Spencer's Child
by
Joan Kilby

Dear Reader, Before I became a writer, I was a marine biologist.

Although Spencer's Child is a fictional story with fictional characters, I
drew upon my experiences living and working on the west coast of British
Columbia to give it authenticity.  I never studied killer whales, but in
researching this book I've learned so much about these wonderful animals I
almost wish I had one.  Through the Vancouver Aquarium, I became the proud
adoptive parent of Takush, a northern resident killer whale.  The names of
the whales Spencer and Meg work with are taken from records of whales
identified on the B.  C.  coast, although the whales don't all belong to me
same pod in real life.  As for my characters, Spencer is one of my favorite
kinds of hero a brilliant but flawed loner, un tamable and unattainable.
Loving such a man could haunt a woman all her life especially when she's
borne his child.  It was a great pleasure for me to create a heroine, Meg,
whose vulnerability is balanced by inner strength, and whose abiding love
ultimately heals Spencer and brings them together, forever, with all the joy
they so richly deserve.  I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I
enjoyed writing it.  JoanKttby SPENCER'S CHILD Joan Kilby To my father, for
instilling in me the belief that I could accomplish anything I set my heart
on and making sure I had the discipline to achieve my goals.  And to Nan, for
giving me the gift of time.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Volker Deeke for sharing his expert knowledge in the
field of killer whale bioacoustics and for patiently answering my many
questions.  Meg Pocklington (who has the same name as my heroine purely by
coincidence!  ) of the Vancouver Aquarium was of great assistance in helping
me gather information on killer whales.  Any technical errors are mine.

PROLOGUE

meg peered through her microscope at the marine polychaete curled on its side
in the petri dish.  With one hand she held open the identification guide to
marine invertebrates of the Pacific Northwest; with the other she used a
probe to count the bristles arranged in paired sets on each segment.  She'd
almost finished when the chair next to hers scraped back and someone dropped
into the empty seat.  Her concentration broken, Meg glanced up.  And her
heart beat a little faster.  Spencer Valletta.  His brown hair was long and
unkempt, as though permanently ruffled by the wind that blew in off the
Pacific.  He wore khaki pants and a faded black sweatshirt with the sleeves
cut out.

On the crest of his tanned biceps rode the tattoo of a leaping killer whale.
No one knew much about Spencer.  He was a loner.  Also a fourth-year honors
student here at the University of Victoria and reputed to be brilliant.  Yet
not the kind of boy her parents would approve of.  But she'd noticed him
around the building, found him wildly attractive and now he was sitting right
beside her.  "Hi," she said.  "I'm Meg."

"Spencer."   Barely glancing her way, he hauled his beat-up leather satchel
onto the table and began to rummage inside.

Her gaze slid back to the killer whale tattoo.  She'd been fascinated with
the sleek black-and-white marine mammals ever since she was eight years old
and one had leaped straight out of the water not fifty feet from her father's
cabin cruiser.  She'd gone into biology with the sole intention of studying
them.  "Are you sure you're in the right class?"

she asked, trying to engage him in conversation.  "This is Marine
Invertebrates 301--a third-year course."  His features were clean and
straight, his sea-green eyes so dark that when she gazed into them she swore
she could hear things that went bump in the night.  He took in her styled
blond hair, miniskirt and designer top and smiled briefly.

"I'm where I have to be, princess."  Meg turned up her nose and pretended
interest in the worm.  Spencer pulled a laboratory manual out of his satchel.
A folded square of paper came out with it and slid across the table.  From
the corner of her eye, Meg saw it coming and stopped it with her hand.  She
recognized the pale greens and blues and dotted curving lines of a navigation
chart.  "Are you into boating?"

she asked, sliding it back.  "My dad has a cabin cruiser.  We go over to Port
Townsend all the time."

"I have a kayak."   For a second she thought he was being apologetic.   But
the look that accompanied his words withered that notion and made her cheeks
flush.   Spencer Valiella was not impressed by clothes or looks or wealth.

Meg had brains, too, but she doubted he was interested enough to find out.
He tucked the chart back into his satchel and leaned closer to her
microscope.  "What have you got there--a polychaete?"  He seemed oblivious to
the fact that his knee was now touching hers.  She found it hard to focus on
anything but the heat generated by the point of contact.  Or the wild clean
scent of salt air on his skin.  "I'm almost finished the ID," she said
without looking up.  "You can have the worm when I'm done."  With a flick of
his finger.  Spencer turned the worm onto its dorsal surface.  "Abarenicola
pacifica."  Meg blinked.  It had taken her twenty minutes just to get the
family name.  "Are you sure?"

 "Positive."   "How many segments is it supposed to have?"

"Twenty," he said, sounding bored.  "Three pairs of branched gills containing
hemoglobin on the anterior segment."

"Wait a minute."   She flipped through the pages of the identification key
to the species' descriptions.   "You're right."   Meg wrote the name in her
notebook beside her pencil illustration of the worm.   "Thanks," she said,
and gave him her most brilliant smile.   "I'm interested in killer whales,
too.   Are you studying them for your honors thesis?"   One corner of his
mouth curved slowly upward.   Above his high cheekbones, his dark eyes
gleamed.   "Only one thing you need to know about me, princess.   I'm here
for a good time, not a long time."   "Oh, really."   She started to close her
notebook, annoyed with herself now for even trying to get through to the guy.

"Wait a minute."  He reached for the notebook and took a closer look at her
drawing of the worm, which was accurate and detailed, down to the very last
segment and bristle.  "This is good."  Pride put a bloom in her cheeks.  She
whipped her notebook away and stuffed it into her bag.

She didn't need approval from Spencer Valiella.  With the eraser end of a
pencil, he pushed back the lock of hair that hid her face.  "I'm studying
communication between maternal groups of resident killer whales, Meg."
Reluctantly, yet irresistibly, she raised her eyes to his.  "I'll take you
along sometime if you're seriously interested," he said.  "Oh, yes," she
replied as casually as she could.  "I'm interested."

CHAPTER ONE

from the top floor of his rented house.  Spencer gazed out over the tiled
roofs of Monterey Bay.  Beyond the rocky shore lay the Pacific, blue and
wrinkled, darker in patches where kelp forests swayed beneath the surface.
The ocean stretched northward, its currents linking this temporary home with
another he'd known in Victoria, British Columbia.

In his thirty-one years Spencer had moved thirty- five times.  Victoria was
one place he'd sworn never to return to.  He still thought about Meg.  Still
felt the tug on his soul across the miles, across the years.  A tug he'd
resisted seven years ago and finally fled.  But Doc Campbell, his honors
supervisor, had just suffered a stroke.  Doc, his good friend and mentor,
wanted Spencer to take over his marine mammals class until he could return to
work.  Christmas, at the latest.  Doc had promised.  The plea had been
followed up by a formal request from Randolph AshtonWhyte, the head of the
biology department.  Spencer paced the sparsely furnished living room.  His
postdoctoral fellowship at the Monterey Aquarium had wound to a close.  He'd
applied for another research position in Bergen, Norway, but it could be
months before he got word on that.  He didn't want to go back to Victoria and
memories of Meg.  But for Doc he'd do it.

Two days later Spencer roared through Victoria in his beat-up Camaro with
the California plates and muffler full of holes.  He had a kayak strapped to
the roof rack, and the back end was loaded down with boxes of books,
electronic gear and the few personal effects he'd hung on to over the years.
He'd come straight up from Monterey, driving all day and all night, stopping
only for gas and coffee and micro- waved burritos that tasted like the
cardboard they were served in.  It was eight in the morning when Spencer
turned onto the potholed ribbon of asphalt that led to his father Ray's beach
cottage in Sooke, west of Victoria.  A patchwork of brightly colored wooden
houses lined the beach.  Across the road, towering Douglas firs spilled their
resiny scent into the mid-August heat where it mingled with the salt of the
ocean.  Spencer rolled down the window and his fingers tapped out the bass of
an old Queen song on the hot black roof of the Camaro.  He slowed as he came
around the bend, an eye out for the cottage his father had bought twenty
years ago with the proceeds from the sale of his first record album.  Ray's
flirtation with domesticity had been brief, coinciding with the birth of
Spencer's younger sister, Janis, and lasting only until the next big gig
lured him across the continent.

Except for the two years Spencer had spent at the university, the cottage had
been inhabited off and on by itinerant musician friends of his father's.  His
mother had split long ago, taking Janis and Spencer south to her native San
Cle- mente, where she'd eventually settled down with, of all people, an
investment banker.  Spencer guessed he couldn't blame her.  Some people
needed stability.

Around a bend he spotted the mailbox carved from driftwood and slowed to
pull into the gravel driveway beside the tiny wooden house with peeling blue
paint.  The yard was overgrown with weeds and a wind chime of oyster shells
clattered in the breeze that drifted around the porch.

He unfolded his limbs from the car and sucked the strong salt air deep into
his lungs.  Across the grass- strewn sand dunes, the ocean beckoned.  The
seemingly limitless expanse made him breathe easier.

Home.  The thought made him laugh.  Like the tortoise, his home was on his
back.  Or more precisely, in the Camaro.  Yawning from lack of sleep, he
pulled his duffel bag and laptop computer from the trunk and deposited them
on the porch.  The house appeared to be empty, as he'd hoped.  He reached
into a side pocket of the duffel for his key ring.

Not the one with the brass killer whale that held his car keys, but the plain
steel circle that held the keys to the cottage.  And the keys to Doc's
laboratory and office.  He'd never returned those when he left.

If he believed in fate, he might have thought it was because he was meant to
return.  Spencer opened the torn screen door and put the key in the lock
knowing it wasn't fate that had made him hang on to the keys.  The research
vessel he'd worked on that last summer had set sail early to follow a bumper
salmon run that was drawing the killer whales north of their usual habitat.
He hadn't had time to drop off the keys.

Or to say goodbye to.  anyone.  The screen door banged shut behind him.
Inside, the cottage wore the somnolent air of endless summer that seemed to
inhabit all beach houses.  Before his mother's defection to southern climes,
she'd hung curtains of sand-colored handwoven cloth shot with strands of
aqua.  The detritus of beach-combing expeditions littered the windowsills:
shells, bits of twisted and polished driftwood, colored glass fishing floats
washed ashore after perhaps decades at sea.  The plain board floor creaked
beneath his feet, the sound muffled by a large oval rag rug.  He crossed to
the far wall, drawn by an enlarged black-and-white photo of Subpod C3:
Kitasu, the matriarch; Geetia and Joker, her two grown sons; and Takush, her
daughter.  Takush was old enough to have a calf of her own by now.  Spencer
could still recognize individual killer whales by the shape and size of their
dorsal fins and the scars on their sleek black-and- white hides.  They seemed
more like old friends than the subjects of his honors thesis.  He wondered if
their dialect of calls and whistles had altered in the years he'd been gone.
He planned to paddle out to see them for old time's sake, but there was no
point starting a research program when he'd be leaving again so soon.  Doc
had sounded robust in spite of his slurred speech when Spencer had called the
hospital from Seattle.  He'd surely be back by Christmas.

Dropping his duffel bag next to a low bookshelf crammed with tattered
paperbacks, Spencer carried his laptop into the kitchen.  His head was fuzzy
with fatigue but he wanted to check his e-mail--the closest thing he had to a
permanent address--before he hit the sack for a few z's.  He set the laptop
on the table, plugged it in, then attached the modem to the phone jack on the
wall beside the fridge.  As he flicked the switch he realized belatedly there
might not be any electricity or phone connection.  To his surprise, numbers
flashed across the screen as the system booted up.  He dialed his service
provider in California, waiting for the dialog box that would tell him he
couldn't connect.  Brrrirmng.  So the phone was on, too.  He hit "receive
messages" and got up to look around while the in box filled.  A used coffee
cup sat in the sink.  An empty milk carton peeked out of the garbage bin.
Damn.  Someone was here, after all.  Spencer strode back to the living room
and stood at the entrance to the short hall where the two bedrooms were.
"Hello?  Anybody home?"  Silence.  He knocked softly on the door to the main
bedroom and when there was still no answer, pushed it open.  The bed was a
tangle of thin wool blankets and forest- green sheets.  A pile of dirty
clothes sat on the floor beside the open closet.  Who was staying here?  And
where were they now?  Then Spencer noticed the battered guitar case propped
against the wall behind the door.  The medley of souvenir stickers from
cities across the continent spoke of decades of life on the road.  He knew
that guitar case.  A grin spread across his face.  His father was in town.
He hadn't seen Ray for a few years, not since he'd driven down to San
Francisco from Seattle to catch the Brass Monkeys in concert.  Ray had been
riding high, a new record deal and a promotional tour in the offing.  Spencer
had a flash of memory of doing schoolwork in a bus seat while music blared
and his father and the guys in the band played cards or wrote songs.  As a
kid, he'd loved going on the road with them.  Pulling out of the hotel
parking lot at dawn, a new city every night, the excitement of the
unknown--all were magnified in his young mind.  As an adult he still got a
kick out of moving on.  As if maybe this time he was going to find the Holy
Grail, whatever that was.  Victoria was a step backward, but Seeing Ray would
make the trip worthwhile.  Where the hell was he?  Spencer shut the door to
his father's room and went back to the kitchen.  Ray would turn up sooner or
later.  Meanwhile, at the top of his in-box was a message from the head of
the biology department at University of Victoria.  Dr. Valiella, Did I
mention that Angus Campbell has an honors student?  Please give her a call
ASAP.  Her name is Meg McKenzie, phone number.  Spencer rocked back in his
chair, his pulse thrumming.  Meg.  Could this be his Meg McKenzie?  No way.
She'd only been one year behind him.  She would have finished her degree long
ago and gone on to either graduate studies or a job somewhere.  Spencer got
up to pace across to the window overlooking the tiny backyard.  Meg's image,
tucked away in his subconscious, surged forth.  Impish smile, bright eyes the
blue of a robin's egg, hair the color of sunlight.  The memory of her
laughter rang in his ears, the careless confident laughter of a girl
possessed of talent, brains and wealth.  He shut his eyes and the blackness
behind his lids pulsed with pinpricks of light.

They were the stars above a campsite on Saltspring Island.  Sleeping bags
zipped together, bare limbs entwined.  The wonder of their first time
together.  And their last.  For a few short hours he'd been able to give her
what she wanted.  If only she hadn't said what she'd said.  He'd known then
he'd never be able to give her what she needed.  Spencer ran a hand through
his hair.  It was years ago.  Time he forgot about her.  But he had to call.
His hand hovered over the phone.  Even if it was Meg, she might not remember
him.  The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her
busy social schedule.  He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed
to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.  above the
incessant squawk of Noel, her son's golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing
telephone.  She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis's bedroom.  His
cry of frustration stabbed straight to the "mother" center of her brain.
God, she hoped this was only a phase.  But it was one phase after another.
With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down
the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms.  As she passed
the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the
roar of the shower.  At least Patrick's noise was cheerful.  She paused in
her son's doorway.  Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was
struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt.  At the sight of
her, his cries rose a decibel.  "Mom!  It won't do up."  Angry tears spurted
from his dark green eyes.  Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best, and
the worst, period of her life.  "Come here, sweetie."  Meg dropped to her
knees and held out her arms.  From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the
black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.  A lock of straight brown hair fell
over Davis's scowling forehead, but he didn't budge.

Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.

With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through.  "I did it!"

"Do you know why it was so hard?"   Meg asked, her tone carefully
matter-of-fact.   "Your shirt is inside out."   "I know that."   He started
to jam another button through its hole.   His smooth olive skin stretched
tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.
Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt
over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out.   "Now, show
me again how you can do up those buttons."   A few minutes later Davis's
buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.   Meg pulled him into a
hug.   Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had
to be learned over and over again.   He could build complex Lego structures
without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost
as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who'd done three years of
university biology.   But he couldn't sit still for more than two seconds at
a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as
soon as they were given.

He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn't love
him desperately, she'd surely have strangled him before he'd turned three.
But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.  "Put
your pants on," she said, handing him a pair of navy corduroys.  Davis
grasped the pants by the elasticized waist and raised a leg.  He lost his
balance, so he moved to lean against the bed.  He got one leg in, then paused
to study a fly cleaning its forelegs on the windowsill.  Meg waited.  "Your
pants, honey.  Davis.

Davis.  "

" What?   " His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.   " Your pants.   "

She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life.  She, who at the
best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.
Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys.  Then,

"Oh."  He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the
waistband around his skinny hips.  When he got them on, he kept on hopping.
"Look at me, I'm a bunny."  Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.  He
squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous.  "I don't want to go to day care.
Kids are mean to me."  Meg's heart sank.  She'd been afraid of this even
though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she'd be
discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime.  How much worse would
it be when he went to school?  "There's nothing wrong with having to take
medicine."

"It's not that," he said, his small hands clenched into fists.  "Tommy
said... he... I couldn't go to... to big kids' school if I didn't have a
daddy."

"Oh, Davis."   Meg gathered her son into her arms.   Over his shoulder, she
glanced at her watch.   He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was
going to be on time to register for classes at the university.   But even
though they'd been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million
times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions.   Maybe it
was her sensitivity.   Or maybe it was guilt.   She just wished she had
better answers.   "You do have a daddy," she said.   "He's just not like
other dads.   He's... special."

"Because he studies killer whales?"  Davis jiggled his legs.  "That's part of
it."

"What else?"   He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.
"He's..."   A lover.   A loner.   A modern-day Ulysses.

He's a genius.  A bastard.  And my poor heart's desire.  "He can take the
peel off an entire orange in just one strip."

 "Really?   Wow."

Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due.  "But why doesn't he...
you know?"

"What?"   "Live with us.   Doesn't he like us?"   Davis dropped the car and
picked up a toy sword.   He began banging it on the floor.   "This isn't his
home, sweetheart, you know that-- Please stop banging.   I don't think he's
ever had a real home.   But if he knew about you, I know he'd love you just
as much as I do."   She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she
often did, if that was true.   "How come you didn't tell him about me?"
There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice.
Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.   She took the sword
off him.   He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it,
instead.   "I tried to tell him, years ago.   I... couldn't get through."
The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore
radio.   But when she'd realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific
Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat.   Then, when
she was eight months along, she'd called him in Seattle where he was doing
his masters degree.   Before she could mention the baby, he'd started talking
about scholarships and a Ph.   D.   at a prestigious university.   It wasn't
the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that
had been a consideration.   It was the excitement in his voice when he talked
about moving on.   New location, new research topic, new everything.
Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly.   Meg had guts but apparently not enough.   It
wasn't Spencer's fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never
forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby.   Nor was it
his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role
model.   None of it was his fault.   And all of it was.   Not a day went by
when she didn't think of him.   Not a trip to the university when she didn't
look for him around every corner even though she knew he'd left the country
years ago.   Hopeless.   Futile.   Pathetic.   It was a good thing she was
over him.   The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves.   '"Stop."
"I want to learn to play baseball," Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the
bat.   "Tommy's dad plays catch with him."

"I'll teach you.  When we get home tonight we'll toss the ball around, okay?"
She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet.  "It's just you and me, kid,
better get used to it.  Come on.  Your oatmeal is almost ready."

"First I'm going to see Charlie."   Charlie, the lizard.   Meg watched Davis
race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks
napping loosely in front of his toes.   Pull up your socks, she wanted to
shout, but didn't.   The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice
but to pull them up, figuratively speaking.   Please, God, give my boy an
understanding teacher.   She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick
sailed into the kitchen.   His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes
spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a
knife-edge.   "Good morning, sweet cheeks," he said, giving her a peck on the
forehead.   "Davis all right?"   "He's fine.   Just a minor skirmish with his
buttons."   "Good.

Now, how do I look?  " Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched.

"I've got an interview with the selection committee today, and I'm that far
away from promotion."  He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch
apart.  "You look terrific."  She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie
a little straighter.  "I just love a man in uniform."

"So do I, sweetie.   So do I," he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Meg laughed.   "You're terrible.   But I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably slit your little wrists."   Patrick turned as Davis came into the
kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands.   "I'm in the galley tonight,
champ.   What would you like for dinner?"   "Hot dogs!"   Davis opened his
hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.
Patrick planted his fists on his hips.   "You simply must expand your
repertoire, mister.   But discipline's your mom's department.   Hot dogs, it
is.   I'll make Caesar salad for us," he added to Meg.   "Patrick.   You know
I'm trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all."   Patrick turned
puppy-dog eyes on her.   They always made her cave.   As he well knew.   "Oh,
all right.   Since you're coo king, you get to choose."   They might as well
be married the way they argued over Davis's upbringing.   She had the final
say of course, but she couldn't squash all of Patrick's many indulgences.
"Davis," she said, turning to her son, "get Charlie out of your collar and
back in his cage.   Then run and wash your hands.

You don't want lizard slime in your oatmeal.  " " Lizards aren't slimy, Mom.
Sheesh!  " But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the
laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his
feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion.  Just to let her know he was
complying under duress.

Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away.  "Keep going,"

she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he
didn't get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.  Patrick clucked his
tongue as he put the kettle on to boil.  "Ease up on the boy," he said,
measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger.  "Watching his every move
like a hawk won't teach him self- reliance."  Meg dropped a handful of
raisins into the oatmeal and turned down the heat.

"Oh, Patrick, you know what he's like."

"Vividly.   But you can't be the earth, moon and stars to the child.   You
need a break before school starts.   Why don't you let me look after him for
a couple of days while you pamper yourself with a weekend at the Empress
Hotel?"   "You know I can't afford that."   Even if she could afford a
weekend at the Empress, she wouldn't go.   It wasn't that she didn't trust
Pat- rick's life-style; he was just way too lenient.   Davis constantly
pushed the limits.   He needed a firm hand.   He needed stability, continuity
and routine.   He needed to know where he stood every moment of the day.
She could just imagine how spun out her son would be after a couple of days
with Patrick giving him whatever his heart desired.   If only she could call
on her mother.   But there was no use wishing.   The telephone began to ring
again.   Meg reached for the cordless phone and, still stirring the oatmeal,
tucked it under her chin while she opened the fridge to get some milk.
"Hello?"

