Marry Me (11 page)

He'd join them in a minute, but he was receiving such a huge dose of pleasure from watching the boys throw the ball around.

As a kid, he'd loved baseball, and he'd been so good at it. He'd played all through school, and he probably could have gone pro, but he hadn't tried.

He didn't have the kind of cut-throat ambition that would have propelled him into the big leagues, and he'd convinced himself that if he couldn't be the best, it wasn't worth doing. But now, as he remembered the simple joy of the game, it occurred to him that he'd missed something important by abandoning the sport.

He peered over to where Bryce's family was sitting, cheering him on, and he suffered a virulent wave of envy. In all the years he'd played, his parents had never come to a game. When he was little, he'd asked his father occasionally, but as the seasons had sped by, he'd quit asking.

His grandfather, Harold, had frequently attended, but after the falling out between him and Lucas's father, Lucas had been on his own.

What would it be like to be a child with a family that cared? What would it be like to be at shortstop, to glance over and see your mother—even if it was your adopted mother—smiling and clapping for you?

For the first time ever, it dawned on him that he might have kept on at baseball if he'd ever received the slightest bit of support. The realization was like a slap in the face.

He turned his gaze to Bryce again, as he snagged warm-up balls and tossed them to the first baseman. He was such a good-looking kid, and he had the lanky anatomy of a great ballplayer.

Lucas had been a shortstop too, and a flutter of excitement curled in his belly. If he continued his relationship with Faith, he could be a mentor to Bryce. The poor guy lived in a house full of females. Lucas could work on his skills, could drive him to practices, could encourage and advise him as his own father had never done.

The pitcher was ready for the batter, and the catcher hollered, "Balls in!"

Bryce had just scooped up a grounder, and he flicked the ball sideways to the dugout. The move ignited a memory for Lucas, and suddenly, he felt he was staring into a telescope, seeing an exact copy of himself at age ten.

He used to make the same sassy move. He'd been a dark-haired, blue-eyed, athletic boy, brimming with talent and attitude. As Bryce was now.

What was he witnessing?
What, what, what?

The sodas and snacks slid to the dirt. His heart literally skipped several beats; his ears began to ring. He couldn't breathe.

He glared over at the bleachers, studying Peanut, recognizing how much she resembled his sister Brittney.

Faith noticed him gaping, and she frowned as he pushed away from the fence and staggered toward her.

Very quietly, he said, "Come here, Faith."

"Lucas, what is it?"

"Come." When she didn't budge, he added, "Now!"

His sharp tone unsettled her, and she climbed down to him.

Lucas glanced up at Gracie and told her, "We have to leave for awhile."

"What?" Faith complained. "No, I want to—"

Lucas interrupted her. "We won't be back for the rest of the game, Gracie. Can you take care of the kids?"

"Sure, Lucas, honey," Gracie agreed. "You go on. Don't worry about us."

He grabbed Faith's arm and led her away. There were dozens of parents in the bleachers, so she didn't raise a fuss. He maneuvered her out to his car, opened the door, and shoved her in. She tried to yank away, tried to escape, but he threatened, "Don't say a word, and don't get out."

In two leaps, he was in the driver's seat. He started the motor and stepped on the gas. Without speaking, they raced the few blocks to her house. He parked and rushed to assist her, but she was already scrambling out.

"You are insane," she hissed.

"Yes, I am, so don't tempt me to do things I might regret later."

"What is wrong with you?"

He marched her inside and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.

"Tell me who he is," he demanded, "and don't you dare lie to me."

She hesitated, then claimed, "I have no idea what you mean."

"Tell me!" he bellowed so loudly that she flinched as if she was afraid he might strike her.

He'd never hit a woman before, but then, he couldn't remember ever being quite so enraged. Reining himself in, he strode away to put space between them. He pointed to the couch.

"Sit down."

She ignored him and went to the kitchen. He followed, watching as she reached to an upper shelf in a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of brandy. She poured them both a shot.

"Calm down," she insisted, "and we'll talk."

"I don't need a drink." He banged the glass on the counter. "I want to be very, very sober when I hear what you have to say."

"Don't shout at me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'm serious. We'll discuss this calmly and rationally, or we won't discuss it at all."

"Who is Bryce? He's related to me, and don't try to pretend he's not."

"I'll tell you, but on two conditions."

"You have the nerve to exact conditions?"

"Accept them or go away."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. He could sense that her secret was very, very bad. He wanted to roar in frustration, wanted to
throttle her, wanted to retreat to a time prior to his ever having met her.

He capitulated. "What are they?"

"You can't repeat the details of this conversation until Bryce is twenty-one."

"Why?"

She didn't answer. "You might be able to do it sooner than that, but you'd have to have my permission."

"Why!" His patience was unraveling.

"I won't tell you
why
. You simply have to agree to my terms."

"Fine," he snapped. "My lips are sealed."

"Once I start in, if you say you don't believe me or that I'm lying, I'll ask you to leave. If you refuse, I'll dial 9-1-1 and have you escorted out."

"I'm tired of your games. Get this over with."

"Bryce is your son."

He felt as if she'd struck him hard enough to knock him down. He lurched over to the table and plopped into a chair. He stared at the floor, his mind racing.

"I don't—"

He almost said
believe you
, as she'd warned him not to, and he just managed to catch himself. It wasn't that he didn't believe her. Her declaration was too disconcerting.

