Hope Street Part 35

"But I can guess. I can guess, Bobby. You think I'm an idiot? She was pregnant. You got her in trouble. You were stupid, sleeping around with too many girls. Thought you were the stud of Holmdell, but Mr. Stud got caught."

"Give me the gla.s.s," Bobby said, extending his hand.

His father stepped back, out of reach. "At least you had the b.a.l.l.s to get a girl pregnant, which is more than I can say for your pansy brother. But I'll tell you this, Bobby, since you're too stupid to figure it out yourself. Joelle tricked you. She conned you. That pretty little girl you walked down the aisle today? You claim she's my granddaughter, but she sure as h.e.l.l doesn't look like a DiFranco."

Rage exploded, flaring red in Bobby's brain. He made a dive for the gla.s.s and wound up catching his father's wrist. The gla.s.s tipped, splas.h.i.+ng Scotch onto the fieldstone beneath their feet. With his free hand, he wrenched the gla.s.s from his father's grip and hurled it over the ledge, onto the gra.s.s below.

"You little punk," his father snarled.

"You've had too much to drink, Dad. You're saying things you don't mean to say-"

"I mean every word of it." He yanked his arm away from Bobby and started toward the door. "I'm getting another drink."

"No. You're done drinking for today."

"You think I'm a drunk?"

"I know you're a drunk."

The punch came so quickly, so unexpectedly, Bobby didn't have a chance to duck. He felt the sting in the corner of his mouth, the grinding ache in his cheek as his feet danced under him, struggling to hold him upright. Behind him he heard someone shout, and then a pair of hands pressed against his shoulders, steadying him. "Christ," Eddie muttered. He pressed a frosty gla.s.s and a c.o.c.ktail napkin into Bobby's hands. "Put some ice on your lip. I'll take care of Dad."

Bobby's vision slowly cleared. He watched his brother storm across the patio to Louie, who was trying to climb over the ledge to retrieve his gla.s.s from the lawn below. Sucking air into his lungs, he lowered his gaze to the gla.s.s in his hand. Some sort of liquid in there, a stirrer and ice. He pulled out a cube and pressed it to the corner of his mouth. The cold felt good, but the alcohol made his lip sting even more.

The ice melted fast, dripping between his fingers. He used the c.o.c.ktail napkin to dry his hand and then his mouth. When he drew the napkin away, he saw blood on it.

Eddie seemed to have calmed his father down. He held him tightly and led him back toward Bobby. "How 'bout that?" Louie said, studying Bobby's face and smiling with dazed pride. "Didn't know your old man had it in him, huh."

"I always knew you had it in you," Bobby retorted, wondering if the hatred burning in his gut was visible in his eyes.

"It's not that bad, Bobby," Eddie a.s.sured him. "Use more ice."

"You can just tell folks you walked into a door," Louie said, then laughed. Maybe he wasn't so drunk after all. Or maybe being drunk didn't dull his memory. This punch, Bobby understood, was payback. It was settling a very old score. It was letting Bobby know that the hatred was mutual.

"I'm going to drive him back to the hotel," Eddie said.

"I can call a cab for him."

"Here? In the middle of golf country?" Eddie snorted.

"I don't want you to leave. They'll be serving dinner soon."

"That's all right. I'll get him into his room and come back. You can tell Stuart where I've gone. Anyone else, just tell them Dad wasn't feeling well."

"I'm feeling fine," Louie protested. "I'd feel even better if I had a drink."

"I'll talk to the bartender at the hotel lounge," Eddie added.

Bobby shook his head. "If the bar cuts him off, he'll just go through whatever's in the minibar in his room."

"At least he won't be drinking in public. Let me leave so I can come back."

Bobby glanced at his father, who appeared to be deflating, adrenaline no longer pumping through his veins. Just blood and booze. "Eddie, I-"

"Hey." Eddie silenced him. "How many times did you s.h.i.+eld me from him over the years? This is the least I can do for you.

Now, your princess just got married. Go back inside and be a proud papa."

Bobby felt his energy drain away. "Thanks."

He watched as Eddie led their father toward the stairs and down. Louie's legs seemed rubbery beneath him, even though Bobby was the one who'd gotten walloped. If he and Eddie were lucky, the son of a b.i.t.c.h would collapse as soon as he got to his room and sleep until morning. If they weren't lucky, he'd work his way through the minibar, make himself sick and stick Bobby with a whopping bill at checkout time.

Screw it. Eddie was right. He had to go inside and be a proud papa. With a split lip and a bruised cheek.

He made his way back to the building, s.h.i.+vering as the air-conditioning blasted him. Refusing to show his face in the reception room until he'd cleaned up, he ducked into the men's room.