Noel hopped out of his open cage above the kitchen counter and onto her
shoulder.  "Hello?"  he squawked in her other ear.  "Get away."

She brushed at the bird and it flew to the top of the fridge.  "Sorry, not
you," she said into the receiver.  Behind her she could hear Davis rummaging
through the cupboard.  The kettle began to hiss.  "Hello?  Is anybody there?"
A man cleared his throat.  "May I speak to Meg McKenzie?"  Her hand froze on
the wooden spoon.  Spencer.  She'd know his deep voice anywhere, anytime.
The pale yellow walls of the kitchen seemed to swirl.  The sounds around her
faded away.  Without warning she was snatched from the mundane activities of
breakfast and dropped, like a stone through water, into the past.  She was
sinking, fast.

"Who is this?"  she whispered hoarsely, buying time.  What could he be
calling for now, after all these years?  "Spencer..."  He paused.

"Spencer Valiella."  A prickling chill ran from behind her ears and down her
arms.  Glancing up, she saw Patrick's round hazel eyes regarding her avidly.
She turned away so he couldn't see her face, which she was sure must be pale.
"Dr.  Ashton-Whyte from the university asked me to call you," Spencer went
on, as though speaking to a stranger.  "I'm taking over Dr. Campbell's
position--I assume you know he had a stroke?"  His words caused a roaring in
her ears.

Spencer, it's me you're talking to.  "Yes.  I--I went to see him in the
hospital."  There was a pause, then he said slowly,

"I used to know a Meg McKenzie--about seven years ago.  She did the best
biological illustrations I've ever seen."  He did remember.  If she shut her
eyes she could almost imagine she was hearing his voice in the dark-- "Mom!
Can I have my oatmeal?  I'm starving."  Davis.  Meg felt her spine go cold.
Spinning around, she held a finger against her lips to shush him, then
hurried over to spoon oatmeal into his bowl.  With her free hand pressed to
her other ear, she walked back into the kitchen and said quietly into the
receiver,

"Thank you.  Spencer."

Silence while she listened to the sound of her thudding heart and shallow
breath.  "Meg," he said at last, "so it is you.  I couldn't believe it at
first.  How are you?"

"Fine.   Just fine."   Unexpectedly anger coursed through her, bringing the
blood back to her cheeks.   She was not fine.   He'd made love to her, then
left town without even saying goodbye.   "I had no idea you would be taking
over Dr. Campbell's position," she said, covering her anger with an
artificially bright voice, taking refuge from hurt by reverting to her preppy
self of seven years ago.   Before Davis.   Before poverty.   Before the
falling out with her mother.   "I've kept in touch with Doc over the years,"

Spencer said.

"He knew I was available and suggested to Ashton-Whyte I'd be suitable for
the job.  I'll be an assistant professor, not a full professor like Doc, but I
can live with that."  He'd kept in touch with Dr. Campbell.  But not with
her.  Meg gripped the telephone, trying not to weep with anger and
frustration and hurt.  When she thought of all the nights she'd lain awake
and fantasized about an emotional reunion.  Idiot.  "Well, you certainly know
your cetaceans," she replied, still in that over bright tone reminiscent of
her mother's garden-club voice.  "Have you decided on a topic?"

"Topic?   Oh, you're talking about my thesis."   She didn't mean anything to
him.   Never had.

"I've got some ideas I was going to discuss with Dr. Camp- bell."

 "I guess you'll be discussing them with me, instead."   It hit her then.

She was not only talking to Spencer, she would soon see him.  And not only
see him, but work with him on a daily basis.  Meg groped for a chair and
lowered herself into it.  Davis spooned oatmeal into his mouth and watched
her, wide-eyed.  Pat- rick set a cup of coffee in front of her.  "So you'll
be my honors supervisor?"

"If you have no objection."   "Do I have a choice?"   She laughed to show
she was joking, but it sounded thin.   "Not if you want to work with killer
whales."

Nothing was going to stop her from working with killer whales.  Not even
Spencer Valiella.  Then she thought about why he'd said that, the reason he
was there at all.  Dr. Campbell had been the only marine mammalogist in the
department.  "Won't Dr. Camp- bell be coming back to work?"

 "The doctors don't know yet how permanent the damage is.

Right now, he's got some paralysis down his right side, but he's recovering
well.  I only expect to be here until Christmas.  "

"Oh."  Dear God.  Did she feel hope or disappointment?  Where Spencer was
concerned she'd known too much of both.  "Meg, why are you doing your honors
now?  Seven years later?"  The answer was sitting there at the kitchen table,
licking milky droplets from the side of his mouth.

She was going to have to tell him about Davis.  But it wasn't something she
could blurt over the phone.  After all this time of wishing he could know his
son, and vice versa, she was suddenly terrified of them meeting.  "I guess
we'd better make a time to discuss my thesis," she said, evading his
question.  "I'll be up at the university today to register."

"I just got into town.   I need some sleep before I can think coherently.
How about this afternoon in Doc's office?   Say, three o'clock?"   "Two
o'clock would be better.   I've, uh, got something I have to pick up around
three."   "Fine.   I'll see you then."   The phone slipped from her cold
fingers into its cradle.   She wiped a hand across her forehead and felt the
perspiration.   She was not disappointed he hadn't declared his long-lost
love.   Over at the sink, Patrick was rinsing his bowl.   "What was that all
about?"   he said.

"And don't you tell me 'nothing' sweet cheeks, because I know it's something.
Something big."  She frowned and tilted her head toward Davis.  "Later."
Patrick's eyes widened.  "Say no more.  But I'll be home early tonight and
I'll expect a full report."  Meg rose shakily.

"Time to wash up, Davis.  We're late."

To her relief, her son complied without argument for once and went roaring
down the hall doing his White Rabbit impression.  "I'm late.

I'm late.  For a very important date.  I'm late.  "

CHAPTER TWO

spencer turned left off the ring road that circled the campus and swung into
the faculty parking lot tucked behind the biology building.  He parked away
from the handful of other cars that dotted the lot and sat there a moment,
picturing himself as a permanent member of the department.  If Doc decided to
take early retirement.  Spencer'd have a good shot at the job.  But when he
tried to imagine coming here every day, month after month, year after year,
the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.  He had to fight the urge to
restart the car and head down to the bay with his kayak.  To be on the water,
alone with the cormorants and the killer whales and the thing inside him that
kept him moving.  Spencer pulled his keys out of the ignition.  It was too
late to run.  He'd committed himself, if only temporarily.  He threw on a
black suit jacket over his T-shirt and jeans and grabbed his battered leather
briefcase from the back seat.  Kicking the door shut behind him, he strolled
along the path to the biology building.  Spencer pushed through the heavy
glass doors.  Doc's office was on his immediate right, but he continued down
the wide empty corridor, his footsteps echoing as he walked past doors that
led to classrooms or labs or offices.  His eyes narrowed and the hall seemed
to swarm with ghosts of students past, as distant and separate from him now
as they were then.  At the end of the corridor he turned right and continued
along the L-shaped passage.  From somewhere came the sound of a radio.

The classroom to his left jogged more memories.  Thursday afternoons and Meg
McKenzie.  He paused in the open doorway, his gaze seeking out the second
table from the back.  He saw her there, thick blond hair curving around an
oval chin.  Trying to keep her face straight and her perfect nose in the air
while he told some outrageous story just to hear her laugh.  He wondered if
she'd realized how hard he'd tried to impress her.  Spencer pushed away from
the doorjamb.  She'd probably married a stockbroker and lived in Uplands,
just down the road from Mommy and Daddy.  "May I help you, young man?"  a
pompous male voice said from behind him.  "Classes don't start for two
weeks."  Spencer recognized the department head's plummy English tones from
their phone conversations.  He turned to the portly figure in the pristine
white lab coat and full gray beard.  "Dr.  Randolph AshtonWhyte, I presume."

He held out his hand.  "Spencer ValieUa."  Ashton-Whyte's bushy gray eyebrows
climbed his forehead as he took in Spencer's clothes and wayward hair.
Slowly he extended his own hand.  "A... pleasure to meet you, Dr. ValieUa."
"Likewise.  " Spencer' will do.  " " I've heard a great deal about you from
Angus.  He spoke so highly of you I expected"-- AshtonWhyte broke off and
patted the row of pens in the breast pocket of his lab coat as if assuring
himself they were still there and all was still right with the world.
Spencer grinned.  He could just imagine what this tight-ass had expected.  "
Doc told me all about you, too.  " The department head rubbed his hands
together, his manner brisk and important.  " Now that you're here, come along
to my office.  We have paperwork that needs to be completed.  " Spencer
glanced at his watch.

"My honors student will be along shortly.  And I want to get my gear stowed
away in the lab."  Ashton-Whyte smiled coldly.  "Ah, but for that you'll need
the keys to Dr. Campbell's office and lab."

"Got 'em right here."   Spencer pulled the key ring from his pocket and
jangled it in front of AshtonWhyte.   "Never got around to returning them
when I left."   He grinned, just to let Ashton-Whyte know what kind of
reprehensible character he'd hired.   Spencer blamed his father for his habit
of baiting what Ray still referred to as the establishment.   He and Ray saw
eye to eye on a lot of things.   Ashton-Whyte's lips tightened, causing his
mustache to meet his beard in a double row of raised bristles.   "Well, do
stop by and fill out the forms when it's convenient, won't you, old chap?
We'll need your details" -- he paused significantly "--before we can put you
on the payroll."   Then he spun on his heel and strode off, white coat
napping, confident, no doubt, he'd had the last word.   Spencer chuckled to
himself and retraced his steps to Doc's lab.   As he put the key into the
lock, again a weird feeling came over him, as though the last seven years had
somehow been leading to this day-- when he'd step into the shoes of his
mentor.   He shook his head.   Crazy New Age stuff was his mother's thing,
not his.   He swung open the door.   The familiar smell of a biology
laboratory hit him.   Its pungent bouquet of chemical reagents, marine
organisms, cleaning fluids and old books felt like home.   Especially to him,
a man with no other home.   He'd expected to walk into the untidy
disorganized lab of yesteryear.   To his surprise, the workbenches and
shelves were scrubbed, the glassware clean and put away, and plastic covers
protected the microscopes.   A new computer with a wide-screen monitor sat on
a side table with a digital audio tape recorder next to it for analysis of
killer whale vocalizations.   Spencer walked around the central workbench to
open Doc's office.   A desk faced one wall with a table cater comer along the
window and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on his immediate left.   The window
slanted outward at the base and overlooked the biology pond, where an endless
succession of first-year students dipped their nets to study pond organisms.
He dropped his briefcase and went back to the car for the box containing the
hydrophone equipment he used to collect and record killer whale calls.

It was old and pretty basic, dating from his honors year when Doc had
"retired" it from his own use.  Catch 22: if Spencer wanted new equipment, he
had to get a research grant and stay in one spot.  He'd thought about that on
more than one occasion and always decided it wasn't worth it.

Another trip to the parking lot brought in his collection of killer whale
teeth and bones.  He was arranging these in a glass-fronted cabinet when he
heard a knock at the door.  Meg.  She was early.  His heart hammering, he
turned.  Through the doorway came a young man of Asian extraction, not more
than nineteen or twenty years old.  He wore gray slacks and a crisp white
shirt with a narrow tie, which he'd loosened.  He moved quickly and his gaze
darted from Spencer to the bone collection.  "Hi," Spencer said.  "Can I help
you?"  Some lost soul from the faculty of business, no doubt.  "I am Lee
Cheung."  He strode forward and pumped Spencer's hand.  "Very pleased to meet
you, Dr. Var ... r..ierr ... a."  He threw his head back and laughed.  "Very
hard name for Chinese to say."

"You can call me Spencer.   How do you know me?"   "I am Dr. Campbell's
research assistant.   He did not tell you about me?"   Lee grinned and shook
his head.   "Doc and I collected data over summer from stationary
hydrophones.   My job will continue, yes?"   "I guess.   I don't know what
arrangements have been made for transferring Doc's grant monies to me."
Another thing he'd have to take up with Ash- ton-Whyte.   Spencer dropped the
empty box he was holding to the floor and flattened it with the soles of his
boots.   Lee flipped his briefcase up on the lab bench and popped open the
lid.   "If you would like to review transcript of my last year's biology
grades" "That won't be necessary," Spencer said, amazed anyone would carry
that information around.   Still, Angus Campbell surrounded himself only with
people who had a consuming passion for killer whales.   Besides that, there
was something very engaging about Lee's wide smile and enthusiasm.   "Tell
you what, Lee.   I'll hire you out of my own pocket if necessary--as long as
you're not in a hurry for a paycheck--until I can see about Doc's money
situation."   "Okeydokey, thank you very much."   Lee reached out and pumped
Spencer's hand again.

"I appreciate your confidence."

"Don't thank me, thank Doc.   Now, I've got a trunkful of equipment and
books to bring in.   Want to give me a hand?"   Together they brought in the
rest of the boxes and equipment, and with astonishing speed and efficiency,
Lee organized everything.

Two o'clock approached and Spencer glanced at his watch with increasing
frequency.  To distract himself, he went down the hall and got a coffee from
the vending machines located in the lounge area at the corner of the L.  The
staff room probably had better coffee, but he might encounter Ashton-Whyte
and say something really rude.  He was walking slowly back to the lab,
sipping his coffee, when he felt the change in air pressure and the gust of
air that accompanied the opening of the heavy front door.  In slow motion he
turned around--and there was Meg.

Blue eyes startled.  Textbooks clutched to her chest.  Looking as unprepared
as he was to meet unexpectedly.  Time became fluid and the present turned
into the past.  So many things they hadn't said.  She looked different.  She
looked good.  Her hair had grown.  But.  jeans and a T-shirt?  Where were
her designer duds?

"Hi."  He couldn't think of anything else to say.  "Hi."

Self-conscious, Meg pushed her hair over her shoulder.  She'd stopped ten
feet away from Spencer and couldn't seem to close the distance.

She made herself keep her eyes on his face, keep the smile on hers.  His
youthful features had matured into sharp cheekbones and a strongly denned
chin.  Warm coloring, warm smile.  His hair was shorter, but still
wind-tossed.  He was real.  Not a dream.  Not a fantasy.  Real as the nutter
in her stomach.  And she still wanted him.  "Come on to the lab," he said.
She made her legs move, willing her heart to stop beating so furiously.  She
was on the verge of tears.  Or hysterical laughter.  Why did the moment have
to be so fraught?  Couldn't they just say a big hello and give each other a
hug for old lime's sake?  Why did he look so serious?  After all, he didn't
know about Davis.  Oh, God.  He didn't know about Davis.  And then they were
at the door to the lab and he halted abruptly to let her go first.  She ran
into him, her cheek grazing the fine wool of his jacket.  "Sorry."  He put a
hand out but stopped short of touching her.  Meg shrank back.  It was too
awful.  "I don't think we can do this," she blurted before she could stop
herself.  "Yes, we can."  His dark eyes were the color of shadowed seawater
reflecting fir trees.  They sucked her into their depths.

"You never did tell me why you're finishing your degree only now."  She
wanted to tell him.  The explanation was on the tip of her tongue.  But
seeing him made her even more confused than she'd been seven years ago.  "Why
didn't you say goodbye?"  From inside the lab came a discreet cough.  Spencer
pushed open the door.  "Lee.

This is Meg McKenzie, my.  honors student.  Meg, this is Lee.  Research
assistant.  " " Hi, Lee.  " Lee's lidded glance flashed swiftly between them.
" Okay if I leave now?  " he said to Spencer.  " I have to get to bookstore
for my texts.  I'll be back tomorrow, bright and early.  "

Spencer smiled.  "Not too early.  But yeah, I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you.  Dr. Val..i" -- He broke off, laughing at himself.

"Please, just call me Spencer."

"Okay, Dr. Spencer."   Lee gave him a relieved grin.   "See you later," he
added to Meg, and moved quickly past her.

"Bye."  Meg watched him go out the glass doors and run down the steps.

Only when he'd disappeared from sight did she turn back to Spencer.

Suddenly the hall seemed emptier, the two of them very much alone.

"You've grown your hair."  He reached out again and this time his fingertips
touched a few strands of the thick ash-blond hair that hung almost to her
waist.  Static electricity raced from his fingers right to the roots, sending
a shock-wave tingling along her scalp.  "It's easier than styling it," she
said lightly, backing away from his touch.

In other words, cheaper.  Her life had changed in so many ways.  She had
changed.  Undoubtedly he had, too.  She realized she'd been living with a
fantasy image of him all these years.  Maybe they had nothing left in common.
Except for Davis.  And the killer whales.  And the chemistry that still
bubbled and fizzed between them like some apocalyptic experiment in a mad
professor's laboratory.  Or was that all in her mind?  Spencer gestured for
her to precede him into the lab.

She stepped past him and found herself breathing deeply for the scent of the
ocean that used to linger in his hair, on his skin.  But she wasn't close
enough.  And wouldn't get close enough.  She moved farther into the lab,
glancing around.  She'd seen most of the equipment when she'd met with Dr.
Campbell over the summer to talk about her honors thesis, but Spencer had
added his possessions.  Gravitating to the glass-fronted case where killer
whale teeth and bones had been laid out on black felt, she said,

"Are you staying out at the cottage?"

"Yes..."  He paused as though about to say more.  Then didn't.  She bent to
inspect the lower shelf, searching for the baby killer whale tooth she'd
found while diving off Saltspring Island.  It was no longer in his
collection.  Disappointment kept her gazing at the teeth longer than she
wanted to.  "Would you like a coffee?"  he asked, holding up his cup.  "The
taste hasn't improved over the years, but it's hot.

Well, lukewarm, actually.  " Meg straightened, forced a smile.  " No, thanks.
" ^ He nodded and moved past her to his office, giving her a wide berth.
; Why was he so wary?  They'd been friends, after all.  Like odd socks, but
still a pair.  Or had that night on Saltspring rendered null and void all
that preceded it?  They'd never had a chance to talk after that.  They'd
paddled back to

"Victoria the next morning ahead of a squall, locked in silence.  If only she
hadn't said what she'd said, maybe his subsequent flight wouldn't have been
so swift.  And maybe he wouldn't now be acting as if nothing had ever
happened between them.  " Have a seat.  " Meg sank into the safety of the
padded vinyl visitor's chair that nestled in front of the overflowing
bookshelf.  She just caught sight of one title.  The Too of Physics, when
from the corner of her eye she saw Spencer's lean denim-clad thigh glide by.
And then he was sitting in his own chair, swirling around to face her.  He
leaned back, looking very casual.  Or did that controlled stillness mean he
was tense, not just intense, as he'd always been?

Under his dark suit jacket, which looked like Armani, but knowing Spencer
was probably Salvation Army, he wore a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans.
Then she noticed something new.  A thin black leather cord around his
sun-browned neck, the ends of which disappeared under the curve of white
cotton.  She remembered the smooth hard heat of the chest beneath.  "killer
whale communication," he was saying.  "I've been working with the transient
population for the past five years, first in the Puget Sound area, then down
around Monterey."  Meg nodded, relaxing a little.  "It's interesting how few
calls and whistles they make compared to resident killer whales."

Spencer's eyebrows rose.  "You're familiar with my research?"

"When I decided to finish my degree, I caught up on the literature."   She
could see the unasked questions in his eyes and ignored them.   "Then you
must also be aware of Deeke's recent findings on intra-pod communication."

She nodded.  "They gave me an idea for my thesis..."  She stopped.  In spite
of reading all the journal articles she could get her hands on, she still
felt out of touch.  What she'd been about to say might be completely off the
wall.  "What is it?"  He leaned back a little farther and crossed an ankle
over the opposite knee.  "Well, I just wonder... what are they saying to each
other?"  Please don't laugh at me.  Spencer gazed at her for a moment in
silence.  " " The repetitive staccato clicks they make are used as a form of
echolocation to forage for prey and for navigation--as I'm sure you know," he
said.  " Pulsed calls and whistles are used for social communication.
Keeping tabs on members of the pod when they're out of sight of each other.
" He must think she was crazy.  Except that she knew him.  Knew he must have
wondered the same thing.

"But don't some calls occur more often in some circumstances, such as resting
or socializing?"  she said.  "True, but so far no one has established a
definitive connection between call type and behavior that would suggest
certain calls had a specific meaning."

"Yes, I know," she said heavily.  Her idea was too far-out.  "However, I
don't think it's impossible that we'll eventually be able to decode their
communications,"

he said carefully.  "You'd have to listen to their sounds in the context of
their daily lives and closely monitor behavior.  Given the limited scope of
an honors thesis, maybe you should confine your study to one small aspect of
killer whale communication.  In that context, I would support such a project
if that's what you're interested in."  Was she interested!  But wait.  This
was her degree they were talking about.  The opportunity for which she'd
scrimped and saved for seven years.  If she blew her honors thesis because
Spencer agreed to what someone else on her supervisory panel would consider
crackpot research, she wasn't sure she'd have the heart, or the resources, to
try again.

"Have you got funding to do this type of research?"  she asked.

Spencer, she knew, never hesitated to go out on a limb, but if the Natural
Science and Engineering Research Council was willing to believe in him, she
supposed she could.  "I don't have funding of any kind at the moment, but
you'll have access to Doc Campbell's grant money."  He grinned, showing
white, slightly overlapping front teeth.  A smile that had once thrown her
heart into palpitations.  And still did.

"Sometimes you've just got to take a chance, princess."  Princess.  She'd
almost forgotten that detestable yet somehow endearing nickname.

"My name is Meg," she reminded him severely.  "Sorry," he replied, looking
totally unrepentant.  "Not very politically correct of me."