He tried again. "I don't understand."

"You were married when you were nineteen."

"To Katie," he murmured.

He'd been a rude, rebellious adolescent, chafing at his father's authority, at his mother's detachment. Over a college spring break, he'd traveled to Vegas with some friends, and he'd met her in a bar. After too many hours of wild sex and drunken partying, they'd snuck off to a wedding chapel.

It had seemed like a lark, as if it wasn't real, and he'd gained enormous satisfaction from realizing how his behavior would gall his parents.

Of course, his father had found out right away, so the union was quickly ended. Katie had been bought off, paid to go away and not cause any trouble. She'd vanished from Lucas's life as rapidly as she'd entered it.

He'd always felt guilty about how she'd been treated, about his own role in the debacle. He'd attempted to contact her a few times, to see how she was faring, but her phone had been disconnected. She'd quit her job in Vegas and had moved with no forwarding address.

Ultimately, as the months had rolled by, he'd stopped trying, convinced that his father's decision to obtain a quiet annulment had been the appropriate one.

But now…now…

"Katie is his mother?" he asked.

"Yes."

Faith walked over and waved the brandy glass under his nose. With trembling hands, he took it from her and kicked it back in a single swallow.

"Where is she?"

"I'm sorry, Lucas, but she died in a car wreck when Bryce was a year old."

"How did he wind up with my grandfather?"

"Harold kept track of you, so he knew about the wedding. After your father chased her off, she was destitute."

"No, no, my father didn't chase her off. He paid her a huge settlement."

Faith scowled. "No, he didn't. He never gave her a penny. He had some men threaten her, and she was so frightened that she split. Harold located her, and he was supporting her and Bryce when she was killed."

Lucas shook his head. "That can't be right."

"When she passed away, no one else wanted him, so Harold took him."

Lucas studied her eyes, searching for fabrication, but her gaze was candid and unwavering.

He felt as if he'd been living in a brick house, that an earthquake had caused the foundation to crack. The bricks were falling one by one, pelting him as they dropped from the walls.

If what she was saying was true, everything he'd believed about his father and his family had been a lie.

He asked the question he couldn't bear to ask:  "Did my father…was he aware that she was pregnant?"

"Yes."

And he'd hidden the news from Lucas. For an entire decade, Lucas had had a son, and he'd never had a clue.

"My mother," he pressed. "Did she know?"

"She was the most adamant about keeping the information from you."

"Why?"

"She was afraid that if you found out, you'd bring him home—like a stray puppy."

Lucas rose and went to the counter. He poured himself another drink and gulped it down.

"What about Peanut?" he inquired. "Is she mine too?"

A horrid image flashed in his mind, of all the women, of all the one-night stands. Had he sired Peanut in a drunken haze he didn't even recall?

"She's your father's," Faith claimed.

"My sister?"

"Your half-sister."

"Who is her mother?"

"A mistress he had in New York."

"My father didn't have mistresses," he scoffed.

Faith shrugged. "He screwed around like a dog. Why do you think your mother hated him so much?"

His father and mother hadn't gotten along, but Lucas had viewed their marriage from a child's perspective. He'd assumed they had personality conflicts or differing goals. Had it been as simple as infidelity? Had the marriage been a sham?

He was growing angry. Faith was the messenger, and she was delivering messages he didn't wish to hear. Though it was illogical, he blamed her. Why would she air this painful, dirty laundry?

"How did Harold get custody of Peanut?" he asked. "I'm sure you have another great tale to tell."

"Her mother wanted some support from your father, but he told her to get lost. So she tried your mother, but that didn't work out either."

"She approached my mother?" He was aghast at the prospect.

"Yes."

"You're lying."

She wagged a finger at him. "I warned you not to say that to me."

"Don't expect me to apologize."

Why was he being so mean? Why was he taunting and doubting?

He was just so upset. His world had tipped off its axis. Every fact he'd ever known had been proved wrong.

"She couldn't dump Peanut on your parents," Faith continued, "so she dragged her to Harold to see what she could wring out of him. He basically bought Peanut from her mother."

"Saint Harold," he sneered.

"Not a saint, no. But certainly a kind, decent man who cleaned up you and your father's messes."

They glared, fuming silently, and he guessed they were quarreling, though he wasn't certain why. He just felt so betrayed. He was desperate to lash out, and Faith was the only one in range.

"You have my son and my sister," he tersely muttered. "I don't even know them, and they're living here with you."

"Yes, they are."

"You weren't ever going to tell me, were you?"

"Not if I didn't have to."

"I'll sue you for custody," he absurdly threatened. "I'll bring them home where they belong."

"And where is that? With your dear mother?" She snorted with disgust. "You'll never be able to take them from me. Don't bother trying."

"You'd be surprised what I might do."

"No, I wouldn't. You're a Merriweather."

"You are too," he reminded her. "You slept with me while you were hiding this terrible secret. Nice move, Faith. You're a real class act."

"Don't insult me, Lucas. It makes me tired."

"I haven't begun to insult you. We were coming for the money, and now, we'll come for the kids too. You'll never get to keep them. There's not a judge on the planet who will side with you against me."

"They're my children," she blustered, "and the money is theirs. I promised Harold that I'd protect it for them, and he trusted me. I'll fight you to the death over it."