The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [24]
“Elizabeth,” he said heartily, “we are going to have a smashing good evening!”
And she said with the first real emotion she’d felt in months, “Honestly, I would like that.”
Later, over plates of steaming mussels and vegetarian pasta, and a bottle of a very fine Bordeaux, she asked the question that was burning in her mind.
“Does it hurt?” Her eyes drifted to his right side. She didn’t have to say more for him to understand.
Slowly, he nodded. “Not as bad as it did, though. Just no more jumping jacks for a while.”
“But you’re feeling better?”
He smiled at her. “I was born with two bad kidneys, love. The first one failed when I was eighteen. The second one started going last year. I spent sixteen long months on dialysis. That felt bad. Now, as far as I am concerned, things can only feel good.”
“Is there . . . is there still a chance of rejection?”
“In life, love, and organ transplants. But I take my truckload of meds like a good dooby and say my prayers at night. I don’t know why God gives second chances to old rascals like me, but as long as I have one, I hate to complain.”
“Your family must be very relieved.”
He smiled again, but this time she caught a trace of sorrow in his gaze. “I don’t have much family, Bethie. One older brother. He went away a long time ago and I haven’t seen him since. There was a woman once. She said she carried my child. I was young though, and I’m afraid I didn’t take it too well. When I learned I needed a kidney—well, that hardly seemed the time to call. I don’t have patience for fair-weather friends, let alone fair-weather fathers.”
“I’m sorry,” she said honestly. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad times.”
“Not to worry. I’ve made my mistakes and taken my licks and I still think a quiet life is overrated. I’m going to die with my boots on.” He grimaced. “Probably once again hooked to a dialysis machine.”
“Don’t say that. You’ve come this far. Besides, you still have plenty of things to do. Like finding your child.”
“You think I’m going to find my long-lost child?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you brought it up in a conversation with a woman you’ve just met, so obviously you’ve been thinking about it.”
He grew silent. His fingers thrummed the curve of his wineglass. He said seriously, “You’re an extremely astute woman, Elizabeth Quincy.”
“No, I’m just a parent, too.”
“Ah, I don’t know. . . .” He backed off from the conversation, picking up his glass and taking a sip. “I don’t even know if the child is a boy or girl, let alone if it’s mine. And even at my age . . . I’m running around the world most of the time. Hardly father-of-the-year material.”
“What is it you do?”
“I specialize in doohickeys.”
“Doohickeys?”
“Doohickeys,” he chuckled. “I scour the globe for the cute, the strange, the interesting, and most of all, the cheap. Wooden boxes from Thailand, black lacquer from Singapore, paper kites from China. You go into a gift shop, fall in love with some hopelessly overpriced, crudely carved figurine, and that’s me, Bethie. I found that just for you. At a hundred percent markup, of course.”
She shook her head in mock protest. “And you can make a living at this?”
“I make a very fine living at this. Bring things in by the container loads. Volume is the key.”
“You must have a fine eye.”
“No, just lots of experience as an impulse shopper.” He grinned at her. “And yourself?”
He’d meant the question kindly. He had just volunteered more than a little about himself. Still she flinched, and the instant she did, the smile faded from his face.
“I apologize,” he said immediately. “I’m sorry, Bethie. I have this habit of speaking before thinking. I swear I’ve been meaning to quit—”
“No, no. It’s a logical question and you’ve been very generous about sharing your life—”
“But things are difficult for you, now. I know and I shouldn’t have pried.”
“It’s not . . . it’s not that,” she ventured.
He nodded for her to continue, his expression patient, his crinkling blue eyes sincere. It was easy to talk to him, she discovered. Much easier than she would