"It's hard to adjust to us not both being students-- to you being a prof and
me being under you."   Meg immediately blushed at her choice of words.
Spencer swiveled to the window as though he wanted to leap out.   "It feels
strange for me, too.   Can we just skip the professor-student thing and be
two people interested in killer whales?   The way we used to be?"   Was that
what they used to be?

"Sure, I guess so."

"Good."   He spun back.   "Do you still have your kayak?"   "Yes, but I
haven't used it in a while."   Like seven years.

"Get it out, check it for leaks."  Spencer got to his feet.  "We'll pay a
visit to Kitasu and the rest of her maternal group.  Are you doing anything
tomorrow?  We could catch the early ferry to Saltspring, drive up to Southey
Point and paddle out from there."

"I--I don't know," she said, rising.   She'd have to ask Patrick to take
Davis to day care in the morning.   She'd accounted for afternoon care but
not for eariymoming starts.   He gazed at her quizzically.   "Mornings bad
for you?   I suppose you're working."   "No.   Yes.   It's just that I need
time.   I have things to... arrange."   "Okay, but we really should get in a
preliminary look-see before classes start and things get busy for both of
us."   She turned to walk out ahead of him.   "What will you be
teaching--Marine Mammals?"   "Yes.   Plus a unit of first-year biology and a
course in the philosophy of science.   It's a graduate-level course, but
you're welcome to sit in on it."   "I'd like that."   "It's in the evening.
Wednesdays."   "Oh.   Evenings are hard for me, too."

He paused a beat.  "Are you married, Meg?  Or living with someone?"

"No!"  It was so not what she'd been afraid of his asking, she jumped.

And probably looked guilty as hell, anyway.  "Are... are you?"  He shook his
head and laughed.  "Me?  Not likely."  Of course not.  How could she be so
foolish?  More foolish still that the news he was free made her heart go
flip-flop.  "Can we leave the kayaking till Saturday?"  she asked.  Patrick
would be on maneuvers all weekend, but this Saturday was the Uplands Garden
Club open house and garden sale.

Her mother would be busy from early morning till evening, which meant her
father, who avoided the annual event as he would a plague of aphids, could
look after Davis.  He didn't get many opportunities to spend time with his
grandson, but when he did, he jumped at them.

"That should be fine.  Give me your address and I'll pick you up at eight
o'clock."  Uh-oh, complications already.  "My kayak is at my parents' place.
You know where that is."  She started to back out of the office.  "I'd better
run.  I'll see you Saturday.  Bye."  She left without waiting for a farewell
from him.  She'd learned not to.  when meg got to the ring road, instead of
turning toward Esquimalt and the California-style bungalow she shared with
Patrick, she pointed her Toyota toward Cadboro Bay Road.  If she hurried, she
had just enough time to drop by her parents' house to check out the kayak
before picking up Davis.  Stone gates guarded the entrance to the park-like
estates of Uplands.  Meg rubbed her temples as she drove through, aware of
the tension already starting to mount.  She hoped her mother wasn't home.
Helen never lost an opportunity to inform Meg that dropping out of university
at the age of twenty-one to become a single mother had ruined her life.  What
Helen really meant was that Meg had ruined her life.  Oh, the shame of having
to tell her garden club friends that her daughter lived in Esquimau.  God
forbid she would ever consider visiting her and Davis there.  Meg had learned
to live with her mother's disapproval, but what really hurt was the way Helen
couldn't warm to Davis.  She was a control freak, and Davis was someone she
couldn't control.  Rather than learn how to deal with his behavior, Helen
shunned his company.  It was hard for her little boy to understand.  And
harder still for Meg to forgive.  She turned into the long curving driveway
flanked by a high box hedge.  It was all so cliched it would have been boring
except that this was her family.  She missed the big Sunday dinners with her
three brothers and their families and the holiday gatherings she now avoided
because she couldn't stand having to constantly defend her life.  Or to
protect her son from feeling slighted by his grandmother.  Thank goodness for
Daddy.  He wasn't terribly happy with the way her life had turned out,
either, but at least he tried to let her live it her own way.  And although
he'd never thought Spencer good enough for his only daughter, he loved his
grandson and treated him accordingly.  The elegant white three-story house
came into view, afternoon sun glinting off the mullioned windows.  Meg pulled
up in front of the portico and got out.  She glanced at the conservatory but
couldn't see her mother's slim figure moving among the plants.  Daddy was
home, though, practicing his putting on the side lawn, his salt-and-pepper
head bent in concentration.  Meg waited till he'd made his shot, then called
out.

Roger McKenzie's handsome face broke into a smile.  Dropping his golf club
into the bag, he strode across the lawn to envelop her in a hug.

"Meg- gie!  How's my little girl?"  "Twenty-eight and all grown up,"

Meg teased as she hugged him back.  Roger glanced hopefully at the car.

"Is Davis with you?"

"No.   I just came from the university."   Dam, why did she go and open that
line of conversation?   "Have they found you a new supervisor yet?"   "Yes.
An expert on killer whales from Monterey."   Daddy would have to know
sometime that Spencer was back, but right now she didn't have the time or the
emotional energy to discuss it.   The fact that Spencer didn't even know he
was a father had never absolved him of guilt in Roger's eyes.   "We're going
kayaking on the weekend to locate the group of killer whales I'm going to
work on," she went on.

"I came to see if my kayak still floats."

"Andrew used it a few times over the summer.   I said he could.   Didn't
think you'd mind.

He said he replaced the 'spray skirt' because the neoprene rubber had
deteriorated in spots.  " " That's great.  There's nothing worse than getting
soaked from the waist down because a leaky spray skirt lets water into the
cockpit.  Let's go have a look.  "

They went in through the open section of the four car garage.  In the far
slot sat Roger's restored Model- A Ford next to his silver 500 SEL Mercedes.
Helen's smaller, cream-colored Mercedes was absent.  The rest of the garage
was given over to sporting equipment-- skis and tennis rackets, snow boards
and sail boards, golf clubs and archery sets.

Meg's single-seater Orca kayak had been taken down from the overhead beams
and was propped on wooden blocks at the back of the garage.  She ran a hand
down the shiny red fiberglass hull, then lifted the new spray skirt to
inspect it.  "Looks okay."

"I'm sure it's fine," Roger said.   "You know how finicky your brother is."
"I'll be sure to call and thank him for using my stuff," Meg replied with a
grin, and walked to the stern to test the rudder movement.   "Where's Mother?"
Roger's voice became deliberately casual.   "She's looking after Cassie and
Tristan a couple of afternoons a week.   Maybe you haven't heard--Anne's gone
back to work, part-time."   Cassie and Tristan were Meg's niece and baby
nephew.   Meg bit her lip, hoping the physical pain would override the inner
pain.   It wasn't that she wanted to use her mother as a baby-sitting
service, but never once had Helen offered to look after Davis.   The few
times Meg had asked, Helen had always been too busy.

Finally Meg had stopped asking.  Helen sent expensive and inappropriate gifts
for Davis's birthday and at Christmas, but Meg could count on the fingers of
one hand the number of times she'd gone out of her way to see her grandson.
"I'd better go," she said.  "I've got to pick up Davis at day care.  He hates
it when I'm late."

"Is he excited about starting school?"  Roger asked as he walked her back to
her car.  "One minute he can't wait and the next he's not so sure."  Meg
opened her door.  "Oh, I almost forgot.  Would you be able to look after him
on Saturday while I'm kayaking?"

"Sure!   He can caddy for me."   Roger put his arm around her.   "We don't
see enough of him, darling."   Meg gripped her father's hand where it rested
on her shoulder.   "You know Mother and I can't be in the same room for more
than ten minutes without fighting."   "Your mother is just proud and
stubborn--like her daughter.   She does love you, Meggie."   Funny kind of
love.   "Bye, Dad," she said, giving him another hug.   "I'll see you
Saturday morning.   Early."   It wasn't until she'd turned her car out of the
driveway and onto the road that she remembered Spencer would be picking her
up at her parents' house at roughly the same time she'd be dropping Davis
off.   She had to decide fast what, if anything, she was going to tell
Spencer about his son.

CHAPTER THREE

spencer spotted the dusty Econoline van in the driveway and grinned.

Ray was back.  He parked and ran up the steps, his jacket slung over his
shoulder.  The afternoon had warmed up and the front door was open to let in
the sunshine.  Through it came smells of coo king and the brassy sound of a
blues band.  Spencer climbed onto the porch steps.

He could see his dad moving around in the kitchen dressed in black leather
pants and a dark blue shirt.  He was singing along with the music, and when
he stopped to play a riff on an air guitar, his body vibrated right up to his
graying ponytail.  "Ray!"  Spencer pushed through the screen door and dropped
his jacket on the couch on his way into the kitchen.

"Spence, my man!"  Ray came around the counter, arms extended, ebullient as
ever.  "Is this a coincidence or what?"  Spencer met his dad in a
back-slapping embrace.  "Sooner or later we had to land here at the same
time.  Sorry I missed you this morning."

"I ran into an old buddy of mine in Victoria last night.   We tied one on
and I spent the night on his couch.   When I got back to the cottage this
afternoon and saw your note, I went right out and got us some grub and a
bottle of Kentucky's finest."   Ray moved back into the kitchen.   "Come on,
I'll pour you one."   "Great."   Spencer walked over to the fridge and took a
handful of ice cubes from the freezer.   He dropped them into a glass and Ray
sloshed in a healthy shot of Jack Daniel's.   "How long has it been since

"Frisco?  Two years?  Three?"

"Four, I think."  Ray grinned, his black eyes crinkling, and added more
bourbon to his glass.  "It's a good thing we meet occasionally by chance."
They raised their drinks, glasses clinking.  The bourbon hit Spencer's empty
stomach like a fireball.  The spreading warmth blended with the gutsy music
and his father's positive vibes.  Let the good times roll.  "So when did you
get into town?"  Spencer asked, leaning against the counter.  "Coupla weeks
ago."  Ray set his glass down to wrap a potato in tin foil.  He did another
one and tossed them in the oven.  "What brings you up north?  I thought you
never stayed in the same place twice."

"Not if I can help it.   I'm teaching up at the university."   "Coming back
to your old haunts and teaching, which I know you don't like as much as
research.   You're changing, Spence.

Here's to it.  " He lifted his glass.  Spencer shook his head.  " Just doing
a favor for my old prof is all.  " " Adults go through stages same as kids,"
Ray said.  " Some changes are harder than others.  " Spencer laughed.  " Come
off it.  Ray, you haven't changed a bit.  " He opened the fridge door and
peered in.  The shelves, bare this morning, were now full.

"What are you making?  I'm starving."

"The finest New York steaks money can buy.  Outside New York, that is.

I was there, let's see, two years ago.  Had a few gigs lined up, so off we
went.  " He brushed his palms together, one hand sweeping off in a curving
arc.  " What a life.  " " I attended a conference in New York last April,"
Spencer said, grabbing an apple from the bottom rack.  " Crazy town.  I love
it.  " Ray unwrapped the steaks from the butcher's paper.

"Did you get to any clubs?"

"One or two.   Heard a few old tunes by my namesake."   He crunched into
crisp green skin.   "I like their style of bluesy rock and roll, but do you
know how hard it is to go through life as Spencer Davis Valiella?   People
either think it sounds affected or that Davis Valiella should be hyphenated."
Grimacing, he recalled his encounter with Ashton-Whyte.   "I don't care for
hyphenated names."   "It was cool at the time.   Hey, I still like it."
"Ah, forget it.   Ray, I'm just razzing you.   I sure appreciate you buying
all this food.   I'm living on credit till they put me on the payroll here.
Or until my money arrives from Monterey."   He gestured with the hand holding
the apple.   "How come banks require weeks to electronically transfer money
when it only takes a split second to send an em ail?"   "You got me, man."
Ray's smile wavered.   "No money, eh?   What a bummer."   "So how's your new
band working out?"   "Fantastic!"   Ray widened his smile, but something
flickered in his eyes.   He turned to the counter hesitantly, as though
trying to remember what he was looking for.   "Your last CD was great, but it
was a while ago,"

Spencer said.  "I'm looking forward to the next.  When's it coming out?"
"Uh ... soon."  Ray grabbed the bottle of bourbon.  "Here, let me top you
up."

"Thanks.   Whoa, easy."   Ray splashed some more into his own glass and put
the bottle down.   "Enough about me.   What's going on in your life?"
Spencer took a sip of his drink.   Should he tell Ray about Meg?   Would he
mention her if she meant nothing to him?   He decided he would.   "Talk about
coincidences.   My honors student is a girl I knew from before.   Meg
McKenzie."   Her name fell selfconsciously off his tongue.   "Hey, I remember
meeting her.   Blond, sassy smile--right?   That's great.   You won't want to
hang with your old man all the time."   Ray slid a cast-iron frying pan onto
the stove.   "I doubt I'll be seeing her socially.   The university frowns on
fraternization between faculty and students."   It was a good excuse, anyway.
Ray poured coo king oil into the pan and turned on the heat.   ' "I could
see it if you're talking about an old fart like me hittin' on some sweet
young thing, but you and Meg are about the same age."

Spencer found he didn't want to talk about Meg, after all.  "Do you ever see
Mom?"  Ray's ever-present grin faded.  Damn.  Surely he could have come up
with something better than that to change topics.  "I called her to say hello
before I came north," Ray said.  "I went through San Clemente around
Christmas last year," Spencer said.  "She seemed fine then."

Ray rolled the oil around the pan.  "She's doing great.  Big house, rich
hubby.  Most importantly, she's happy.  And I'm happy for her.  You don't
have to pussyfoot around my feelings."  Spencer nodded skeptically.  Ray
laughed and spread his arms.  "Hell, it's been over twenty years.  I haven't
exactly been alone all that time.  How do you like your steak?  "
Medium-rare.  " Spencer eyed his father over the rim of his glass.  Ray was
always up, but tonight there was something a little manic about him.  Ray
threw the steaks in the pan where they sizzled and sputtered in the hot oil.
Spencer got plates out of the cupboard and carried them to the small wooden
table tucked against the wall.  A bentwood chair sat on either side.  " How
about giving me a preview of your new CD after dinner?  " " Oh, you don't
want to hear your old man play.  Let's take a run into Victoria.  We could
hit some clubs, catch up with each other.  " " I still haven't caught up with
my sleep.  I was planning on an early night.  " Spencer got knives and forks
out of the drawer and returned to the table.  With his back to Ray, he laid
out the cutlery.  " What do you say?  Just a tune or three right here.  "
Silence.  Spencer straightened, turned.  " Ray?  " The sober expression on
his father's face made the bourbon churn in his stomach.  Over the sound of
the sizzling steaks.  Ray said quietly,

"I

can't play for you.  I pawned my guitar to buy the food.  " Spencer felt the
world shift on its axis.  Ray had pawned his guitar?  It was like the Pope
giving up religion.  " No way.  " " The band went bust," Ray said, suddenly
looking years older than fifty-two.  " I haven't worked in almost a year.  I
only came here because I had nowhere else to go.  " meg came through the door
of the bungalow, textbooks piled in her arms.  In the kitchen Patrick sang in
his hearty baritone, " "I am the ruler of the King's navy," " then switched
to a falsetto for the chorus, " "Yes, he is the ruler of the King's navy."

" " Can I watch TV, Mom?   Thanks.   " Davis took off for the living room
and in less time than it took her to shout,

"Keep the volume down," she could hear Daffy Duck lisping his way to
destruction, and Davis chuckling like a maniac.  Meg kicked the door shut and
shuffled into the dining area of the kitchen to set her pile of books on the
table.  Patrick had changed out of his uniform and into linen slacks and a
matching taupe shirt.  He'd donned an apron and was at that moment waving a
carrot baton in front of Noel's cage.  Noel cocked his head to one side and
squawked,

"Navy!"  Meg took in Patrick's grin.

"You got the promotion!"

"It's not official... but I'm ninety-nine percent sure."   "Oo-ooh, that's
so great," Meg squealed, and ran around to hug him.   "What will be your
official title?"   "Lieutenant Patrick Warren, at your service," he replied
with a snappy salute and clicking heels.   "Very impressive."   Containing a
smile, she stepped back to study him, one finger laid alongside her cheek.
"But don't you think the frilly pink apron rather mars the effect?"   "Oh,
don't be a spoilsport."   Patrick went back to the kitchen counter and began
tearing lettuce into a salad bowl.   "There's just one teensy-weensy little
thing you should know."   "What's that?"

Meg eyed him narrowly.  Patrick's teensy-weensy little things generally
turned out to be the size of battleships.  "I might have given the selection
panel the impression I was married.  With a son."

 "Patrick!

How are you going to pull that off?  And why?  I thought it was against navy
rules to harass people for their sexual orientation.  " " That's official
policy, sweet cheeks.  Sure, I could win a case if it came up, but after all
the trouble I go to being discreet, I don't want the publicity.  Daddy would
not be amused.  " " He's some high-mucka-muck in the navy, isn't he?  " " My
dear, he's practically an admiral.  " " How amused is he going to be when he
hears you've got a family you haven't bothered to mention?  " " He's based in
Ottawa.  Gossip doesn't travel that far east.  A harassment suit would.  "
Patrick ripped at the lettuce as though storming the beaches.  " Patrick,
does your father know?  " ' " I told him a couple years ago.  He hasn't
disowned me or anything, but he doesn't like it spread around.  " " Oh.
Well, okay, I'll be your cover.  Those navy types aren't going to come poking
around the house, are they?  " Patrick flapped a hand.  " I doubt it.  But if
anyone calls whose voice you don't recognize, can you throw in a reference
to 'my husband, Patrick'?  " " I'll try to remember," Meg said, and reached
for a carrot stick.  " Those are for Davis," he said, slapping her hand away.
" So how did it go at the university?  " Meg let her shoulders sag.

"Emotionally exhausting.  Terrifying.  Weird."

"And you haven't even started classes yet."   He pushed an open bottle of
chardonnay across the counter.   "Pour yourself a glass of wine and tell me
all about it.   I've been prostrate with curiosity about your mysterious
phone call."   Meg got herself a glass of wine and sat on the bar stool
across the counter from Patrick.   "That was my new honors supervisor who
called."   Patrick stopped tearing lettuce.   "Go on.   Is he a hunk?"

"You could say that.  But mainly, he's Davis's" -- "Mom, when's dinner?"

Meg gave a start.  Drops of cool wine spilled over her fingers.

"Davis!  Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I wasn't sneaking, I was just walking," Davis said with an expression of
bewildered hurt.   "Is it dinnertime yet?"   "Almost," Patrick said.   "How
about setting some plates on the table, champ?   That way dinner will happen
a lot quicker."   "Okay."   On his way to the cupboard, Davis paused at the
recycling bin to pick up a plastic yogurt lid.   Forgetting about the plates,
he wandered around the kitchen, swooping the lid through the air.   "Bweep.
Bweep.   Bweep.   Bweep."   "Davis," Meg said.   "The table."

"I'm a UFO.  Bweep.  Bweep.  Bweep."  Meg exchanged a glance with Patrick.
Some days were better than others.  Unfortunately Davis's bad days often
seemed to coincide with hers.  She got up and pulled a stack of plates out of
the cupboard.  "Earth to Davis," she said in her best automaton voice.
"Transport circular space stations to planet Table."

"Bweep.  Bweep.  Bweep."  Davis took the plates.  They got through dinner.
Then Davis's bath and bedtime story and the ritual arranging of his toys
around the edge of his bed.  Then the bedtime song.  Twice.

When he was finally tucked in, Meg remembered they hadn't played catch.

Well, she wasn't foolish enough to mention it now.  She returned to the
kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of decaf from Patrick.

"So, where were we?"  Patrick sat opposite Meg at the table and added a
spoonful of sugar crystals to his coffee.  Meg ran a thumb around the rim of
her cup.  "My supervisor is Spencer Valiella--Davis's father."

Patrick ceased stirring his coffee.  "No!"

"Yes."   She didn't need to explain the complications.   She'd told Patrick
the whole story years ago, ruining his best silk shirt with her tears in the
process.   But she hadn't cried over Spencer in years.   And she refused to
start again now.   "So how do you feel about this?"   Patrick asked.   Meg
sipped her coffee.   "Confused.   Worried.   I don't know what I'm going to
do."

"You're going to tell the man," Patrick said firmly.  "Right away, before you
start lying about it."

 "I've been lying by omission for years."

' "And feeling guilty about it, right?"  She couldn't deny it.

"Spencer's got his own life.  How's he going to feel if he suddenly finds out
he's got a kid?"

 "Good question.   Tell him and find out.

For all you know, he might be thrilled.  " Patrick paused.  " Do you still
love him?  " " I haven't seen him in seven years.  In all that time he's
never so much as sent me a postcard.  " " That doesn't answer my question.  "
Meg ran a hand down her hair and pulled up a fistful of ends for inspection.
The chemistry between her and Spencer had to do with lust, not love.  " No,
of course I don't love him.  " " Hmm.  "

Patrick sounded unconvinced.  She made a face.  "He's probably already
planning where he'll be going after he leaves here.  A son would be an
inconvenience."

"You're not giving him credit."   "Okay, I agree Spencer has a right to
know.   But I have a right to protect my child from hurt.   Do you have any
idea what it would do to Davis to meet his father only to have him leave
again?   As he will."   "You can't be sure of that.   Anyway, a part-time
father is better than none."   "The last thing I need is him popping in and
out of my life every six months."

"You're not over him."

"I don't know," Meg wailed, and propped her head in her hands.
"Everything's finally coming together for me.

Davis is about to start school and he's got more than enough to adjust to
right now.  You know how hard transitions are for him.  "

Patrick wagged a finger at her.  "You're rationalizing.  This Spencer
character should be paying support, if nothing else."  Meg gazed wearily at
her friend.  "I know he would if I asked.  But / made the decision to have
Davis.  Nobody else.  I can do it on my own.  And get my degree."

