Midnight Choices. Eileen Wilks

letting him pay for their airfare.

      He’d done it anyway.

      Well, he was a proud man. A proud, stubborn jackass of a man. She rubbed her temple. This probably wouldn’t be the only time they butted heads over money. Benjamin McClain had a real problem with the fact that she had more of it than he did. She’d known that.

      She hadn’t known she was still so angry with him about it, though.

      At the other end of the house, the front door slammed. “Mom! Mom! Guess what! Where are you, Mom?”

      She stopped moving, a smile easing the tight muscles of her face. “In the Florida room, honey.”

      Feet pattered, light and swift, down the uncarpeted hall toward the sun porch where Gwen waited. “We went to see the seals, Mom, and I fed one!” Three feet, one inch of towheaded tornado whirled into the room, legs pumping.

      “You did?” She hunkered down and held out her arms. Her son hurled himself into them. “All by yourself?”

      “Mostly.” Zachary was ever judicious in his assessment of truth. “I got to hold the fish myself, and the man held me. I told him he didn’t have to ’cause I’m four now, but he did, anyway. And their teeth are really big, Mom. Did you know that?”

      “Big teeth, huh? Bigger than mine?” She made chomping noises and pretended to bite him. He giggled, and her arms tightened.

      Oh, God. She wanted so much for him, so much….

      “You’re squishing me, Mom.” He wriggled.

      “Sorry, light-of-my-life. Tell me about the seals.”

      “The man said they’re called seal-ions, not just seals. And they bark like dogs. Like this.” He demonstrated.

      Her mother spoke from the French doors, her voice dry. “He did that all the way home.”

      The muscles across Gwen’s shoulders tightened. “The condition of his clothes tells me he had a good time.”

      “We both did.” Her mother gave Zach the soft, faintly surprised smile that only her grandson seemed able to elicit.

      All her life, Gwen had heard how much she resembled her mother. It was true. Her nose lacked the symmetry of her mother’s, due to the time she’d fallen out of a tree when she was seven. Otherwise, looking at Deirdre Van Allen’s face was too much like peering into her own physical future—the same eyes, mouth, chin, even the same small ears tucked flat to their heads. The same wheat-pale hair and easily burned skin. Aside from age, there was only one obvious difference between the two women: their height. The fine bones and flat chest that made Gwen look like an undernourished child were transformed on Deirdre Van Allen’s taller frame into a model’s willowy elegance.

      Sometimes Gwen had rebelled against the resemblance, sometimes she’d taken comfort from it. These days she mostly just hoped she’d be around to find out how accurate that genetic mirror turned out to be.

      Two sticky hands seized her face and turned it toward a small, square face with dark eyes and a determined chin. “I want a dog.”

      Her mind snapped back to the moment. “You do, huh?”

      “I been telling you and telling you that.”

      “Mmm-hmm. And what have I been telling you?”

      His mouth drooped. “That I can’t have one till I’m older.”

      “That’s right.” He looked so sad, with that pouty lip. And so stubborn, with those frowning eyebrows. And not like her at all. Her heart hitched in her chest. For a long time she’d managed to forget that Zach had come from two sets of genes, not one. She couldn’t do that anymore.

      “But you never say how much older. I’m getting older all the time.”

      “So you are. What did your grandma stuff you with, anyway?” She poked his T-shirt-clad tummy. “I see a purple spot, a red spot…”

      He giggled. “That’s grape drink and ketchup.”

      “And was that ketchup on something or did you take it straight?” She scooped him up and stood—and God, but it was good to be able to do that again, to rise easily with the warm weight of her son in her arms. The radiation had left her so weak, tired all the time.

      All that was in the past. “I also see a bath in your very near future.”

      He frowned, considering that. “With bubbles,” he informed her. “An’ my army guys.”

      “Sure thing.” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother as she started for the French doors that led to the rest of the house. “There’s a pot of decaf in the kitchen, if you’d like a cup.”

      “Wine sounds better right now.”

      “You know where it is.”

      Several minutes later she left Zach in a tub that was more bubbles than water, surrounded by battalions of “army guys.”

      She would tell him about his father tonight. Oh, she’d had reason enough to wait until she’d seen Ben, spoken with him, but she’d returned from Highpoint two days ago. There was no excuse to delay any longer. Ben had made it clear he wanted a relationship with his son.

      How would Zach feel about suddenly acquiring a father?

      Her stomach clenched with nerves. She saw that her mother had poured her a glass of merlot and left it on the counter. She picked it up and took a sip, letting the rich taste of the wine linger on her tongue.

      It was so important to handle this right. She’d tried to prepare herself for the questions Zach would ask, including the big one: why hadn’t she told him about his father before?

      Unfortunately she still didn’t have a good answer for that one.

      Sighing, she looked at the open doors to the Florida room. Might as well get this over with. Her mother wouldn’t leave without making one last push to change Gwen’s mind.

      “Battles are being waged,” Gwen announced as she stepped into the sun porch. “Campaigns plotted, and bloody war declared. I think the green guys are going to win again, though.”

      Dusk had replaced the warm colors of sunset. Her mother stood in silence and dimness, her back to the house, looking out at the shapes and shadows of the garden. Her back was as straight as ever, but the way she hugged her arms to her made her look oddly vulnerable.

      “Mom? Is something wrong?”

      Deirdre turned, her face pale in the dying light. “I saw the letter from him. You’re going through with this, aren’t you.”

      Gwen grimaced and flipped the light on. “It wasn’t addressed to you.”

      “I didn’t read it,” her mother snapped. “But I couldn’t help seeing the return address.” She waved at the glass table, where a glass of wine sat next to the envelope with McClain Construction in the upper left corner.

      Gwen took a deep breath. Arguing with her mother wouldn’t help. It was probably inevitable, but it wouldn’t help. Her throat ached as she crossed to her mother. “Yes, I’m going through with it. Everything is arranged—we leave on the tenth and will stay with his father for two weeks. I’ll tell Zach tonight.”

      “Oh, Gwen.” Deirdre closed her eyes tightly for a second. “I don’t understand this obsession of yours. For heaven’s sake, you had to hire a detective to track the man down!” She shuddered delicately. To Deirdre Van Allen, anything connected with a detective was implicitly sordid.

      “That was partly my fault. I’ve told you that.”

      “The way you make excuses for this man worries me.”

      Was she doing that—making excuses? Wearily Gwen rubbed her temples, where a headache was starting. “This is about Zach, not me.”

      “Is