scream threatening her throat.
He put his cup down. "You were no longer Mom. That"s a label. Like Beaumont and Dowd. Good ones, mind you. And you"ll always have that label. But, like you said, you were a stranger. A woman. A person. A flesh-and-blood human being. A scared little girl."
She wasn"t sure . . .
"I didn"t like it. I saw me as a scared little boy. Maybe that"s why we"re called children of G.o.d, no matter our age."
Now he sounded like David. But as he"d said, you can"t be around them . . .
"I"m a grown man, have a wife expecting a child, have every opportunity at my fingertips. But I"m a scared little boy. I could not admit that to anyone but you, because that day you held nothing back, and became no longer just Mom. You"re someone I want, and need, as a friend."
Like . . . Caroline was to her?
"I know," he said, "everyone else in this world could abandon me, by their own choice or by my stupidity, and you may not believe this, but I"m not perfect. But I know you will always stand by me, loving me."
She started to come out of her chair, but he halted her, perhaps aware her insides were doing the Charleston and her fingers were nearly broken. He took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. "Like it or not, want it or not, I have another dad. And he has reached out to me from the grave."
A tremble of her lips replaced what she intended as a smile.
He pointed to the paper. "In this, I was trying to make some connection with him and who I am and what I am."
She reached for the paper, unfolded it, and read.
Life as a Boat a tiny white speck
adrift in the sea
I loosened the knot
and set myself free
one little vessel
no rudders, no oars
so without care
with no confinement of sh.o.r.es
I thought what I thought
and did what I pleased
or so it would seem
to the boat that was me
the clouds and the sky
and the birds and the breeze
all beguiling and tempting
my new liberty
singing soft songs
and spinning great tales