"You don't have to prove anything to me, darling.   I'm not your mother."
Patrick lifted his cup with slender fingers and drank.

"The problem will be keeping the two of them apart," Meg went on.  "I'm
dropping Davis off at my dad's on Saturday while Spencer and I go kayaking.
One look at Davis and Spencer will know he's" -- Meg froze, her head tilted
toward the hallway.  "Did you hear something?"  -' Patrick put his cup down
quietly.  "No."  She got up and tiptoed into the hall.  Crouched behind the
door was Davis.  Meg went cold all over.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"I can't sleep."   "How long have you been sitting there?"   "I don't know."
She took him by the hand and tugged him gently to his feet.   It was hard
to be cross when she knew the medication made him wakeful, but she felt sick
thinking about what he might have heard.   "You've got to get used to early
nights, honey.

When school starts, we'll have to be up early.  " " Can I stay up for a
while?  " " No.  " She led him back down the hall to his bedroom.  " Did you
hear what Patrick and I were talking about?  " She hoped her interest sounded
casual.  " Kayaking.  Can I come?  Please?  " Davis tugged on her hand.  "
I've always wanted to go kayaking.  "

Relief made her knees weak.  He must not have heard the whole conversation.
"This Saturday Grandpa's taking you golfing with him.

Remember I told you about it in the car?  " " Oh, yeah," Davis said happily
as he climbed back into bed.  " I like Grandpa.  He lets me keep the tees.  "
" Good night, honey.  " Meg placed a kiss on his forehead.

"Can I have my song?"  "You had it already."  "Can I have another one?"

"No.  Good night.  And stay in bed."  davis watched his mom close the door.
His eyes remained open, adjusting to the darkness.  Mom had said the guy she
was going kayaking with was named Spencer.  His dad was named Spencer.  But
if this man was his dad.  Mom would have told him.

Grownups acted real dumb sometimes.  And sometimes they lied.  But not Mom.
She never lied to him.  And she wouldn't keep something that big a secret.
Gradually Davis's eyes drifted shut despite his best efforts to keep them
open.  Images floated through his head.  There was water all around, and
islands, like when he and Mom went on the ferry.  Only he wasn't looking down
at the water from above.  He was in a kayak.  A two-seater.  A man sat behind
him, paddling.  Davis couldn't see the man's face, but somehow he knew it was
his dad.  Drops flew off the paddle blades as they rose and fell, splashing
on Davis's cheeks.  His father's strong strokes were taking them toward the
tall black fins of the killer whales.  Davis drifted deeper toward
unconsciousness.  Just before he went under, he saw Tommy's face floating
mysteriously above the kayak.  Davis smiled at him.  See, Tommy, I do too
have a dad.  spencer paused outside Doc's room in the cardiac unit.  Now that
he was here he almost didn't want to go in and see his mentor diminished.
One fallen idol was bad enough.  But when he'd come by the other day.  Doc
had been asleep.  So Spencer put on a smile and strode into the room.  "Hey,
Doc."  Angus Campbell sat propped up in bed with his knees bent, as though
his six-four frame was too long for the mattress.  Doc had been bald as long
as Spencer had known him and his weathered face was deeply lined, but he had
the vitality of a man half his age.  "Spencer, m'boy!  You came."  Despite
Doc's enthusiastic greeting, the right side of his face sagged and the faint
Scottish bun of his native Glasgow was slurred.  "Of course," Spencer said,
taking a seat beside the bed.  "How'd you land up here, anyway?  Eat too many
cheeseburgers?  Or was it too many run-ins with AshtonWhyte?"

"Don't talk to me about AshtonbloodyWhyte," Doc growled.   "The only good
thing about this infernal place is his absence.   As for the stroke...!   was
divin' for abalone with my grandson.   We were in the water for hours and I
got hypothermia, for God's sake.   That set off cardiac arrhythmia.   A blood
clot formed in my heart, traveled to my brain.

Next thing I know, I'm in here, providin' free entertainment to the nursing
staff who love nothin' better than sticking a thermometer up my bum.  " His
blue eyes twinkled at the pretty young nurse who was currently strapping a
blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm.  " You're a disgusting dirty old
man," she scolded with a smile.  " The sooner you're out of here, the happier
we'll all be.  " Spencer turned to Doc.  " What about it?  Will you be back
at the university after Christmas?  You know I've applied to Bergen, but I
don't want to let your students down.  " One in particular.  " I'll be back.
Got research to finish.  " Talking suddenly seemed an effort and Doc paused
to take a deep breath.  " But I'm glad you're here, lad.  First chance you
get I want you to check the stationary hydrophone I've got positioned in
Trincomali Channel.  Lee tells me it stopped broadcasting.  " " Sure, no
problem.  " " Lee is a good lad.  I hope you'll keep him on.  " " Of course.
He's analyzing the data you and he collected over the summer.  Good thing you
got him on the payroll before you checked into the hospital, though.
Randolph isn't giving me a bean more than he has to.  " " That bloody.  "
Doc's face turned red.  " He was nosin' around here the other day, tryin' to
read my chart.  Just because he's a vertebrate physiologist, he thinks he's a
bloody doctor.  He works with hamsters, for cryin' out loud--last time he did
any real research, that is.  " " Now don't go getting yourself worked up, Dr.
Campbell," the nurse admonished, letting the pressure off the cuff.  " Time
for your tablets.  " She handed him a paper cup containing pills and another
cupful of water.

Doc took them with a growl and shot a glance at Spencer.  "They're feeding
me rat poison!"

"Warfarin is an anticoagulant," the nurse explained with an indulgent smile.
"Take your pills like a good boy."

Doc gulped down the tablets and tossed back the water.  A little of it
dribbled out the paralyzed side of his mouth.  The nurse had moved on and
Spencer had to stop himself from leaning forward to wipe it away.

"How's Meg?"  Doc rasped.  "Weren't you two friends years ago?"

Spencer shrugged noncommittally.  "She seems fine."

"Has she decided on a thesis topic yet?   We only talked in general terms
when we met in June."   Doc gripped Spencer's hand.   "She's keen as mustard.
Make sure she's got a project she can get her teeth into."   Spencer
squeezed Doc's hand.   It was hard to see someone who'd always been full of
piss and vinegar brought so low.   "Don't worry.   I'll take care of
everything."   "Good lad."   Doc's eyelids flickered.   He seemed to tire
suddenly and he slumped back against his pillows.   "When Lee's finished
doing the stats on those recordings, he can start writing up the paper.

And for God's sake, keep Ashton-Whyte away from here if you possibly can.  He
mustn't find out.  " " What?  " Spencer leaned closer.  " What shouldn't he
find out?  " " My age.  " Doc's eyes closed again.  " He'll force me to
retire.  " " He can't do that.  " Spencer began, then realized Doc had fallen
asleep.

Gently he replaced Doc's hand on the coverlet and went around the end of the
bed to peruse the chart hanging there.  He scanned the vital statistics.
Age: seventy-two.  Spencer blinked and looked again.

Unbelievable but true.  He would have sworn Doc wasn't a day over sixty.

"Be a good lad and alter the numbers for me, son."  Doc's sudden request made
him drop the chart with a metallic clatter against the bed rails.

"Thought I was asleep, did you?"  A feral grin played around one side of
Doc's mouth.  "Caught Ashton-Whyte that way."

"How come the university doesn't know your correct age?"   The good side of
Doc's mouth curved into a smile.   "Years ago when I was getting close to
retirement age, I cultivated the acquaintance of a verra' obliging lassie
over in Records..."   "Doctor Campbell, I'm shocked."   Spencer grinned.
"But your secret's safe with me."   Spencer didn't know which was more
surprising-- that Doc looked so young for his age or that he hadn't had a
stroke before now, given his temperament and his frequent contact with
AshtonWhyte.   saturday morning, Meg was parked in front of her parents'
house.   It was already later than she would have liked and Davis was in one
of his obstinate moods, refusing to get out of the car.   "Come on, Davis,"
she said.   "It's time to go inside."   Davis picked at a tear in the fabric
seat cover.   Meg could feel a pain start to throb in her temple.   She
glanced at her watch, then down the curving driveway.   Empty--so far.

Straightening, she threw her father an apologetic glance.  Roger frowned.
"Doesn't he want to stay with me?"

"He's really excited about it, honestly."   She took a bottle from her purse
and handed it to him.

"Give him one tablet after lunch.  No matter what he says.  He might not be
very hungry, but you should try to get something into him."  Roger tucked the
bottle in his pocket.  "Are you okay, Meggie?

You seem nervous.  Is your new honors supervisor some kind of ogre or
something?  " Meg pulled her father away from the car and lowered her voice.
" He's Spencer Valiella.  " Roger's eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown
and his jaw jutted forward.  " Spencer Valiella is not welcome on my
property.  " Meg put a hand to her damp forehead.  " We can't talk about it
now.  He's due to arrive any minute.  I want to get Davis inside.  They can't
meet.  Not yet.  " " Damn right they can't meet!  " Which only made Meg want
to argue on Spencer's behalf.

Ridiculous.  She went back to the car.  The passenger door was open.

Davis was on his knees in the gravel, staring intently at a bug crawling
through the stones.  "Come on, honey."  She bent and took his hand.  "I bet
Grandpa would like to show you the fish in his aquarium."

Davis jumped up.  "Does he have any new ones?"

"I don't know.   Why don't you ask him?"   "You ask him."   The boy pressed
against her side, darting a glance to Roger.   Roger smiled and Davis turned
his face into her waist.   "Let's go ask him together."   Meg knew trying to
hurry him was fatal, but the pace was excruciating.   She glanced over her
shoulder at the driveway again.   "Hello, Davis."   Roger bent and extended
his hand.   Davis shook his head, and looked at his mom.   "Go on, honey,
shake," Meg said.   She turned to Roger.   "He could hardly sleep last night
he was so excited."   "So you said.   Don't worry about it."   Roger dropped
his hand.   Davis touched Roger's pant leg.   "Did you get a new fish?"
"No, but I've got a new castle.   The Siamese fighting fish like to swim
through the archway."   Meg heard the roar of a muffler less car turn into the
driveway.   "Why don't you go see, Davis?   Quick, before they get tired."
Davis rolled his eyes.   "Fish don't get tired of swimming."   The car was
still out of sight behind the box hedge but was getting closer by the second.
She didn't need to see the driver to know it had to be Spencer.   None of
her parents' friends, or even their children, would drive something that
sounded like that.   She fixed her most powerful stare on Davis.   "Go.
Now."

Roger touched his grandson on the shoulder, turning him toward the house.
"Do fish ever sleep, Da- vis?"  Meg watched them go into the house through
the garage and almost broke into tears at the relief.

She would tell Spencer, but in her own time.  If he found out by surprise,
it would be too dreadful.  The door had just shut behind Roger and Davis when
Spencer's black Camaro, kayak strapped to the roof rack, came to a halt
beside her Toyota.  Meg remembered suddenly the Matchbox cars Davis carried
with him wherever he went.  Had he left any lying on the back seat where
Spencer might see them?  The back door was still wide open.  Spencer got out,
and closed his own door, his gaze fixed on her.  Without so much as a glance
inside her car, he reached over and flicked shut the door on the Toyota.  Meg
let out her breath, her heart pounding crazily.  She wasn't going to survive,
she just wasn't.

CHAPTER FOUR

"morning," Spencer said.  He'd forgotten how great her tanned legs and
shapely hips looked in shorts.  His body responded to memories of its own,
and he jammed his hands into his pockets.  "Ready?"  She tugged nervously on
her long braid.  "My kayak's in the garage.  Can you give me a hand?"  He
started walking over.  "How are your folks?"

 "Fine.

Mother's got her garden club thing today.  " " And your dad doesn't want to
breathe the same air as me.  " Meg stopped short.  " That's not"-- " I saw
him high-tail it into the house.  " " He"-- " Forget it.  It doesn't matter.
" Spencer moved under the open garage door.  " Who's the boy?  "

"The boy?"  Her voice sounded strangled.  He glanced at her.  "Yeah.

Is he one of your brother's kids?  "

" What?   Oh.   Yes.   That's right.   "

She hurried past him to the far end of the kayak.  "It's Nick who's married,
isn't it?"  He'd liked her brothers.  Nick more than the other two, but maybe
that was because Nick was a geologist and not a lawyer or a banker.  Her
parents were another matter altogether.  "All three are married now."  Meg
moved to the far end of the kayak.  "You don't have to be married to have a
child."

"Ever the nitpicker."  Spencer bent to pick up his end.  "We'd better move if
we're going to catch that ferry."  They loaded the Qrca onto his roof rack
and tied it down.  Spencer lifted the trunk so Meg could put her backpack
inside.  He glanced up at the house and saw the living room curtain twitch.
Some things never changed.  With a mocking salute at the window, he slid into
the driver's seat.  Then he gunned the engine and with a roar spun around the
circular drive and back out to the road.  Meg shook her head.  "What are you,
Jimmy Dean?"  Spencer laughed.  "Your father would be disappointed if I
didn't put on a show."  He glanced at her T-shirt.  "Are you going to be warm
enough?

It can get cool on the water, especially if you get wet.  " " You mean when
you get wet.  Don't worry, I've got a sweatshirt in my backpack.  "

She glanced around the interior.  "From the outside this car looks like it
belongs in a Mad Max movie, but inside it's immaculate."  Spencer shrugged.
"The inside is what I see.  Didn't know you were so easily impressed."  She
grinned.  "Cleanliness is always impressive where least expected."

"Very funny."   He scowled to hide the pleasure he felt at simply being with
her.   "Put on a CD if you like."   She flipped through the disks.   "Hey,
this is your dad's band.   " Ray and the Brass Monkeys, Live.   " Remember
the time you took me backstage at his concert?   Gosh, he was good.   Where
is he these days?"   Spencer frowned.   He'd forgotten Meg had heard his dad
play.   And met him.   And liked him.   Hopefully he could keep the two
apart.   He'd hate Meg to see his father in his current state.   Hate for her
to pity him.   Hey, what was he thinking?   This was Ray!   He was just in a
slump.   Back up in no time.   "He's, ah, he's at the cottage."   "Really?"
Meg glanced up.

"Is he in town for a concert?"

"He's... taking a breather.   He probably won't be around long.   You know
him--here today, gone tomorrow."   "Like father, like son," Meg murmured, and
put the disk into the state-of-the-art CD player.   The opening bars of Ray's
upbeat brassy style of blues-rock fusion drowned out some of the muffler
noise.   Then the gravelly voice of Ray Valiella came on, and the background
noise just seemed to blend in.   Spencer began to tap his fingers on the
steering wheel.   "Are you going to get your muffler fixed?"   He had it
booked into a local garage, but he couldn't resist teasing her.   "It's
supposed to sound that way."   She threw him a look.

When are you going to grow up?  "I like your hair long," he said.  Now this
was the understatement of the year.  Her hair fascinated him.

Thick and fine and heavy, like braided corn silk, it hung over her shoulder
and down her blue cotton-clad breast.  His gaze lingered where it shouldn't.
Then met hers.

She turned to look straight ahead.  "What happens once I decide on a
project?"  Damn.  For a few minutes they'd slipped into their old way of
talking--but then her cool wariness had brought him back to reality.

He might not have changed, but the situation sure as hell had.  Get used to
it, Valletta.  "You'll need to write up your experimental design using proper
scientific method.  But you know that."

"I think I do, but it's been so long.   I'm afraid I may have forgotten
things."

Spencer glanced at her.  That straight little nose didn't ride quite as high
as it used to.  He wondered why.  "Then you'll just learn it over again," he
said.  "Or ask me--I might know."  She smiled at that.  He'd forgotten the
way her smile could warm him deep down inside.  There'd been other women,
before and since, though right now he couldn't recall a single one.  But who
had Meg McKenzie become?  One minute she wore her maturity like she used to
wear silk blouses, with confidence and style.  The next minute she was a mass
of nerves, as jumpy as a spooked cat.  They cruised down the highway to
Swartz Bay, hitting every green light from Elk Lake on.  "It's times like
this you've just gotta believe in a supreme being," Spencer said, one hand
draped across the top of the wheel.  "Oh?"  Meg replied with a sarcastic
grin.  "You mean, he's turning the lights green so Spencer Valiella won't
have to slow down?"  He grinned.  "She is making sure Meg McKenzie catches
her ferry."  He paused.  "It is still McKenzie, isn't it?"

"Yes."  She frowned at him.  "I told you I wasn't married."  "Right."

Then who was the guy who'd answered her phone this morning when Spencer had
called to let her know which ferry he was aiming to catch?  He'd sounded
sleepy, as though he'd reached over to the bedside table to pick up the
receiver.  "Got a boyfriend?"

"Is that any of your business?"   "Guess not."   They came over the rise and
into the vast paved area comprising row upon row of lanes filling with cars
lining up for the ferries.   Spencer curved off into the one leading to the
ticket booth for Fulford Harbor on Saltspring Island.   As the attendant
handed over their tickets, she expressed some doubt as to whether they would
make this sailing.   "We'll make it," Spencer assured her.   He sped down the
appropriate lane, careered around a curve and zipped over the ramp even as
the warning buzzer was sounding for the seamen to cast off.   The Camaro hit
the steel deck with a deafening ka-thunk.   The muffler sounded like thunder
in the echo chamber of the car deck until he cut the engine.   The ferry gave
three short and one long blasts of the horn, and they were under way.
Spencer turned to Meg with a self-satisfied grin.   She rolled her eyes.   "I
need a coffee."   They went upstairs to the cafeteria and got coffee to go.
"Outside,"

Spencer said, and led the way to the bow where the wind blew their hair
straight back and the green shapes of the Gulf Islands were spread out before
them.  Blue water, blue sky, glaucous-winged gulls wheeling overhead, and
the majestic white prow of the Queen of Nanaimo as she came around the point.
Spencer leaned against the rail and drank in the fresh salt air.  Being on
the water always put him in a more mellow mood.  "I'd forgotten how beautiful
it is up here."

 "You never would have known if you hadn't come back."   He glanced at Meg.

She'd spoken lightly, yet he sensed a change in her mood, too, only she'd
gotten serious.  Still, there was history between them and her words meant
something whether he acknowledged them or not.  "I shouldn't have left
without saying goodbye."  A swift glance, as blue as the sky.  And then she
was clutching her foam cup so hard it bent.

"You hurt me," she said quietly.  "I thought we were friends."

"We were friends."   The sudden tensing of her mouth told him he'd hurt her
again, unwittingly.   God, he was inadequate when it came to the spoken word.
He tried to catch her eye and communicate his caring.   But she wouldn't
look at him.   "Were you happy at all when you lived here before, Spencer?"
He was surprised at the question.   Surprised at himself for not knowing the
answer.   "Sometimes you can't tell if you're happy until you go back to a
place and see what feelings it evokes."   "That is the statement of someone
completely out of touch with their emotions."   A loose strand of hair blew
across her face and she brushed it away.

"So, what feelings does Victoria evoke in you?"

She hadn't asked about Saltspring, although they were nearing the island.
That would have been too loaded a question.  But the edge to her voice told
him she meant what feelings did she evoke.  He'd repressed those feelings for
so long he wasn't sure he could define them.  He only knew she shouldn't
expect too much from him.  "I don't know.  Guess I'm still out of touch."
She was silent, watching the timber-and-glass houses perched on the island's
steep shoreline slip past.  He didn't want her to want something he couldn't
give her.  But to say so would be presumptuous.  "I've applied to Bergen for
a research position."

"Bergen?   You mean in Norway?"   "Yes, at the marine research institute
there.   The position may come up before the year is over."   She nodded.
"I thought it would be something like that."   When the announcement telling
passengers to return to their vehicles came on.   Spencer was relieved.   He
tossed his empty cup into a bin and held the door open for Meg.   Her hair
whipped around his bare elbow, anchoring her to him for a moment.   Their
eyes met as she pulled it away.   There was sadness in her gaze.   Spencer
hated himself for putting it there.   the deep blue water off the north end
of Saltspring Island sparkled invitingly.   Meg stood on the edge of the
cobble beach while her kayak rocked gently in the shallows at her feet.   In
spite of the warmth of the sun, a cool breeze blew over the water and she was
glad of her fleece pullover.

"Ready?"  Spencer asked.  "Yes."  No.  Spencer had stripped off his track
pants to a pair of gray surfer-style shorts, and his feet were bare.  He
waded into the icy water as though he didn't even feel it, pushing his kayak,
a well-used blue Sea Otter.  Inside the forward compartment, he'd put the
hydrophone equipment, as well as a waterproof camera and a pair of
binoculars.  "Do you really think we'll find them?"  she asked.  "Locating
killer whales is always a long shot without a directional array," he replied.
"But Doc and I consistently found Kitasu's matrilineal group in this area at
this time of year.  There's a good possibility we'll get to eavesdrop on them
today."  When Spencer was up to his knees in the water, he braced his hands
and the paddle across the rim of the cockpit and swung his feet inside,
barely rocking the boat.  With a deft dip and turn of the double-headed
paddle, he spun the kayak around to face Meg and looked at her expectantly.
She fumbled with her paddle, bracing it across the cockpit as he had done.
Saltwater leaked in through the seams and lace holes of her tennis shoes.
She smiled self-consciously.  "It's been a long time for me."  He darted
forward and held the side of the tippy craft for her.  "It's like riding a
bicycle."  Meg held her breath.

She got one foot in, braced her arms, then the other foot.  The kayak rocked
wildly.  The muscles on Spencer's tanned arm bunched and held.