The bathroom was brightly lit and as he studied his reflection in the mirror that stretched the length of a wall above a row of sinks, the striped green wallpaper made him look even paler than he was. His hair was mussed, the skin above his jaw slightly puffy. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. At least it hadn't dripped onto his tux. How would he have explained the bloodstains when he returned the suit to the rental place?

I walked into a door, and the door won.

Frickin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought as he tossed the c.o.c.ktail napkin into the trash can and twisted the faucet.

The door swung open. He hoped it wasn't one of the wedding guests. His peripheral vision caught a flutter of pale blue and he spun around. "Jo? What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"Someone in the lobby said you were in here."

"It's a men's room."

"Big deal." She swept across the room, pinched his chin between her thumb and index finger and inspected his face. "Did you hit your father?"

"No." He eased out of her grasp and turned back to the sink. "I wish I had," he added before bowing and splas.h.i.+ng water onto his face.

"Where is he now?"

"Eddie's driving him back to the hotel." He lifted a paper towel from the stack beside the sink. It was as soft as cloth. He dabbed his lip, then stretched it to see where the blood was flowing from. Just inside, where his teeth had jammed into the flesh.

"Let me," Joelle said, taking a fresh towel, soaking it and pressing it lightly to his mouth and cheek. "I think you'll live." She smiled, obviously trying to cool his anger as much as his face.

"I look like s.h.i.+t."

"You look like the most handsome man at the wedding," she argued. "With a slightly puffy lip. If you smile, no one will notice."

He attempted a smile. It hurt not just his face but his soul.

Behind Joelle, the door cracked open and a man started to enter. "Oh-excuse me," he said, hastily retreating.

"Come on in," Joelle called to him. "Don't pay any attention to me."

"No, that's all right-I'll find another restroom." The man vanished, letting the door whisper shut behind him.

Joelle grinned up at Bobby. "I scared him away, huh."

She was the scariest woman he'd ever known. So calm, so sure of herself, so determined to whip him back into shape. He could force a smile so the wedding guests wouldn't notice his swollen lip, but he was a long way from back into shape. The anger inside him had mutated into something else, something that felt like panic, or helplessness. Something weak and frightening, something Bobby didn't want to be.

Joelle must have sensed it. "Talk to me, Bobby."

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"You're upset, but your father's gone. Eddie's taking care of it. Put it out of your mind, okay?"

"It's not-" He swallowed. When she gazed at him that way, her eyes so blue, so beseeching, he wished he could tell her everything. He wished he could sob on her shoulder. But he couldn't. He was a man, her husband, the person who had promised to make everything right for her. "I'm not upset," he said.

"You are, Bobby. Why do I always have to fight with you to get you to open up? For G.o.d's sake, talk to me."

What could he say? How could he admit what he was feeling? "I hate my father," he admitted at last.

"I don't blame you."

"Not because of him, or this." He brushed his hand against his throbbing mouth. "Because...because what kind of father can I possibly be if he's who I learned from? He's all I know about how to be a father." Eddie was wise not to have kids-even gay couples became parents these days, but Eddie and Stuart had no interest in that. Bobby should have been that wise, too. He carried his father's genes in him, his father's imprint. He'd spent every day of his life struggling to be a better man, but what if he'd failed? What if he was his father's son?

He should never have married Joelle. He'd done it only because she'd been desperate and he would have done anything for her-even if it meant turning into his father.

She cupped her hands on either side of his face and forced him to meet her gaze. Her fingers were cool, firm but unbearably gentle. "You are the finest father I've ever seen," she told him. "You're nothing like him."

"I'm his son."

"He's not a father." Her voice dipped to a near whisper. "Contributing sperm isn't what makes a man a father, Bobby. You know that. I know that."

Bobby's father probably knew that, too. The words he'd said outside, the insinuations-had he guessed the truth? Did it matter?

"You, Bobby DiFranco-you are what it means to be a father." She guided his face down to her and kissed him, a sweet, warm touch of her mouth to his, light enough not to hurt his injured lip. Then she released him. "Come," she said, slipping her hand into his and leading him out of the bathroom. "You have to make a toast to the bride and groom. Try to smile, okay?"

Smiling would hurt. But for Joelle he would do it.

THIRTEEN.

DANNY SHOWED UP AT FIVE-THIRTY, lugging a shopping bag full of take-out Chinese food. The aroma of soy and ginger emanating from the bag tore through whatever had been wrapped around Bobby's appet.i.te all day. One whiff and he realized he was starving.

He wasn't sure what to make of his kids' fussing over him, though. That morning Claudia had barged in and ordered him to eat something. Now Danny was standing on the front porch, armed with food.