She sat with a little thump, grazing her knee against the fiberglass rim as
she slid her legs into the hollow bow.  She was tense.  The kayak seemed to
know it and vibrated with jerky sideways movements that threatened to spill
her into the sea.  "Relax," said Spencer.  As his hand held her kayak, his
eyes held hers.  "Be fluid like the water and you won't tip."  Meg breathed
in.  Breathed out.  Better.  Another breath and the jerking settled down.
When she felt herself relax and her body become low and centered, she knew
her kayaking skills would return.  She'd forgotten how great it was, the
sensation of sitting in the water.  Then she remembered a killer whale could
flip a kayak with a casual wave of a flipper or fluke--not that that was
likely.  But the thought quickened her pulse and made her muscles tense; the
kayak started to wobble again.  Spencer held on, calm and patient.  She made
herself relax again, then tightened the spray skirt around her middle.

"I'm okay," she said at last.  "Let's go."  Spencer moved away with a brisk
practiced stroke.  Meg dipped her paddle, tentatively at first.

Within a few minutes she was paddling smoothly and efficiently.  Her hands
would be blistered and sore before the day was over.  To their right was
Galiano Island, to their left, Vancouver Island, and in the distance, the
overlapping silhouettes of other islands and inlets rose blue-green above the
misty water.  Meg glanced back at the beach.  A bald eagle lifted out of a
pine tree and flapped lazily across the shore.  Her chest swelled as she
breathed in the crisp salt air.  It felt good to be alive and on the water.
They traveled north for about an hour at a pace slow enough for Meg to
sustain but which made Spencer look as though he were paddling in his sleep.

She focused on the rhythmic flex and thrust of his shoulder blades.  He had
a great back.  A little more filled out but still lean and muscular.  He
slowed so she could catch up, and lifted a dripping paddle to point out a
sleek brown head just before it ducked under the surface.  Harbor seal.  Food
for the transient killer whales Spencer used to study.  Meg wondered if he
saw the seal in those terms or whether-- Suddenly, a hundred feet away, a
tall black fin broke the surface, water sheeting from its bent tip.  Meg
caught her breath.

Excitement tingled down her arms.  She hadn't been this close to a killer
whale since she and Davis had gone whale-watching the previous year.  But
standing on the deck of a cabin cruiser was nothing compared to being in a
kayak, right among the animals.  She dragged her gaze away to glance at
Spencer.  He was looking through the binoculars, his back and shoulders
straight and tall, his hair ruffling in the breeze.

For a moment she forgot about the killer whales.  Then she heard a splash and
glanced back to see another black dorsal fin break the surface.  A spray of
water erupted from the blowhole.  Spencer lowered the binoculars and
maneuvered his kayak closer to hers.  "It's Kitasu,"

he said, an undertone of excitement in his voice.  He pulled the binoculars
over his head and handed them to her.  "Look at the dorsal fin.  There's a
nick in the posterior edge, right at the base."

"And the other one?"   Meg said, focusing the binoculars on the killer
whales.

"It's a male.  I'm not sure if it's Geetia or Joker.  I need to see the
saddle patch behind the fin more clearly."  Spencer reached under his spray
skirt and pulled out a pencil and a pocket-size plastic ring binder filled
with waterproof paper.  "What are you doing?"  she asked, lowering the
binoculars.  "Making a note of the sighting for Doc's records.  Date, time,
place.  Can you see the saddle on the first?  Is there a scar across the
front half?"

"I can't see it," Meg said.   "But... oh, my goodness.   There's another
one."   "Let me see."   Meg handed back the binoculars.   "That's Joker.
His dorsal fin always drooped more than Geetla's.   But where's Takush?"
"Takush?"   "Kitasu's daughter."   He looped the binoculars over his head and
let them dangle against his chest.   "Let's get closer."   The killer whales
were only moving at one or two knots, but it was fast enough for Meg to feel
the strain in her arms as she paddled to keep up.   Slowly the gap between
the whales and the kayaks closed.   When they got near, Spencer lowered the
hydrophone over the side of the kayak.   He wove in and out between the
whales, making notes and frowning a lot.   Meg knew he was worried about
Takush.

Killer whales had no natural predators, but sometimes they died of disease or
beached themselves for unknown reasons.  The silence was broken suddenly by
an eerie high- pitched whine that vibrated over the water and raised the
hairs on the back of Meg's neck.  Another whale returned the call, then
another, and soon the air was filled with overlapping calls and piercing
whistles that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.  Spencer turned to
her, his demeanor charged with excitement.  Meg grinned.

It was hopeless trying to talk.  The killer whales fanned out, picking up
speed.  Spencer's kayak sliced through the water after them, skimming the
tops of the low waves.  Meg worked hard, not wanting to be left behind.  And
then, just as suddenly as they'd started, the calls died down.  The whales
slowed, converged, and Meg saw a fourth dorsal fin and a spout of water from
a blowhole.  Panting hard, she paddled over to Spencer, who had the
binoculars out again.  "Takush?"

 "Yes.

And look!  " He handed her the binoculars.  Meg raised the binoculars to her
eyes.  Swimming alongside the newcomer was a baby killer whale.  The calf
nudged its mother's flank, then ducked right under to pop up on the opposite
side.  " Oh, isn't it cute!  " " Is that your scientific assessment.  Dr. Me-
Kenzie?  " Laughing from sheer exhilaration, Meg flicked a paddleful of water
at him, dampening his hair and the front of his shirt.  Spencer shook the
water out of his eyes and started to paddle toward her.  " You're in trouble
now.  " " Behave yourself," she shrieked, back paddling as fast as she could.
" Remember the killer whales.  " " These whales are on my side.  " Just then
a black-and-white shape burst through the surface behind him.  The water
tilted.

Spencer's kayak tipped sideways, and Meg glimpsed the surprise on his face as
he went under.  Through the water she saw his paddle moving to roll him back
to the surface--just in time for the wall of water caused by the breaching
whale to flow over him.  His laughing curse rang out across the water.  Meg
steadied her own kayak against the backwash.  "Whose side did you say the
killer whales were on?"

"That's why Doc and I nicknamed him Joker," Spencer said, slicking back his
wet hair.  "This isn't the first time he's done something like that."  Meg's
attention was diverted by the sound of Kitasu blowing.

The whales started to swim away from the area, too fast for her and Spencer
to follow even if she wasn't already exhausted.  "Oh, no.

They're leaving.  " " Never mind.  We'll book the biology department's
research boat and come back another time to do some real work.  " Spencer
pulled his wet T-shirt over his head and began to wring it out.  ' " Good,
because I want a better look at that calf"-- Meg broke off and stared.  On
the end of the thin leather thong around Spencer's neck was a baby killer
whale tooth set in silver.  Just like the one she'd found on Saltspring seven
years ago.  She'd laid it in the palm of his hand, a gift, because giving
herself hadn't seemed enough, or what he wanted.  He noticed the direction of
her gaze and shrugged.  He didn't make any dumb macho comments about his
chest even though it would have been worth a stare for its own sake.  He just
said.  " I kept it.  "

Stating the obvious was so unlike Spencer she knew it had to be a cover for
what he wasn 't saying.  In spite of the years, in spite of the heartbreak,
she took that small sign that he wasn't indifferent and turned it into hope.

CHAPTER FIVE

classes started just two weeks later.  Spencer arrived at the lab that Monday
morning to find Meg and Lee engaged in an excessively polite argument over
the student desk located behind a partition that separated it from the rest
of the lab.  Like the one in his office, it faced the window and the biology
pond.  Spencer nodded to them and walked into his office.  Ah, good, the
electronics technician had checked over and returned the spare preamplifier
and hydrophone with which Spencer would replace the broken one in Trincomali
Channel.

Setting it aside, he booted up the computer to read his e-mail.  Through the
open door he could hear Lee and Meg still going at it.  What a pair of
pussycats.  "You have the desk," Lee was saying earnestly.  "You are honors
student."

"All I need is a corner to drop my things when I come in," Meg replied.   "I
can do my homework at home--where it's meant to be done."   Spencer's hands
stilled on the computer keyboard as he listened to the sound of her laughter.
She didn't laugh nearly as much as she used to.   And some of the sparkle
had gone from her eyes.   She'd changed; become more mature, more thoughtful.
Sometimes a little strained.   Well, life held strains for everyone and
they usually increased as time went on.   There was no reason Meg should be
an exception.   But she used to chatter on about anything that popped into
her mind--her family, her friends, a book she was reading, a place she wanted
to travel to.   Not anymore.   What had happened during the years he'd been
gone?   "I not need the desk excessively," he heard Lee argue.   "I am here
only between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m.   and early in morning before class.   Then
mostly I work on the computer."   "Are you sure you won't want to use it
during the day?"

Meg asked.  "Between classes?  At lunch?"  "No, no, I'am very sure."

That was when it struck Spencer that Lee was something of a mystery, too.  He
wasn 't around during the day.  Not between classes and not at lunch.
Spencer had never seen him in the student coffee area or the study carrels,
at the notice board outside the office or wandering the halls with his boxy
aluminum briefcase.  Spencer rose from his chair and moved to his doorway,
where he leaned on the jamb, listening openly.  How could they say so much
toward the same end, yet still not reach a conclusion?  "Okay, here's the
deal," he broke in.  "Lee, you use the desk before class and while you're
working.  Meg can use it the rest of the time.  Fair enough?"

 "Very fair.   Dr. Spencer."

"Brilliant," Meg said with a grin.  "Don't be a brat."  He turned to his
assistant, keeping his tone casual.  "By the way.  Lee, what courses are you
taking besides Marine Mammals?"  Lee fiddled with his tie.  His grin
flickered on and dolphins and killer whales.  Why was he so nervous?  "And?"
Lee glanced suddenly at his watch and clapped a hand to his forehead.  "Oh,
wow!  Excuse me, please.  Time to pick up photos of killer whales from
photography lab."  Spencer glanced at Meg as Lee hurried out and they both
burst out laughing.  "It's a pretty strange biology major who only takes two
courses in the department," Spencer said.  "Sure is.  What do you suppose he
does the rest of the time?"

"Not a clue."   Spencer ran a hand through his hair.   "By the way, I went
to visit Doc last week.

He asked about you.  "

" I wish you'd told me--I would have come, too.

How much longer will he be in the hospital?  " " Could be another month, it's
hard to say.  Once he's out, he'll have to attend the outpatient clinic for
physiotherapy, but there's a good chance he'll have recovered enough to come
back to work in January.  " " I'm glad.  I've been worried.  " " Me, too," he
admitted.  And for more reasons than pure concern over his old friend and
teacher.  Unless Doc returned, he couldn't, in good conscience, leave for
Norway.  Spencer sat on a stool, hooking his boot heels on the rungs.  " Have
you thought more about your project?  " " Yes!  " Meg's eyes lit from within,
recapturing some of her sparkle.  " I want to study mother-calf communication
with Takush and her baby.  There are so many questions.  Does the young one
have the same vocabulary as older killer whales?  Does Takush share specific
calls with her calf that she doesn't use with the others?

Does the mother-calf pattern of communication change as the calf grows older?
" " Whoa," Spencer said, laughing and holding up his hands to stem the flow.
" You've got enough there for a Ph.  D.  But it's good.  I like it.  Write
it up.  " God, he loved her enthusiasm.  He leaned forward.  " So, what are
we going to call our baby?  " Meg's glowing cheeks turned pale as alabaster.
The smile froze on his face.  " I meant the killer whale baby, obviously.  "
" I know that.  " Pink flooded back into her skin.  She flipped her hair back
over her shoulders and paced across the lab away from him.  " What does
Takush mean?  " Spencer focused on Meg's slim hips encased in snug blue jeans
and the rocking hemline of her black sweater that was almost obscured by her
long pale hair.

"She's named after Takush Harbor.  All local killer whales have a letter and
number assigned to them according to their pod, but I prefer calling the ones
I know by name.  The names usually come from places on the British Columbia
coast."

 "How about

"Southey," since we set out from Southey Point?  " Meg suggested.  " I
wonder if it's a girl or a boy.  " " With luck we'll find out.  I booked the
Cape Beale for two weeks from now.  That's the first weekend in October--the
only time I could get two days in a row.  Can you make it?  " " Uh, yes, I
think so.

I mean, of course, I'll make it.  I know how hard it is to get time on the
research vessel.  " Her nervousness communicated itself to him, making him
uneasy, too, though he didn't know why.  Slipping off the stool, he walked
over to a filing cabinet.  " In here are reprints of every paper written on
killer whale communication going back twenty years.  If you find anything
new, make an extra copy for the file.  I've talked to Stores, the biology
supplies room in the basement, and told them you'll be putting whatever you
need on Doc's account--which is still under Doc's name.  He also has an
account at the campus computer store.  Let's see, what else?  Oh, yeah.  It's
five o'clock.  How about a beer over at the faculty club?  " He hadn't
actually meant to say that.  After she'd seen the killer whale tooth around
his neck, he'd decided to keep his distance.  Now he wondered how much of his
invitation had to do with not wanting to go home to his old man.

"Thanks, but ... I can't.  I'm late now.  And, Spencer?"  Her blue eyes were
clear and devastating, her cheeks tinged pink.  "I don't think we should see
each other socially.  I mean, we could lose our... objectivity."

"You're not a science experiment I'm conducting."   "You know what I mean."
He searched her eyes, looking for.   what?   A sign that she wanted him to
argue?   He didn't find it.   "You're right.   It was a bad idea."   He
backed into the doorway of his office, hands propped on either side.   "You'd
better run."   Two days later Meg hurried into the biology building and down
the corridor to the lab, glancing at her watch and groaning.   She was really
late.   This morning Davis had woken up with a slight headache that made him
grumpy and slow.   He was into his third week of school and, apart from a
reluctance to get moving in the morning, seemed to have settled in.

Against his protests, she hustled him off to school and then hurried on to
the university where Spencer was waiting to demonstrate the computer program
with which he analyzed killer whale calls.  He was already seated at the
computer when she ran into the lab.  "Hi," she said, and dumped her books on
the desk behind the partition.  "" A dillar, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar.
"" Spencer quoted mildly, punching keys on the keyboard.  "Sorry, I'm late.
I, uh ... never mind, it doesn't matter."  Meg scooted a chair up next to
Spencer's.  "What are you doing?"

"Just getting ready to enter the recordings we made the other day into the
computer.   We plug in the digital audiotape recorder here."   He connected
the tape recorder, only a little bigger than a Walkman, to the back of the
computer.   "The recording is made in digital format--in other words, CD
quality.   Bioacoustic analysis software is then used to digitize the data,
analyze it and format it into spectrograms, or voice pictures.   We should
see some come up on the screen in a few minutes."   "Spectrograms record the
energy and frequency of the call over time, right?"   She knew the theory
from the journal articles she'd read, but it was exciting to be working on
the actual data.   He nodded.   "Each call type is assigned a number.   We
can then measure the length and height of the various spectrogram components
and compare them statistically to one another to distinguish between
discrete call types."   She groaned.   "So that's why I need the
biostatistics course."

Spencer chuckled.  "Still hate statistics, eh, princess?  Don't worry, the
computer does most of the work."  She shot him a glance.  He was smiling at
her, inviting her to remember the old days.  Her mind flashed to Davis.  She
hoped his headache hadn't gotten worse.  "Can we hear the sounds as they're
entered?"  she said.  "Sure."  Spencer punched a few keys and the killer
whale vocalizations came through the speakers connected to the computer.
"It's a good idea to become familiar with the calls so you can relate sound
to the visual record of the spectrogram."  Meg listened hard, trying to pick
out the separate whale sounds.  Weeeow, weeeow.  Amid the louder calls and
whistles, she thought she heard a softer shorter set of calls that might be
the killer whale calf, but she couldn't be sure.  The spectrograms, layers of
wavy lines, started to appear on the screen.  They might as well have been
Martian heart rhythms.  Spencer caught the look on her face.

"Don't worry, by Christmas you'll be able to read these as easily as you read
English.  And with this whizz-bang new program I worked up in Monterey, the
computer can distinguish between the calls of individuals."  Her gaze shifted
from the monitor to Spencer.  They were sitting so close their arms were
almost touching where they rested on the computer desk.  Beneath his dark
green, open-neck shirt she could see the leather cord attached to the killer
whale tooth.  The hope it had given her so unexpectedly that day on the water
had dissipated quickly when she applied a little rational thought.  So he had
a sentimental streak.  So he asked her out for a drink.  It didn't mean he'd
changed.  "Can you tell which is the calf?"  she asked, focusing on the
spectrogram again.

"We'll have to run the stats program to be sure."  Spencer rose and reached
over Meg's head for a box of computer CDs on the shelf above the desk.  "I've
got an earlier set of recordings for Takush's group.

Whatever spectrograms turn out to be different should be the new-arrival.  "
" Do you have written instructions for using this program?  " " It's pretty
easy.  But if you need help and I'm not here, Lee knows.  " " If Lee is
around.  " Spencer glanced at her sharply.  " He doesn't spend much time in
the department, does he?  " Meg shrugged.

"Doesn't seem to.  But every morning when I come in, I see evidence he's been
here."  She glanced at her watch.  Davis should be coming in from recess now.
She hoped he'd remembered to wear his jacket outside.

Or his teacher remembered for him.  There was a knock at the door.

"Hello," a female voice called.  "Anybody home?"  Spencer's and Meg's
attention was diverted to the doorway and a tall woman with lustrous auburn
hair and cheekbones you could hang a hat on.  She wore a lab coat over her
slim short skirt and looked to be in her late thirties, maybe even early
forties.  Meg hoped she'd look half that good when she got to that age.
Spencer rose to his feet.  "Hi."  Meg smiled, but the woman didn't seem to
see her.

"Rachel Walsh, resident algologist," she said, extending a hand to Spencer.
"Welcome to the department."  Her green-blue eyes swept his lazy hip- cocked
stance from head to toe.  Meg felt like throttling her.  And him.  3 '"Walsh,
1998," " he quoted, still hanging on to her hand.  " "Productivity of the
giant kelp, Macro- cyst is integrifolia in relation to nutrient concentrations
in Howe Sound."

" One of Rachel Walsh's finely arched brows slid upward.   " Clever boy.   "
Spencer shrugged modestly.   " Salmon feed on organisms living in kelp
forests, and killer whales feed on salmon.   I'm Spencer Valiella, taking
over for"-- " Oh, I know all about you.   " Rachel's gaze flicked to Meg,
then back to Spencer.   " I can see you're busy.   || I just wanted to invite
you to join me and a few others for a drink at the faculty club on Friday.
" " Excuse me," Meg murmured,

"I've got to make a phone call.

Humming to herself to block out Spencer's answer to Rachel, she went to her
desk.  Rachel Ward had to be eight years older than Spencer, minimum.  Hussy.
Cradle-snatcher.  She dialed her girlfriend Gina's number, even though she
knew Gina was working, and had a little chat with her answering machine.
Then she dialed the weather forecast.  When she couldn't think who else to
call, she hung up and stared out at the pond, trying not to listen to the
murmur of voices on the other side of the partition.  Were they still
talking about kelp?  Or had they gone on to Friday's coming attractions?  She
had no right to be bitchy about Rachel Walsh after she'd turned down Spencer
herself, but now she regretted leaving Spencer alone with the woman.  She
emerged from behind the partition to hear Rachel say,

"See you soon," and give Spencer one last brilliant smile.  Spencer turned
around, saw Meg and shrugged.

"Women find me irresistible.  What can I say?"  Meg laughed, though she felt
like bopping him one.  Then she realized his smile had faded and his gaze had
turned intense, as though he was trying to tell her he wasn't really
interested in Rachel but couldn't get the words out.  Say it, goddamn it.
Just say it.  The phone rang.  "I'll get it," Spencer said, and went past her
into his office to answer it.

"Hello?"  He listened a moment, then his jaw went slack and he turned to
stare at Meg.  "For you," he said, holding out the receiver.

"Esquimalt Primary School.  Your son is ill and wants you to pick him up."
Oh, hell.  She reached for the phone, avoiding Spencer's eyes, and had a
brief conversation with the school secretary, promising to be there as soon
as possible.  Davis had a fever and a sore ear and the nurse suspected an ear
infection.  Meg hung up.  "I have to go."

Spencer grabbed her by the arm.  "A son?  You never told me you had a son.
When did this happen?"

"Six years ago."   She saw the anger and hurt in his eyes and dropped her
gaze.   She jerked her arm away.   "I've got to go."   Flabbergasted, Spencer
watched Meg grab her jacket and purse and run out of the lab with nary a
backward glance.   A son?   Six years old?

That would mean he'd been conceived sometime back in.  No way.  The boy
couldn't be his child.  They'd only made love twice.  Okay, three times, but
the third time.  well, suffice it to say, she couldn't have gotten pregnant
that way.  And both other times they'd used condoms, for heaven's sake.
Besides, Meg would have told him if he'd fathered a child.  Fathered a child.
The thought gave him a cold shiver that had to be fear, because it sure as
hell couldn't be excitement.  But if the child wasn't his, then whose was it?
And where was the bastard now?

Spencer paced across the lab.  If Meg got pregnant seven years ago, whoever
the father was, he must have come hot on Spencer's heels.

Unless she'd been seeing someone else all along?  No, that couldn't be right.
Long before they'd become lovers they'd been friends.  She would have told
him if there'd been someone else.  Meg was so honest she wouldn't filch a
grape from the produce section of a grocery store.

Meg was so honest she'd told him she loved him.  Spencer found himself
whistling to cover the sound of her words echoing through his memory.

He shut down the computer, then locked the door to his inner office and
pulled shut the outer door.  He had to get away.  Had to get in his car and
drive.  He took the steps outside two at a time, striding down the path to
the parking lot, brushing past students, barely noticing their tentative
smiles and quick waves.  When he got to his car, he stopped dead.  And took
his bearings.  Back row, third spot from the end.  He'd parked in this exact
spot yesterday.

Probably the day before, too.  The fact that he didn't remember freaked him
out even more.  He'd only been here a few weeks and already he'd fallen into
a routine.  Spencer roared out of the city, his pulse thumping along to the
music blasting from the Camaro's speakers.  Had she loved that other guy--the
father?  That was her right.  He didn't care.  But man, she hadn't wasted any
time taking up with someone new.

Maybe she'd been hurt, on the rebound.  He cranked the music louder.

Ray's van was parked in the driveway when Spencer pulled up at the cottage.
Good.  Yesterday Ray had left the cottage early and gotten home just as
Spencer was going to bed.  He'd been surly and uncommunicative, not like
himself at all.  Spencer was getting worried about him.  Then he patted his
breast pocket and smiled.  When Ray got a load of what Spencer had for him,
he'd cheer up.  "Hey, Ray!  Guess what I..."  His voice trailed away as he
came through the front door.

Ray was lying on the couch in his dressing gown, unshaven and uncombed,
reading a detective novel.  Seeing him.  Ray tossed the book on the pine side
table.  "Lousy book.  Figured out who did it before I was half through."
Spencer sat in the rocker opposite the couch and i^ gripped the arms, telling
himself not to panic.  Ray was entitled to relax the way he wanted to; that
was why he'd come north.  He pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and
tossed them onto the coffee table.

"Got a cash advance on my credit card.  Two thousand smackers.  You can get
your guitar out of hock, and... hell, do anything you want with the rest.
Pay me back whenever."  Ray scratched his bare chest beneath the plaid
dressing gown.  "Put away your money, son.  You don't want to lose your
hard-earned bucks on a bad bet."

"So you've had a little setback.   You'll bounce back, get another band
together."   "I'm too old to be getting a band together."   Ray settled a
patchwork cushion behind his head and shut his eyes.   Spencer forced a
laugh.   "You're younger than Mick Jagger."   One eye opened and Ray glared
at him balefully.

"That ain't young, son.  And comparisons like that just ain't funny."

Spencer stared at him, incredulous.  The world was a scary place when Ray
Valiella lay down and wouldn't get up.  the next morning Spencer found the
money on his dresser next to his wallet and keys.  Damn.  He had to get his
father out of the cottage and interested in something--anything.  If all Ray
was going to do was lie about and put away a mickey of Jack Daniel's every
day, well, something had to give.

When Spencer arrived at the lab that morning.  Lee had his briefcase open on
the lab bench and was packing his calculator next to a large textbook with
dollar signs on the cover.  When he saw Spencer, he snapped his briefcase
shut.

"Morning, Lee," Spencer said wondering briefly about that textbook.

"How's it going?"

"Just great.   I am almost finished statistical analysis of Pod C28 and Pod
C 12.   I think we find they have close matrilineal ties, as Dr. Campbell
suspected."   From the glow in Lee's eyes, an outsider might think he'd just
won the lottery.   "Good.   Doc says when you're done analyzing the data, you
can start writing the results up for publication."   Lee's eyes widened and
he laughed with excitement.   "I hope my English is good enough."   "Doc will
go over it and he'll be first author, of course, but you'll have your name on
the paper.   If I can be of any help, just ask."   Lee picked up his
briefcase, still grinning.   "Thank you very, very" -- "Don't worry about
it," Spencer said, and laughed simply because Lee's good humor was
contagious.   Then he added casually,

"Where are you off to now?"

Lee's round face became instantly blank.  "I attend class."

"Let's see, Marine Mammals isn't till this afternoon, and Fish Ecology is on
Friday, right?"   "That is correct.   You have a very good memory."   Lee
backed out the door.   "Goodbye for now, Dr. Spencer."   From Spencer's
office window he could see Lee exit the building and head across campus.
Spencer glanced at his watch.   His first-year biology class wasn't until
ten, so.   Pausing only to snatch Lee's silver pen off the computer table, he
strode out the door.   Lee was well ahead, almost lost in the throng of
students hurrying to class.   Spencer lengthened his stride, his long legs
eating up the distance across the quadrangle.   He came to a crossing of
footpaths in time to see Lee's black head, white shirt and aluminum briefcase
disappear into the McCallum building.   Business and Commerce?   Had
Spencer's initial assessment been correct?   He ran forward and slipped
through the closing door.   "Lee!"   Lee whirled around, his narrow black tie
flying out.   His eyes widened, his mouth opened, but he couldn't seem to
speak.   "You forgot your pen," Spencer said, holding it out to him as
students swirled around them.   "What are you doing here?   Are you taking a
business class?"   Lee took the pen.

His wide grin came and went.  He swallowed hard and ran a finger around the
inside of his collar.  He laughed nervously.  But still he didn't speak.
"Come clean," Spencer said, smiling.  "Or are you up to your ears in
white-collar crime?"  Lee laughed, a little hysterically, then hung his head
so low Spencer could see the black hairs against the white of his neck.  "I
am a business major," he said in a dramatically woeful voice.  "My father is
big Hong Kong businessman.  He sent me here to get a degree in commerce."
"Wow, you're kidding.  Why the secrecy?"  Slowly, Lee raised his head.  "My
father does not know I take biology classes.  He would be most upset to learn
I waste credits on courses other than business."

 "Why didn't you tell Doc?   Or me?"

"I worry you would think I am not a serious student.  Not let me work in the
lab."  He put his hands together in a gesture of prayer.  "Please, don't send
me away."

"No one's going to send you away.   You've got a job to do."   Spencer
scratched his head.

"But... your interest in killer whales what's that all about?"  Lee's face
lit up.  "I saw Free Willy thirteen times in high school.  Also Free Willy II
and Free Willy 111 many times each.  I am so excited about killer whales I
learn everything I can in the library, on the Internet... There I saw Dr.
Campbell's name.  I read his book, his journal articles.  I adopted a whale
through the Vancouver Aquarium.  I decide, more than anything else, I want to
be a marine biologist and study killer whales."

"And?"   "And so I convince Father to send me to Victoria for business
school.   I knew he would not agree to biology, but he think it great idea to
get Canadian education.   And finally I see killer whales in the wild."
"Let me get this straight," Spencer said, scratching his head.   "You're
majoring in business and doing biology courses on the side.   How close are
you to getting a bachelor of science?"   Lee flung out the hand that wasn't
holding his briefcase.

"I need fifteen more credits.  Since I can do only two or three credits per
year I will have to do a Ph.D.  in business just to get my biology degree."
Spencer bit back the urge to smile.  "Why don't you just tell your father
you'd rather be a biologist than a businessman?"  Lee shook his head.  "Oh,
no.  I am an only son.  Only child.  My father would be dishonored."

"How do you plan to be a biologist and run your father's business at the
same time?"  Lee shrugged unhappily.  "I will worry about that bridge when I
cross it."

"Well, maybe we can think of a way for you to speed up your degree.   One
thing you could do is take summer courses at Bamfield Marine Station.   But
for now, you'd better get going or you'll miss your class."   Lee smiled
gratefully.   "Yes, sir.   Dr. Spencer."

Spencer rolled his eyes.  "Get outta here."  spencer glanced sideways at Meg.
They were at the computer again, going over spectrograms of Ta- kush and the
others.  Meg's profile was obscured by her long hair, but he could just see
the tip of her nose.  He remembered kissing that nose.  It was his nose,
dammit.  Who was the father of her child?  He told himself her nose did not
belong to him.  He had no right to feel proprietorial about it.  About
anything of hers.  Because of the killer whale tooth, he'd already been
caught caring.  He had to keep his distance, because eventually distance
would be the only thing between them.  A moment later he was amazed to hear
himself say,

"Meg, I'd really like to go out with you."  Blue eyes stared into his, wide
and wary.  "Pardon?"

"If getting a baby-sitter is difficult, you could bring your... your" --
"The thought of children is pretty terrifying all right."   She spoke
lightly, but he noticed her lips tremble.   Someone had made her pregnant and
then left her.

How could anyone do that to Meg?  Protective instincts surged through him.
"What's his name?"  She went pale.  "Whose?"

"The father of your son."   "He's... What do you care?   You left without
saying-" "I know, I know--without saying goodbye.   Meg, I'm sorry."   He
turned her chair so she could see his face straight-on.   Took her hands in
his.   "The research boat left early.   When I got back from Saltspring that
last morning, there was a message to go straight down to the harbor with my
things.   I tried to call, but you weren't home.   At least that's what your
father said."   "If that's what he said, then it's the truth.   But you could
have called me when you got back.   Why didn't you?"   "I was off to Seattle
within a day of my return.   I'm not a good correspondent.   I barely keep in
contact with my family.   I didn't intend to hurt you, whatever you may
think.   Anyway, you must have found yourself a new boyfriend by then.   What
did you say his name was?"   "I didn't."   She pulled her hands from his and
dropped her head, hiding her face from him.   With his fingertips he lifted
the curtain of light blond hair.   "Was it someone I knew?"   "I don't want
to talk about it."   "Is he still on the scene?"   Her head came up as she
laughed, short and bitter.   "We."   "I've missed you, Meg.   Do you think we
could be friends?   Because I would really like that."   "Friends?"

The beginnings of a real smile faded.  "Yes.  We used to be friends,
remember?"  Maybe it wasn't right getting personal when he should be keeping
his distance, but Meg was important.  "I've always considered you one of the
best friends I've ever had.  If not the best."  Moisture glazed her eyes.
"I'm not sure what it means to be friends with you.  Spencer.

Will you come when I've got a flat tire?  Give me a shoulder to cry on if I'm
down?  No, don't answer.  I know you would.  You'd do anything for a
friend--if you happened to be in the country.  " " If you don't want to be
friends, just say so.  " She gazed at him in silence, her eyes sending
messages he couldn't decipher.  The silence expanded until he wanted to twine
his fingers around the thick strands of her hair and pull her into a kiss
just to break the tension.  " I'll go out with you," she said at last.  " And
I'll be your friend because I can't do otherwise.  If," she added, her voice
low but firm, " you promise not to hurt me again.  " He thought of the letter
he'd received today from Dr. Henrik Jorgensen acknowledging his application
to Bergen.  Whether Spencer was accepted there or not, sooner or later he
would leave Victoria.  But you didn't hurt a friend if you could help it.  "
I should have called you from Seattle.  " He touched her hair, willing her to
believe how sorry he was.  " Next time, I promise I'll say goodbye.  "

Suddenly she was laughing through the tears that burst forth to course down
her cheeks.  "You bastard."  Shaking her head, she wrote her address on a
scrap of paper and handed it to him.  "Saturday evening, seven o'clock," he
said, elation setting in despite his misgivings.

"Dress warmly."

CHAPTER SIX

"dress warmly.  What does that mean?"  Meg demanded of Patrick.  Her
housemate lounged across her bed while she stood at her open closet in a
black bra and panties and leafed through the clutter of expensive dresses her
mother kept pressing on her though Meg had begged her to stop.  Even if the
clothes had been her style, she had no place to wear them.  "Call him up and
ask," Patrick suggested.  "That would be too un spontaneous of me," she said,
holding a conservatively tailored wool dress against herself.  Patrick napped
a hand in disgust.  "That won't suit you for at least fifty years."  Meg hung
the dress back in the closet.  "Maybe we're going night diving.  But surely
he would have told me to bring a wet suit.  And the time--seven o'clock.  Is
that dinner or what?"

"Maybe it's a picnic on the beach."   "He would do something like that."
Finally she sighed and took down blue jeans and her favorite black cashmere
sweater from the top shelf.   Spencer never went anywhere you had to dress
up.   "Shouldn't you and Davis be leaving for the movies soon?"   Patrick
glanced at his watch.   "Relax, it's only six- thirty.   Davis is getting his
socks and shoes on."   "I really appreciate this, Patrick," she said, pulling
on her jeans.   "You won't let him stay up too late, will you?   His ear
infection is better, but he might have a relapse if" -- "Don't worry."   He
watched her suck in her stomach to pull up the zipper.

"Are we gaining a little weight?"

"They shrink in the wash," she said, sticking out her tongue at him.
"How's it going at the base?   Any word on your promotion?"   Patrick
groaned.   "Today I got an anonymous note from someone who apparently applied
for the same job I did.   He's threatening to blow my cover."   Meg pulled
her sweater over her head then lifted her hair from the scooped neckline.
"You're kidding.   What did the note say?"   "Something like,

"I know what you are' and he wants to 'discuss the matter."  I think he knows
who my father is and he's trying to blackmail me.  " " He can't harass you
like that.  I hope you threw it straight into the garbage," she said, tilting
her head to brush out her hair.  " Better than that.  I'm going to take the
wind out of his sails.  I'm going to go to the selection panel and tell them
everything.  " He shrugged.  " Lying doesn't feel right, anyway.  " " Good
for you.  I'm sure it's the right thing"-- " Shh!  " Patrick held up a hand
and cocked his ear toward the door.  " What is it?  " " I thought I heard a
car pull up.  " Meg laughed.  " When Spencer arrives, you won't just think
you hear a car.  His muffler sounds like a 747 taking off.

You know he's coming before he's halfway down the block.  "

"Maybe so, but I think I'll go see where the champ has got to."

Patrick paused in the doorway.  "For goodness' sake, Meg, put on a little
lipstick."  Meg set down the brush and hesitated over a tube of cranberry Up
gloss.  Spencer had told her once he hated the feel of lipstick when he
kissed a woman.  Defiantly she whipped off the lid and brushed it lightly
over her lips.  If he was going to kiss her, it wouldn't be until later and
the lipstick would have worn off by then.

She pursed her lips at her reflection in the mirror.  "I can't believe you
just thought that."  The doorbell rang.  Omigod.  Her watch said ten to
seven.  Why hadn't she heard the car?  Where was Patrick?  Where was Davis?
She rushed out of her bedroom to meet a wild-eyed Patrick, baseball mitt in
hand, pushing Davis toward the kitchen and the back door.  "I thought we were
going to the movies," Davis said.  "In a few minutes.  First we're going to
play catch."

"It's almost dark," Davis complained.   "And you throw like a girl."   "Do
you want to learn baseball or not?   Say goodbye to Mom."   Davis planted his
feet and craned his head around to speak to Meg.   "Where are you going?"
"Out with my professor.   I told you at dinner."   She'd also told him at
breakfast, as well as last night when she'd tucked him into bed.   Davis only
remembered things he wanted to remember.   "Is this a date?"   Davis demanded.

"What do you know about dates?"  She whisked past Patrick and opened the
back door for them.  "His name is Spencer, isn't it?"  The doorbell rang
again.  Meg's heart leaped into triple-time.  "A lot of people are named
Spencer."  She bent to give Davis a hug.  "See you later, sweetheart.  Be
good for Patrick.  And no getting out of bed."  She shut the door behind them
and leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath.  What she was doing
was stupid.  She strode back through the house to the front door.  Stupid,
stupid, stupid.  She opened the door.  Stup-- God, he looked good.  Tall and
lean in a thick cream sweater that looked as if it had been knitted by some-
one's grandmother in Ireland.  His hair was windblown and he had a slight
beard growth, which reminded her he didn't shave on the weekends.  But though
his jaw appeared bristly, she knew his beard was soft.  It framed his mouth,
leading her gaze across the sharply denned upper lip and the soft sensuality
of the lower.  He peered over her shoulder into the house.

"Are you going to introduce me to your son?"  "My son?"  she squeaked.

"No.  The baby-sitter took him... out.  They won't be back for a while."  She
grabbed her blue wool jacket off the hook beside the door, stepped onto the
porch and shut the door behind her.  "Shall we go?"  He drove across the
bridge into Victoria.  Soon the Camaro was purring up Dallas Road beside the
row of expensive homes that faced the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

"When did you get the muffler fixed?"  Meg asked accusingly.  Spencer
shrugged.  "I don't know.  Thursday, maybe.  I thought it bothered you."

 "Is that why you got it fixed?"   He grinned sideways at her.

"No.  But I didn't think you'd complain."  She sighed.  "I'm not.  Where are
we going?"

"You'll see."   A few minutes later he pulled off the road at Gonzales Point
and parked in a spot with a view.   It overlooked the strait to the Olympic
Mountains, where the last rays of pink reflected off their snowy peaks.
"Hungry?"   he asked as he shut off the car.   "A little."   Actually, she
was starving.   The savory smells emanating from the covered cardboard box on
the back seat had been driving her crazy all the way here.   They got out and
Meg went around to the back to help carry things.   She was surprised when he
loaded a rolled-up sleeping bag in her outstretched arms.   "You didn't tell
me we were camping."   "Just keeping warm," Spencer said, and handed her a
second sleeping bag.   He tucked a bottle of wine under one arm, grabbed a
thermos and put the box of food under his other arm.   But instead of leading
the way down the cliff to the beach, he crossed the road and scrambled up the
bank to the Victoria Golf Course.   "We can't go up here," Meg said, glancing
anxiously around for stray golfers.   Her father had a membership here.   He
would not be amused if his daughter was caught picnicking on the green.
"Come on, Meg, where's your sense of adventure?

Golf is finished for the day.  The view is better up here.  " The view was
indeed spectacular when Spencer finally allowed that they were in the best
place.  They were far enough in from the road that cars wouldn't catch them
in their headlights, and far enough away from the clubhouse to be invisible
to lingering players or people going to the restaurant.  " Just think, my
mother and father could be having dinner over there right now," Meg said.
Spencer gave her a pained look.  ' " Please.  " They rolled out the sleeping
bags and sat on top with the box of food between them.  Spencer opened the
bottle of Chablis while Meg removed containers of takeout and lifted the foil
lids.  Greek food--a favorite of their student days.  Chunky salad,
deep-fried calamari, spinach pie and stuffed grapevine leaves.  Even Metaxa,
the Greek brandy that had warmed the night on Saltspring Island.  Her heart
turned over.  Just for a moment she was transported back to a time before the
heartache and loneliness.  She smiled at Spencer.  " This is great.  " He
poured her a glass of wine.  " I had a craving for Greek food.  " Okay,
message received; she wasn't to accuse him of sentiment.

Or read anything into this evening.  Then why did you ask me out.

Spencer?  "It's a beautiful night.  The warmest for days."  She stabbed up a
plastic forkful of feta and tomato.  "What's your dad doing tonight?"
Spencer bit down on a calamari ring, his eyebrows pulling together.  "Nothing
much."

 "Spencer, what's going on with your father?"   "Nothing.   Why do you ask?"

"Because every time I mention his name, you frown.  You never used to do
that."  She picked up a spinach pie and bit into the flaky filo pastry.
Spencer stared out to sea.  When he spoke at last she thought he was going to
talk about Ray.  Instead he said,

"It's too bad you never got a chance to finish university."

"I never regretted having my son.   Not for an instant."   He glanced around
in surprise.   "I didn't mean to suggest you did."   "Sorry.   I'm so used to
defending myself against my mother."   And the wine was already going to her
head.   "What did you do for money?   Did your parents help?"   "Some.   But
... I wasn't a child anymore, you know?   I chose the path I took, so after a
while I said thanks but no thanks.   I went to work as a waitress,
salesclerk, whatever I could get.   It was good for me."   She could admit
that now.

"So you moved out of home."  She nodded.  "I shared an apartment with another
single mother I met in the hospital.  We helped each other out with
baby-sitting."  That had been Gina, the first of the few good friends who'd
helped her create a new life for herself.  Her Uplands friends had waved
goodbye without a second thought when she'd moved across town.  "Must have
been rough."  It had been incredibly rough for someone used to having all the
money and material comforts she needed just handed to her.  "I got by.  About
a year later my friend reconciled with her child's father and they got
married.  Then I answered an ad for a roommate and got Patrick."

"Patrick?"   Spencer repeated, frowning slightly.   Her smile stretched
wide.   "He's in the navy.   Fantastic guy.   Funny and sweet.   I don't know
what I'd do without him."   Spencer's frown deepened to a scowl.   "Is he the
guy who answered the phone the morning we went kayaking?"   Meg sipped her
wine.   "Must have been.   And no, he's not my boyfriend."   "What's your son
like?"   It was a question guaranteed to elicit a rush of words from any
loving mother.   Especially when wine had loosened her tongue.   "He loves
animals.   And Lego toys.   He's smart.   Mechanically minded but able to
think in the abstract.   He likes to do his own thing-- a bit of a loner,
really.   He's" -- Meg broke off abruptly.   Except for the Lego toys, she
could be describing Spencer.   Luckily he didn't seem to recognize himself.
"He sounds pretty amazing for a six-year-old," Spencer said.   "Is he
easygoing like you?"   Nothing was easy about Davis.   But her protective
instincts stopped her from saying anything negative about him to Spencer.
"He's a great kid."   And now it was time she stopped talking about him
altogether.   She stacked one empty container into another.   "Do you want
that last dolmathes?"   He popped the stuffed grapevine leaf into his mouth.
Then with the aid of a flashlight, they tidied up the box of food and set it
to one side, leaving out the thermos, cups and the bottle of Metaxa.

' "Should we have our coffee in the car?"  Meg suggested.  "It's getting
chilly."

"Didn't I mention the meteorite shower?"   He gazed up at the clear night
sky.   "We should be seeing something any minute."

Meg gaped at him.  "Now you tell me we're here for the evening?  After I've
consumed half a bottle of wine and was ready to start on coffee and brandy?
Already I have to" -- "You could go to the clubhouse... or there's a
convenient clump of bushes behind us."  Meg shook her head at the grin in his
voice.  She snatched up the flashlight and headed toward the clubhouse,
hoping she wouldn't meet anyone she knew.  When she got back, Spencer had
pulled the sleeping bags closer together and gotten into his bag.  He lay on
his back with his hands behind his head.  Meg wriggled into her sleeping bag.
It was warm and thick and bore his scent.  Memories of Saltspring and lying
next to Spencer rushed into her mind.  She searched for stars in the
darkening sky and tried not to feel so intimately aware of him stretched out
beside her now.  Pinpricks of light began to dot the blackness as the stars
winked on and the Milky Way slowly thickened to a band of light across the
firmament.  So far, no meteorites.  "Well?"  she said.  "Be patient.