At least he hadn't taken inspiration from his brother and shown up with booze. Of all the mistakes Bobby had made in the past week-and he still wasn't sure what all those mistakes were; he just knew he'd made plenty-downing drink after drink with Mike at the Hay Street Pub had been the biggest.

Or maybe not. Joelle hadn't left him after that debacle. Maybe meeting with Helen Crawford behind Joelle's back had been a worse mistake.

Or maybe his biggest mistake was that he was who he was-a man who couldn't give Joelle what she wanted. A man who could provide her with a home and a car, all the security in the world, but couldn't go all touchy-feely about his emotions.

She wanted him to open up and let everything out? Well, d.a.m.n it, he'd been as open as he could be. She wanted to know what was inside him? Rage. He'd sure as h.e.l.l let that out.

"How about it, Dad?" Danny said with forced cheer. "Can I tempt you with some General Gao's chicken?"

"Come on in." Bobby waved Danny inside, then shut the door. The house didn't have its usual Sat.u.r.day fresh-scrubbed smell. He supposed he could have cleaned the place in Joelle's absence, but instead he'd spent much of the day working on her garden. She labored over it, and she liked to believe it was hers, but gardening wasn't her forte. She didn't understand that you had to thin out the carrots and radishes if you hoped to harvest edible vegetables and not scrawny little roots. You had to check the undersides of the tomato leaves for aphids, and you had to weed ruthlessly. Joelle insisted that her garden be organic and she'd forbidden Bobby from spraying weed killer and insecticide on the plants. But you couldn't get a crop of organic produce if insects ate whatever the weeds hadn't choked to death.

He'd finished gardening a couple of hours ago, taken a long shower and thought about how, if he were a drinker, a cold beer would have hit the spot. Instead, he'd poured himself a gla.s.s of iced tea, left another message, less pleading and more demanding, on Joelle's cell phone and then called Wanda. "Have you seen Joelle?" he'd asked.

"I don't want to get in the middle of this," she'd replied, which indicated that she had seen Joelle and knew something about what was going on.

"She won't return my calls," he'd said.

"I suppose she will when she's good and ready."

"Will you ask her to get ready soon?" He'd been unable to sift the impatience from his voice. "We can't work anything out if she won't talk to me."

"Or if you won't talk to her," Wanda had said.

He'd almost retorted that he'd been attempting since yesterday to talk to Joelle, but she kept refusing to accept his calls. But why argue with Wanda? She didn't want to get in the middle of this, and he didn't blame her. "Tell her I called," Bobby had said. "Tell her I'll keep trying."

"You better try something," Wanda had said cryptically before hanging up.

Discouraged, he'd turned the CD player back on. The carousel was still full of Doors disks, and the first song to play was "The End." He'd sat listening to the dirgelike number, absorbing Jim Morrison's howls of pain. "The end of laughter and soft lies," Morrison sang, leaving Bobby so depressed he almost hadn't heard Danny ringing the doorbell.

All right. Food had arrived, food and his youngest son. He was still depressed, but not quite as much as he'd been a few minutes ago.

"Lauren says Asian cuisine tastes better with chopsticks," Danny said as he removed plastic tubs and waxed cardboard containers from the bag and spread them out on the kitchen table.

Bobby reminded himself that Lauren was Danny's girlfriend, the woman who'd dragged Danny off to Tanglewood to listen to symphonies. Bobby had met her a couple of times, most recently at a barbecue at Claudia and Gary's house to celebrate Memorial Day and Claudia's birthday. Lauren seemed nice enough-but she also seemed like the sort of person who'd use words like cuisine and insist on using chopsticks.

"This is America," Bobby said. "I'm using a fork."

Danny grinned and accepted a fork, too. He helped himself to one of the microbrewery beers in the refrigerator door while Bobby poured himself a fresh gla.s.s of iced tea. Then they settled at the table and dug in. While Bobby inhaled a third of the General Gao's chicken and a small mountain of steamed rice, Danny described the client he and Mike had visited earlier that day. "He asked for terracing, but his property doesn't slope. If we did terracing, we'd have to recontour the land first. It seems like an awful lot of effort just so the guy can have terraces."

"It's a profitable job," Bobby explained. "If that's what he wants, we'll rent some earth movers and recontour his property. And we'll make a lot of money doing it."

"Yeah, well, Mike and I wrote down the guy's specs and figured you'd have to calculate the cost. We weren't sure whether the company can do that kind of job."

"We can."

Danny nodded. He was eating even faster than Bobby. Twenty-four years old and he still went through food like a ravenous teenager. He piled some spring rolls onto his plate, then picked one up with his fingers and chomped on it, managing to consume half of it in one bite.

"So, what's the deal?" Bobby asked once Danny had made it through all his spring rolls. "You kids are on some kind of rotation?"

Danny gave him an innocent look. "Rotation?"