The height of the meteorite shower is supposed to occur around ten o'clock.
" He held his watch up to his face and the phosphorescent numerals could be
dimly seen.  " Another hour or so.  " He paused.  " Warm enough?  " " Yes.
Thank you.  Is.  is this your sleeping bag?  "

"What is going on with your dad.  Spencer?  I can tell something's not
right."  She heard his sigh, followed by a long silence.  Finally he said,

"The band folded.  He's broke."

"Oh, no!"   "Yes.   Apparently the band members started to go different ways
musically, plus they were sick of touring.   Two dropped out completely and
the new guys Ray got to replace them didn't work out.   He had to cancel a
few gigs, and then it became harder to get engagements.   Over the space of a
couple of years it all just fell apart.   It wasn't Ray's fault, but he
blames himself."   "That's awful.   But how could he be broke?   I thought he
was doing really well."   "He made some bad investments.   Plus, he frittered
away a lot of money on his jet-setting lifestyle."   "Was that hard for you
as a kid?"   she asked.   "Him being on the road so much?"   "I liked it when
I could go, too.   But when I was five, my parents went on tour and left me
with some people I didn't know."   "That's awfully young to be left.   How
long were they gone?"   "Seemed like forever--for a while I wasn't sure they
were even coming back--but I think it was about eighteen months."   "Oh,
Spencer, you poor thing."   He was silent a moment.   When he spoke, his
voice was cool and neutral.   "It was no big deal."   Then he turned on his
side, facing her.   "The worst part about Ray is that he's completely lost
interest in life.   He sits around all day in his bathrobe playing solitaire
or just staring out to sea.   He's taken to drinking, too, something he never
did that much of before.   I offered him money to get his guitar out of hock,
but he won't take it.   It's not natural for him not to be playing.   I'm
really worried."   "I don't blame you."   Meg lay back and pondered the
problem.   "My dad went through something similar a while back...."   "You
can't compare your father to mine," Spencer said.   "Roger was born with a
silver spoon in his hand.   He never had to struggle for anything."   "Let me
finish!

Roger and Ray are very different, but they're similar in age.  Maybe your
dad's going through a mid life crisis.  Loss of youth, fear of dying, that
is-this-all-there-is feeling.  " " Okay, but Ray is fifty-two.  Isn't that a
little old for a mid life crisis?  " " Maybe it's been delayed because until
recently he's lived the life-style of a younger man.  Or maybe it's been
going on longer than you think.  You don't see him that often, do you?  " "
No," Spencer admitted.  " And he's damn good at covering up with his
good-time-Charlie act.  " " The crunch came for Daddy when his hair started
to get seriously gray.

Suddenly he couldn't pretend even to himself that he was young any longer.  "
" What did he do--buy a bottle of hair dye?  " Meg chuckled.

"He tried it, but it looked awful, so he learned to live with a revised image
of himself.  Now he takes pride in looking 'distinguished."  At least he says
he does.  " " Yeah, well.  Ray's main obstacle at the moment is lack of
money.  He's never going to get a band together without it.  And until he
does, he's not going to feel good about himself or get on with his life.  "

"Yet he won't take a loan.  Could you make it look as if he's doing you a
favor?  Like, I don't know ... buy the cottage off him?"  Spencer propped
himself up on one elbow to stare down at her.  "And what reason would I give
for wanting to do that?"

"Put down roots?"   He rolled on his back again.   "Ray would never believe
that."   "Can't you pretend?

Even a little bit?  " she demanded, raising herself to peer through the
darkness at his face.  " No, I couldn't.  Forget it, Meg.  It wouldn't work.
" " You're telling me you can't compromise your integrity long enough to help
your father?  " She was starting to get annoyed at him for his stubbornness,
maybe more than the situation warranted, but she couldn't seem to help
herself.  " I'd do anything to help him.  But what happens when I leave?  How
much worse is he going to feel knowing I lied?  Is that what you want to
hear, Meg?  Lies?  " " We're talking about your father, not me.  " She
flopped onto her back and pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin.  Spencer
fell silent.  Meg tried to look at the stars, but they kept blurring into
shiny tear-washed streaks.

She and Spencer had been so close for a little while, almost like the old
days when they'd talked until they were so tired they couldn't keep their
eyes open.  Talked to keep from touching each other.  And now.  "Okay, let's
talk about me--no, I don't want lies," she said at last.

Her voice sounded more quavery than she would have wished; she was afraid it
was the wine doing the talking, but she'd imagined this conversation too
many times to stop now.  "I want the truth.  I just don't happen to believe
that your resounding silence on the subject of our relationship was the
truth.  " Seven years ago on Saltspring, I told you I loved you.  We were
right in the middle of making love.  Do you remember?  I no sooner said the
words than you stopped touching me and turned away.  I laid my heart open for
you and you turned away.  Can you even begin to imagine how crushing that
was?  Is that the kind of friend you are.  Spencer?  "

He didn't answer.  His eyes were closed, shutting her out.  She pounded a
fist on the thick padding of his sleeping bag.  "Z)o you hear me?  You say
you won't lie, but when your body says one thing and your actions say
another, isn't that a lie?  What about the tenderness before that?

The way we laughed and talked and knew what each other was thinking before we
said it.  You loved me.  Why couldn't you have said it?  Just once.  " She
broke off, swallowing her tears, and gulped air past the tightness and pain
in her chest.  She hadn't meant to beg, and now she felt ashamed and sick at
heart.  " What did you expect from me, Meg?  "

His voice was an anguished whisper.  "Saying... you know, love, and all that.
It's like a promise.  You were special to me--it's true, I don't deny it.
You're special to me now.  But making promises I can't keep is worse than any
lie."

"Can't, or won't?"   she asked bitterly.   "I don't want to stay in one
place.   I don't want a mortgage.   I don't want a house in the suburbs.
It's all too safe.   Too much sameness.   The monotony, the boredom, scares
me."   "It doesn't have to be that way."   "Too many times it is.   I
couldn't stick it.   You would end up hurt and I couldn't bear that."

"Don't be so damned noble."  She was hurting now.  "Meg."  He reached for
her, and in the darkness his fingers lost their way and landed on her nose.
They moved on to caress her cheek before tangling in the hair at her temple.
"Don't," she pleaded, trying to quell the shudder of longing sweeping through
her.  His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.  "I've
never forgotten you, Meg, not for a second.  I dream about you.  When I was
in California I'd look up at the night sky and think.  These same stars are
shining down on Meg.

When I was on the water, I felt the ocean currents connecting us even though
we were apart.  When we're together, I want to be with you.  I want to make
love to you.  That night on Saltspring was the best night of my life because
it was with you.  Do you remember, Meg, how good it felt?  " His low rough
voice was like a siren's song, immobilizing her.

His fingers poured liquid fire into her blood as they moved across her skin.
She turned her face into his palm and, on a sigh, planted a kiss.  She felt
the shudder go through him.  Then the stars blacked out as his head and
shoulders descended to hers.  His mouth tasted of coffee and Metaxa.  The
scent of the ocean was in her nostrils.  She was falling through fathoms of
dark water.  Spencer's arms were around her, saving her or dragging her
down, she didn't know which, didn't care.  Desire came in on a wave and left
its wet imprint between her legs.  A moan escaped and was lost in the
mingling of their breaths.  Spencer's sleeping bag rustled as he shifted
closer and put his leg across her thigh, the familiar weight of her fantasies.

Touching, but still so far apart.  "Meg."  He spoke her name in a voice as
dark as midnight,

"I want you."  She couldn't think.  If she had, she might not have twined her
arm around his neck to pull him into another kiss.  As their tongues joined,
her eyes flickered open to glimpse a golden fireball streak across the
blackness.  Then they shut again and all sensation focused on Spencer, whom
she'd loved and lost.

And found again.  The ache inside her was part physical need, part emotional
connection that defied time and logic.  Only Spencer could cure the ache and
the longing.  But could she handle a relationship on his terms?  Put aside
her dreams of a family?  He felt so good, so warm and inviting.  Yes, she
could sacrifice everything for the moment.  She could, she would, yes, yes.
Davis.  The thought of her son thrust through the wash of emotion like a
rocky outcropping, and she slammed into it head-on.  She'd forgotten for a
moment what her involvement with Spencer could do to Davis.  He was so young,
so trusting, so de fenceless against hurt.  Her blood cooled.  Her eyes
opened.  She pushed on Spencer's shoulders, clumsily trying to move him off
her.

"Meg?"  Spencer sounded bewildered, confused.

all too safe.  Too much sameness.  The monotony, the boredom, scares me.  "
" It doesn't have to be that way.  " " Too many times it is.  I couldn't
stick it.  You would end up hurt and I couldn't bear that.  "

"Don't be so damned noble."  She was hurting now.  "Meg."  He reached for
her, and in the darkness his fingers lost their way and landed on her nose.
They moved on to caress her cheek before tangling in the hair at her temple.
"Don't," she pleaded, trying to quell the shudder of longing sweeping through
her.  His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.  "I've
never forgotten you, Meg, not for a second.  I dream about you.  When I was
in California I'd look up at the night sky and think.  These same stars are
shining down on Meg.

When I was on the water, I felt the ocean currents connecting us even though
we were apart.  When we're together, I want to be with you.  I want to make
love to you.  That night on Saltspring was the best night of my life because
it was with you.  Do you remember, Meg, how good it felt?  " His low rough
voice was like a siren's song, immobilizing her.

His fingers poured liquid fire into her blood as they moved across her skin.
She turned her face into his palm and, on a sigh, planted a kiss.  She felt
the shudder go through him.  Then the stars blacked out as his head and
shoulders descended to hers.  His mouth tasted of coffee and Metaxa.  The
scent of the ocean was in her nostrils.  She was falling through fathoms of
dark water.  Spencer's arms were around her, saving her or dragging her
down, she didn't know which, didn't care.  Desire came in on a wave and left
its wet imprint between her legs.  A moan escaped and was lost in the
mingling of their breaths.  Spencer's sleeping bag rustled as he shifted
closer and put his leg across her thigh, the familiar weight of her fantasies.

Touching, but still so far apart.  "Meg."  He spoke her name in a voice as
dark as midnight,

"I want you."  She couldn't think.  If she had, she might not have twined her
arm around his neck to pull him into another kiss.  As their tongues joined,
her eyes flickered open to glimpse a golden fireball streak across the
blackness.  Then they shut again and all sensation focused on Spencer, whom
she'd loved and lost.

And found again.  The ache inside her was part physical need, part emotional
connection that defied time and logic.  Only Spencer could cure the ache and
the longing.  But could she handle a relationship on his terms?  Put aside
her dreams of a family?  He felt so good, so warm and inviting.  Yes, she
could sacrifice everything for the moment.  She could, she would, yes, yes.
Davis.  The thought of her son thrust through the wash of emotion like a
rocky outcropping, and she slammed into it head-on.  She'd forgotten for a
moment what her involvement with Spencer could do to Davis.  He was so young,
so trusting, so de fenceless against hurt.  Her blood cooled.  Her eyes
opened.  She pushed on Spencer's shoulders, clumsily trying to move him off
her.

"Meg?"  Spencer sounded bewildered, confused.

"I can't do this.  Spencer."  Another meteorite blazed across the sky and
was gone.  Tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back as she
struggled to a sitting position.  She would not cry over Spencer.

Never again.  "I can't make love to you one month and wave goodbye to you the
next."

"I guess I got carried away," he said quietly.   "It's too easy to do with
you.   I should have known--I did know--a physical relationship wouldn't be
enough for you."   "Is it enough for you?"

she asked resentfully.  "Is sex all you want out of a relationship?"

"No."  He sat up and pushed his hands through his hair.  "I want all the
things you want--warmth, companionship, tenderness.  I just can't give them
in return.  At least, not for long term."  Her heart bruised and aching, Meg
struggled out of the sleeping bag.  "I've had enough.

Please take me home.  " when spencer dropped Meg off, he walked her to the
door but didn't ask if he could come in.  Nor did she invite him.

They were numb, like people whose emotions have taken such a beating they
can't feel any more.  And because they couldn't feel, they couldn't talk.
Heading back to Sooke, he rolled down the windows and let the cool night air
flow through the Camaro Soft jazz drifted from the speakers and disappeared
into the blackness outside as he followed the curves of the road, his
headlights alternately illuminating dense stands of trees or the pale sides
of cottages, ghost like in the night.

Make it look as if he's doing you a favor.  The image of Meg's face,
compassionate and understanding, appeared in the blackness before him.

He'd forgotten what it was like to have someone to talk to.  Someone close.
He'd locked those memories away when he'd left Victoria as surely as he'd
locked the door to the cottage.  The cottage.  Ray was no dummy, but what did
it hurt to try?  The light was sdll on in the living room, and when Spencer
pushed through the front door.  Ray was sitting on the couch, hunched over
the coffee table, playing solitaire.

Spencer tried to imagine Ray dyeing his hair, and failed.  "Hey, Spence," Ray
said, looking up from his handful of cards.  His words were slurred.  "Howya
doin'?  How's Meg?"

"She's fine.   Sends her regards."   Spencer sank into the rocker opposite
the couch and gazed at his father with a sick feeling in his stomach.   A
grimy highball glass stood at Ray's elbow next to a half-empty bottle of Jack
Daniel's.   His father wasn't a serious drinker.   Whatever he was going
through must be bad.   "Winning?"   "Nah, I never win at this game."   Ray
took a swig of his drink then scooped up the cards and began to reshuffle
them.

Spencer cleared his throat.  "I've got a favor to ask ... Dad."  "" Dad,"

eh?  You buttering me up for something' big?  " Ray began to lay out the
cards in long uneven rows.  " You've got an ace there," Spencer pointed out.
" Yes, it's pretty big.  I hope you'll help me out.  "

"Yeah, yeah, enough foreplay, cut to the chase."  Ray moved the ace of
diamonds to the top.  "You know I'll be working at the university for a
while."

"I thought you were finished at Christmas."   Ray rearranged cards, stacking
red on black and vice versa.   "If Doc were to take early retirement, I might
be offered the position on a permanent basis.

So I could use a permanent address.  " It was totally unlikely Doc would give
up research, but Ray didn't know that.  " The cottage," Ray suggested,
scanning the rows of cards.  " Now there's an idea!  " Spencer exclaimed,
deliberately misinterpreting.  " If I could buy the cottage off you, I'd
always have a place to go.  " Ray's bleary eyes suddenly focused sharply.

"You've always been able to come here whenever you want.  Nothin's changed."
"I'd like it in my own name."

"You tryin' to kick me out of my own house?"   "Hell, no.   Ray.   This
would still be your home whenever you like, for as long as you like.   In
fact, if I end up in Norway for a year or so, you could care- take the place
for me.   I'd even pay you to do it."   Too late Spencer realized his
mistake.   He saw comprehension dawn in Ray's eyes and kicked himself for
trying to be too clever.   Ray shook his head and went back to nipping cards.
"You almost had me going there.   How are you gonna go to Norway if you've
got this permanent position here, eh?   This house has sat empty on and off
for years.   It doesn't need a ca retaker.   It needs a demolition crew."

"Let me buy half, at least.  Get a toehold in the real estate market."

Ray leaned against the back of the couch and spread his hands.  "You blew it,
Spence, admit it.  What would you want with half of an old dump like this?
If you were going to buy a house--which I don't believe for a second--you'd
be better off buying something on the outskirts of Victoria, maybe out on
Saanich Peninsula, with a bit of land attached."

"I don't want a house" -- Spencer broke off at his father's cackle of
laughter.   He jumped to his feet in frustration.

"Goddamn it.  Ray.  Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life besides pissing
it down the toilet.   When I figure it out, I'll take your money.   Maybe.
But definitely not before."   Spencer gave up and stalked into the kitchen to
tackle the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.   How could he fix Ray's
problems when he couldn't fix his own?   He hadn't been prepared for all the
relationship issues he'd had to face since coming back to Victoria.

His father.  Meg.  His feelings for Meg were surfacing, gathering intensity
and force, like a wave building as it approached shore.  He was afraid of
hurting her again.  Afraid, too, of his own pain and loss when he left.  He
contemplated confiding in Ray and immediately dismissed the idea.  Their
roles had reversed as Ray became more childlike in his irresponsibility and
dependence.  Dispirited and heart sore.  Spencer plunged his hands into the
hot soapy water.  Where was his free- and-easy life-style now?

CHAPTER SEVEN

meg silently tapped the arms of the guest chair in Spencer's office as she
waited, nervous and impatient, while he read through her project design.  Her
professional future was riding on this project, and although she almost hated
to admit it, she admired Spencer so much as a scientist she wanted his
approval.  Finally he finished scanning the last page and glanced up.  "Looks
good, Meg.  The background is well-researched, your statistical tests are
sound and your overall hypothesis is both realistic and adventurous.  Doc
would be very impressed."  The warmth in his dark green eyes told her he was
impressed, and somehow that meant even more than Doc's opinion.  Their
personal relationship aside, working with Spencer would be rewarding and
exciting.  "Thanks.  And thanks for your help."  The phone rang and Spencer
picked it up.  Meg started to leave, but he motioned to her to stay.  "Damn,"
he said after a moment on.  the phone.  "When will she be ready to sail
again?"  The answer he received brought another mild curse to his lips.
"Okay," he said, resigned, "put us down for the next available two-day slot."
"Bad news," he said, hanging up and swiveling around to face her.  "The Cape
Beale ran aground on her last trip out.  She has a hole in her hull that's
going to take some weeks to repair."

 "Oh, no!"   Meg sank back into the guest chair.

"There goes our field trip this weekend."

"It is a setback," Spencer admitted.   "You need to get at least two trips
in before the killer whales disappear for the winter."   They gazed at each
other, knowing without saying, that the killer whales' behavior was not the
only factor.   The New Year would see the departure of Spencer and the return
of Doc, who might not have the physical stamina to do fieldwork.

Meg slapped the arm of her chair in frustration.  "What am I going to do?
Kayaks are no good.  We can't keep up with the whales or take along the
directional hydrophone I'll need to isolate Takush and her calf's calls....
Wait a minute.  I'll ask my father to take us in his boat."  Spencer's face
shut down.  "I guess that could work.  I'll go over the operation of the
hydrophones with you again before your trip."

"Oh, no, you don't," Meg said.  "You can't bail out on me.  I've never used
this equipment."

"Lee has.   I'm sure he'd welcome the chance to go along."   "Lee can come
if he wants, but you're the expert.   And you're my supervisor.   You have to
come."   "Roger would not welcome me on board, and frankly, I don't need the
kind of crap he dishes out.

You'll be fine on your own.  " " You said yourself my opportunities to get
this data are limited," she argued.  " Besides, the only way to overcome my
father's antipathy is for him to get to know you.  So he can see what kind
of a person you really are.  " ' " Your father already knows what kind of
person I am.  In what matters to him, at any rate.  I'll never be rich.  I'll
never be stable" Meg's fists clenched in her lap.  Sometimes men could be so
damn stupid.  " We're not discussing marriage.  This is my thesis we're
talking about.  Daddy will understand he has to set aside personal
prejudices.  I don't see why you can't do the same.  " Bristling at the
challenge.  Spencer spun away to the window.  " You're right," he said,
turning back after a minute.  " I apologize.  I was letting personal factors
influence my behavior.  You've got a thesis to research and it's my job to
help you.  " " Damn right it is.  " Then she smiled.  " But thanks.  " " i've
told you before, Meggie, Spencer Valiella is not welcome on my property and
that includes my boat!  " Roger stood with his back to the fireplace.  One
hand was tucked into the pocket of his gray cardigan, the other swirled his
crystal highball glass, setting the ice to an angry tinkling.  Meg leaned
forward in her favorite wing chair, her glass of sherry forgotten on the
antique mahogany side table.

"Please, Daddy, be reasonable.  Spencer doesn't like you any more than you
like him, but at least he's willing to give it a try."

Outrage lifted her father's eyebrows.  "He doesn't like me?  How dare that"
-- "Roger, dear, I think you should reconsider," Helen said, much to Meg's
surprise.  Helen had been standing to one side, cool and aloof as an orchid
in pale green linen, every hair in her golden chignon in place.  Now she
stepped between them.  "Margaret's waited a long time to go back to school.
Look how she's had to live for the past seven years.  Do you want that to go
on indefinitely?  I think we should support her efforts to regain an
acceptable lifestyle."  Meg sighed.  Even when her mother was supposedly on
her side, Helen still managed to make her feel like a failure.  And both of
them were treating her as if she was twenty-eight going on twelve.  "I'm
sorry I asked," she said.  Rising to her feet, she grabbed her jacket from
the back of the chair.  "I'd better go."

"Roger!"  Helen commanded action from her husband.  Roger glared at Helen.
Meg started for the door.  "Oh, all right, Meggie," he said, resigned and
resentful.  "I'll take you and Spencer out on the boat."

She paused.  "Promise you'll try to get along with him?"  "I'll try.

But when are you going to tell him about Davis?  " " What?  You agreed I
shouldn't tell him.  " " I've thought about it and changed my mind,"

Roger said, setting his glass on the mantelpiece.  "He's making good money as
a university professor.  There's no reason he can't support his family.  He
should take responsibility for his son.  Maybe pay a few bills."

"She doesn't need his money," Helen interjected sharply.   "If she and Davis
need cash, she can always take what we've offered.   If she needs a place to
stay, she can always come home."   The long, windowed room suddenly felt
stifling in the afternoon heat of the Indian summer.   Her mother meant
well.   Meg had to believe that.   Maybe it was time to put her to the test.
"I appreciate your concern.   Mother, but we're doing okay, honestly."   She
paused.   "I do need a favor from you, though."   "Anything, darling."   '
"Could you look after Davis for the weekend while I'm on the boat?

Patrick can take him on Saturday, but Sunday he's busy.  " A panoply of
emotions struggled for dominance on her mother's patrician features.

Reluctance to ca retake the unmanageable Davis conflicted with her repugnance
at letting her grandson fall into the clutches of someone she viewed as an
immoral freak.  If Helen's extreme prejudices weren't so hurtful, they'd
almost be funny, Meg thought.  "You can't let him stay with Patrick
overnight," Helen said at last.  "He'll have to come here for the whole
weekend."  Meg didn't waste time telling her mother there was as much chance
of Patrick doing anything inappropriate with Davis as there was of Roger
abusing little girls; in other words, zero.

She'd tried educating Helen in the past and gotten nowhere.  Besides, she was
too grateful for her mother's offer to question the motivation behind it.
"Thanks, Mother," she said, crossing to the unyielding Helen to give her a
hug.  "Davis will be so excited."

"Before he comes you've got to tell him not to run in the house.   He won't
listen to a word / say.   The last time he stayed here overnight he broke a
very expensive antique vase in the dining room."

"That was three years ago," Meg protested.  It was also the last time Davis
had been allowed anywhere in the house but the family room and the kitchen.
And if Davis didn't listen to Helen, it was because everything sl^e said to
him was an order.  Davis didn't take kindly to orders from strangers.  Meg
sighed and hoped the weekend wouldn't be a total disaster.  She went over to
hug her father.  "Thank you, Daddy."

"Anything for you, sweetheart.  But Valiella had better watch his step."  His
face set in grim lines, Roger left the room.  Helen touched Meg's arm in an
uncharacteristically sympathetic gesture.  "He doesn't want to be mad at you,
Meggie, for not legitimizing his grandson.  But he has to blame someone."  at
dawn the following Saturday, Meg pushed a wheelbarrow loaded with supplies
onto the wharf at the Oak Bay marina.

The cool air was tangy with salt, and the coming day beckoned her the way a
summer morning calls to a child.  Her barrow rumbled over wooden planks to
the faint clang of stays on masts as sailboats bobbed in the gentle breeze.
At the end of the wharf, Helen of Troy, her father's fifty-foot cabin
cruiser--a 1930's fishing boat converted to luxury--gleamed in the first
shafts of sunlight.  Roger waved to her from the deck, then disappeared
below.  A second later she heard the low thrum of the big diesel engine.  Meg
increased her pace, weaving between buckets and coiled ropes littering the
wharf.  She worried about Davis, who'd clung to her when she'd left him with
Helen.  His shyness could quickly turn to defiance unless handled with a
sensitivity she feared her mother lacked.

He'll be all right, she assured herself.  Davis was in one of his "good"
phases.  If Helen gave him half a chance, his engaging personality would win
her over.  Meg set the wheelbarrow down beside the boat as Roger stepped out
of the cabin.  The wire guardrails were down and a wooden step allowed access
to the deck.  Meg passed her things up to her father--a backpack with a
couple of changes of clothes, a duffel bag containing her diving gear and a
box of food.

She'd stayed up last night baking chocolate-chip cookies-- both Spencer's and
her father's favorite.  It was not bribery, simply a preemptive peace-keeping
measure.  "Has Spencer arrived yet?"  she asked, handing up the box.  Roger's
thick eyebrows pulled together.

"No.  But he'd better show up soon or we'll leave without him.  I said seven
o'clock on the dot.  We have to cast off before the tide turns."

"He'll be here," Meg said, climbing aboard.  They couldn't leave without
Spencer; he had the hydrophone equipment.  She put her backpack in one of the
berths, stowed the food in the galley, then went back up to the gate to wait
for Spencer.  At five minutes past seven, his black Camaro swung into the
parking lot and pulled up beside her Toyota.  He emerged from the car and
stretched his arms over his head, glancing around at the marina before
flashing her a wide grin.  His hair was unkempt, his jaw unshaven, and he
looked gorgeous.  She realized then how much she'd been looking forward to
this weekend and spending time with him.  She must have a self-destructive
streak in her somewhere.

"You're late," she said as she wheeled the barrow over.  "Morning,
princess."  He lifted her long braid and tickled her under the chin with it.
"Daddy's champing at the bit," she said, ignoring the teasing gleam in his
eye.  "This weekend is going to be difficult enough without deliberately
flaunting orders."

"I've been a bad boy already, have I?"   She stopped beside the closed trunk
of his car and waited silently for him to come and open it.   His grin faded
as he stepped to the rear of the car.   "There was an accident on the
highway."   "Oh, dear."   She should have known it was something unavoidable.
Spencer might give the impression he was above mundane things such as being
on time, but he wouldn't be late without a good reason.   "Was anybody hurt?"
"Don't know.   The ambulances had just arrived."   Spencer unlocked the
trunk and loaded her barrow with his gear.   "Lee isn't coming--he's got a
bad cold and wouldn't be able to dive, anyway."   He slammed the trunk shut.
"Come on.   We'd better get moving before the tide changes."   Spencer slung
his duffel bag over his shoulder and picked up the poles that would support
the directional hydrophone.   Meg trundled the barrow back down the wharf.
Spencer and her father should get along; they both loved boating and the sea.
Unfortunately they both liked to be captains of their own ship.   "Morning,
Roger," Spencer said, his voice stiff but respectful.   "Good of you to help
us out."

On the deck above, Roger stood with arms akimbo and issued a thinly veiled
warning.  "I'll do whatever's necessary to ensure my daughter's welfare--
academic or otherwise."  Spencer nodded curtly and began loading the
electronic equipment on board.  Meg glared at her father.

This was going to be a long two days.  With Roger at the wheel on the flying
bridge, they motored out of the harbor.  During the journey toward Saltspring
Island, Spencer and Meg assembled the directional hydrophone inside its
parabolic dish, which would concentrate the sound of the killer whales.
Using it and the attached headphones, they'd be able to locate the whales
from many miles away.  Meg noticed an extra hydrophone encased in silicone.
"What's that for?"

"Doc asked me to check the unit he set up in Trincomali Channel this summer.
It's stopped broadcasting and needs to be replaced.   That's why I asked
you to bring your diving gear."   "And here I thought you just wanted to
collect abalone for dinner."   She grinned and ducked his playful cuff of her
shoulder.   "I wish we could dive with the killer whales."   "It would be
great, wouldn't it?   But they get irritated by the noise of the bubbles
escaping from regulators.   I'm sure you wouldn't want to drive them away
from the area."   "Definitely not."   Meg rose to her feet and scanned the
water.   They were between Saltspring and Pender islands, just about to turn
up Trincomali Channel.   "I hope we find them soon."   Around noon she made
sandwiches and coffee, then left the plate with Spencer and ran up the
gangway to the flying bridge.   Roger stood with his legs wide, bracing
himself against the rocking motion of the boat on the light chop.   Behind
his sunglasses, beneath the bill of his fishing cap, Roger was frowning and
his jaw was set.   Oh, dear.

Daddy had a tendency to brood and he'd been up here on his own for hours.
"Do you want me to take the wheel while you eat?"  she yelled over the roar
of the engine and the whistle of the wind.  "Have you told Spencer about
Davis yet?"  he shouted back.  Meg pulled a long strand of blond hair off her
face.  "We're working--this isn't the time or place.  Ham and Swiss cheese,
or chicken and avocado?"

"Ham and cheese--you know avocado gives me hives."   He took one hand off
the wheel to jab a finger in her direction.   "Because if you won't tell him,
I will."   "Daddy, you can't!   I agree he has a right to know and I plan on
telling him, but" -- "I don't give a damn about his rights,"

Roger countered forcefully.  "The man's got to live up to his obligations.
You and Davis are struggling to make ends meet while Valiella's jaunting
around the world doing whatever the hell he wants."

Meg glanced over her shoulder and her heart leaped into her throat.

Sandwich plate in hand.  Spencer was leaning against the stern railing, gazing
up at them.  Had he heard what her father had said?  But no, eyebrows raised,
he was holding up the plate.  Breathing out, she smiled and held up a finger.
Just a minute.  "We can't talk about this now," she said to Roger, speaking
firmly.  "And you are not going to tell Spencer anything!  When the time is
right, I'll do it.  In the meantime I'd appreciate it if you'd try to be
civil."

"I can't help it.  Every time I look at him I see Davis."

"Don't think about it."   Easier said than done, as she well knew.   "Why
don't I take the wheel?   You go get something to eat."   Roger glanced down
at the deck where Spencer was still eating, and a calculating look came into
his eyes.   "On second thought," Meg said, "why don't I send Spencer up and
you and I can go over the charts while we have lunch?"

This weekend was going to be a logistical nightmare if she couldn't leave the
two of them alone together.  Roger agreed and she skimmed back down the
gangway to find Spencer finishing off the last ham and-cheese sandwich.
"Everything okay?"  he asked.  She smiled wearily and took the plate.  "Just
peachy-keen."  Spencer grabbed his cup of coffee and a handful of cookies and
headed up to the flying bridge.  He paused, one step up the ladder.  "You
don't have to run interference for Roger and me.  We're big boys we'll work
it out."

 "Yeah, sure."

Stepping back, she watched the interaction between her father and Spencer.
Roger was pointing to the gimbaled compass installed next to the wheel, and
Meg knew he was explaining in excruciating detail what course they were on
and what would happen if Spencer deviated from it.

Spencer stood at a distance, nodding stiffly.  Shaking her head, she ducked
through the sliding doors to make her father a fresh sandwich.

Roger came in a minute later and took the plate she held out to him.

"So what's your plan of attack?"  he asked around a bite of
ham-andSwisscheese-on- rye.  Meg poured two cups of coffee and explained to
Roger what she and Spencer had discussed.  "Once we locate the pod, we'll
need you to cruise parallel to the whales while we lower the hydrophone."
"How far away?"

"That's the tricky part.   The killer whales don't like motor noise, plus
the sound can interfere with the recordings.   We need to stay as far away as
possible while still being able to observe their behavior.   If possible I'd
like to get Takush and her calf on their own so I can distinguish their calls
from those of the other whales.   The computer can do that in the lab, but
I'd like to hear it with my own ears."   Roger swallowed, took a sip of
coffee.

"What are you going to do with this information?"

"If I can prove a correlation between specific call types and killer whale
behavior, it will allow me to speculate on the meaning of their
communications.

Simple, really.  " Roger nodded seriously.  " Not," she exclaimed, laughing.
" It would be fantastic to know what they were saying, but actually doing so
is a pretty tall order.  " " Well, Meggie, if anyone can do it, you can.  "
Meg smiled at her father's faith in her.

Unrealistic but heartwarming, nevertheless.  "If nothing else, I'll be able
to report on mother-calf interactions.  I think that alone is pretty
significant."  She set down her coffee.  "I'd better get out there with the
headphones and listen for the whales."

Out on deck Roger squinted at the sky.  A freshening breeze had blown thin
clouds into long corrugated streaks.  "" Fish scales and mare's tails,"" he
quoted.  "A storm's coming.  But it's not supposed to blow hard till tomorrow
afternoon.  Let's hope the weather holds till you can collect your data."
Meg shifted uneasily, taking note of the swell beneath the boat.  "Yeah."
"I'd better get back to the bridge," Roger said.  "Navigating the currents at
the entrance to Trincomali can be tricky."  And you can't trust Spencer to do
it right.  She would not react to the unspoken criticism.  If she took
offense at every slight, real or imagined, on Spencer's behalf--and on her
father's--she'd spend the next two days in a state of anxiety.  She'd looked
forward to this trip too long to ruin it.  She went to the bow of the boat
where the directional hydrophone was set up while Roger went back to the
flying bridge to relieve Spencer.  A few minutes later Spencer appeared
beside her, a well-worn chart in his hand.  "See that rocky point?"  he said,
directing her gaze to the coast of Galiano Island.  "That's where we'll be
diving tomorrow."  Meg took off the headphones to squint along Spencer's arm.
His other hand rested gently on her lower back, his thigh brushed the back
of her leg.  She could feel the warmth of his body in contrast to the chill
where the wind blew.  "That's something else I haven't done for seven years."
"Diving?  Are you worried?  I can go down alone."

"Of course I'm not worried.   I can't wait.   Besides, you know it's not
safe to dive alone."   She slipped the headphones back over her ears.   "I'd
better keep listening."   Five hours later and there was still no sight or
sound of the whales.   Meg was tired and discouraged and beginning to think
the whole effort was a waste of time.   They'd circumnavigated Galiano Island
and were heading back up the channel.   The afternoon was turning to evening
and before long they'd have to head for port.   "It can take up to twenty
hours to locate a pod," Spencer said, resting a hand lightly on her slumped
shoulder.   "We were really lucky that day in the kayaks."   "Sure."   She
smiled wanly.   "There's always tomorrow."   "I'll go make some coffee,"

he said.  He was squeezing down the narrow bit of deck beside the cabin when
Meg heard the sound.  "Wait!"  she shouted.  A whale call, faint but clear,
sounded in her ears.  Weeeoaw.  It sent a chill down her spine.  Excitedly
she motioned to Spencer to come back, and pulled off the headphones to let
him listen.  "That's Kitasu's pod," he said after a minute.  "Are you sure?"
"I've listened to hundreds of hours of tapes of these whales.  I'm sure."  He
handed the headphones back to Meg and loosened the lashings on the pole
supporting the directional hydrophone.  Slowly he moved the parabolic disk in
a circle, scanning the horizon, his eyes watching for Meg's reaction.
"Stop!"  she exclaimed, pointing to a spot in the distance to the right of
the boat.

"The calls are coming from over there."

 "Roger," Spencer shouted up to the bridge.

"Killer whales off the port bow.  Change heading to nor-northeast."

Roger scowled.  Clearly he disliked being directed by Spencer.  But a second
later the boat began to change course and pick up speed.  They soon caught up
with the pod, a breathtaking row of tall black fins rising from the waves.
Now their calls and whistles could be heard without the aid of the
directional hydrophone.  Roger motored alongside the pod and slowed to match
their pace, staying a discreet distance away.  Meg lowered the hydrophone
into the water from the port side.

Then she went to the bow and trained her binoculars on the black-and-white
shapes.  The whales had spread out across half the channel and were moving
north at about eight knots.  "Spencer, look,"

she called.  "Isn't that Takush and her calf near the back?"  She'd studied
Spencer's and Doc's photos until she could pick out the individual whales.
Spencer looked through his own binoculars.  "You're right.  They're lagging
behind.  Maybe the calf can't keep up."

"Poor thing--but that's great for us.   Turn the dish toward them so we can
pick up their calls."   "Aye, aye, Cap'n."   They stayed with the whales for
well over an hour.   Meg's fatigue vanished.   She wrote down her
observations and took dozens of photos, thrilled to be getting useful data
for her thesis.   "Did you see?"   she said to Spencer as she changed the
tape in the recorder.   "I got that whole exchange between Takush and her
calf.   It was just like they were talking."

"How could I miss it?"  Spencer asked, grinning.  "You homed in on them like
a reporter at a political rally."

"I did not!"   She jabbed him good-naturedly with her elbow.   Spencer
responded by pulling her close, a gleam in his eyes.   "I'm not going to get
heavy, I promise.

Just a kiss.  " Meg's gaze darted to the flying bridge--her father was gazing
dead ahead--then dropped to Spencer's mouth.  The stub bled jaw, his sensual
lips were coming closer-- " Hey, you two," Roger shouted from above.  "
What's going on?  " Meg jerked back guiltily.  Then realized he was talking
about the killer whales.  They were moving quickly away from the area, and
their long whistles and pulsed calls had given way to a series of rapid
clicks.  " Looks like they're chasing something, possibly a school of
salmon," Spencer said.  " I'll tell Dad.  " Meg ran up the gangway to the
flying bridge.  " We think they're after salmon," she said to Roger, shading
her eyes from the salt spray as she gazed ahead.  The killer whales' dark
torpedo-like shapes could be seen speeding through the water below the
surface.  Roger pushed on the throttle to increase their speed, then stepped
away from the wheel.

"Here, Meg, you steer for a minute."  Meg slid in beside him and took the
wheel.  Roger disappeared below.  A few minutes later she glanced sternward
and grinned.  He was rigging a fishing line off the back of the boat.

The killer whales' high-speed chase took the Helen of Troy out of the
channel and zigzagging northward across Georgia Strait.  As the lights of
West Vancouver were winking on to starboard, Meg and Spencer pulled in the
hydrophone gear and went up to the flying bridge.  "Look!"  Meg shouted,
pointing.  They were on a collision course with a B.  C.  ferry.

The huge white ship with the blue-and-red stripes on its hull bore down on
their port bow as it made for dock at Horseshoe Bay.  Roger pulled back on
the throttle and slowed to a rocking halt in the four-foot waves.  The ferry
slowed, too, to allow the killer whales to pass.

Passengers crowded the outer decks, pointing and shouting as the pod raced
past the bow.  Then slowly the ship gathered speed again and moved on.  Roger
cut across the ferry's wake, but he could only go so fast through the lines
of choppy waves.  Dead ahead through the falling dusk was the mist- shrouded
tip of the Sechelt Peninsula; to starboard lay Howe Sound; to port, Georgia
Strait stretched northward.  The whales could no longer be seen, even through
binoculars.  "Which way?"

Meg wondered aloud.  "We've lost them," Roger declared.  "Damn,"

Spencer said.  Roger handed the wheel to Meg again and went below to check
his fishing line.  Spencer put an arm around Meg in a quick hug.

"Don't worry.  We'll find them again tomorrow."  She shrugged and gave him a
half smile.  They both knew that by morning the killer whales could be many
miles away, out of range of their tracking device.  It could take all day to
locate the pod again.  If they ever did.  "Hoo-wee, boy!  Look at this baby!"
Roger's shout rose above the keening wind as he pulled a huge silver fish,
flopping and twisting, over the transom.  "what would be really interesting
to know," Spencer mused over his third piece of grilled salmon, "is who the
father of Takush's calf is and what pod he belongs to.  No one knows exactly
where and when killer whales get together to mate, only that when it's over,
the males return to their maternal groups rather than staying with the
female."  Roger directed a dark glance across the table to Spencer.  "Seems a
funny system, all right, when the father doesn't take responsibility for his
offspring."  They were docked at the government wharf in Horseshoe Bay,
sheltered from the worst of the weather.  Even so, waves rocked the boat, and
the rubber fenders protecting the hull from the pilings squealed in protest.
Meg glanced nervously from her father to Spencer, recalling that Roger hadn't
actually promised not to say anything about Davis.  As dinner progressed, his
hints had become broader and more hostile.  "Killer whales are highly
intelligent creatures, but it's not fair to impose human values on their
behavior," Spencer replied, seemingly oblivious to Roger's innuendo.  Or was
he oblivious?  Meg wondered.  Spencer had a talent for knowing exactly what
buttons to push.  Roger had been ordering him around ever since he'd come
aboard this morning, and she knew Spencer must be chafing under such a
blatant assumption of authority.  He'd restrained himself so far, but the
two men were pushing each other toward a showdown.  "Want some more salmon.
Daddy?"

she asked passing the plate across to him.  "It sure is good."  Roger leaned
back in his chair, holding his stomach.  "Couldn't eat another bite.  Though
I might find room for one of your cookies."  He turned to glare at Spencer.
"If killer whales are so smart, how come the males don't stay with the pod to
protect them?"

"Killer whales' only enemy is man," Spencer replied.   "What could a male do
to protect his pod from a shotgun?   Or a tranquilizer gun?"   "They could
try to do something," Roger maintained stubbornly, taking a cookie from the
plate Meg held out.   "Daddy, don't you think you're being a little
unreasonable?"   Spencer leaned forward.   "Yes, Roger.   Why does this
bother you so much?"   Meg thrust the cookies under Spencer's nose, smiled
sweetly at him and kicked him under the table.   "Ow," he protested, and gave
her a bewildered look.   To Roger he said,

"It's an interesting topic, certainly.  When I go to Norway my research will
focus on inter pod mating behavior."

 "You mean if you go, don't you?"

Meg cut in.  "You haven't actually been accepted yet, have you?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," Spencer said, avoiding her eyes.   "I got the
letter yesterday and didn't have a chance to tell you."   He took a sip of
his beer and began to talk enthusiastically.   "I'll be looking at some of
the questions I raised earlier like, how long do the males spend with their
mates?   Where do they go afterward?   Do they mate with the same female the
next year, or do they choose another, from another pod?"   Meg felt the
sinking feeling she'd known seven years ago when she'd called him in Seattle
and he'd talked so eagerly of Stanford.   She couldn't blame him for his
plans; it's what she'd want to do herself if she could.   But seeing his face
in the soft light of the wall lamp, she realized she'd been hoping against
hope he would decide to stay, whether or not he was accepted in Norway.   As
Spencer wound down his discourse, Roger emitted a low growl.   His face was
flushed and veins stood out in his temples.

"It's perfectly obvious what the males do," he ground out.  "They get the
female knocked up, then bugger off to wherever, to do whatever takes their
fancy.  Never giving her, or the baby, another thought."

Spencer sat up straighter and pushed a hand through his untidy hair.

"I

think I see where you're coming from.  It's natural to feel anger at the jerk
who left your daughter to bring up they child alone.  If I knew who he was,
I'd give him a piece of my mind, as well.  But frankly, Roger, I don't think
it's fair to project your feelings about him onto the killer whales.  " Roger
rose with a strangled cry.  " I'm going to project you right into outer
space!  " " Daddy!  " Meg jumped to her feet and clutched his arm.  He shook
her off and took a step toward Spencer.  " You"-- " Daddy!  " Her cry was
half plea, half threat as she moved between the two men.  Roger shut his
mouth.  With a final hate-filled glance at Spencer, whose eyes were wide
with stunned disbelief, he strode across the cabin and disappeared into his
berth.  Dizzy with relief and sick with anxiety, Meg sank into her chair and
put her head in her hands.  She couldn't look at Spencer.  A moment later she
felt his hand on her shoulder.  " Meg," he said in a low voice, gently
tugging her hand away from her face, exposing her to his piercing gaze.

"Does your father know something I don't know?"  She had to tell him.

But she couldn't.  He was going away.  He hadn't stuck around on her account
the last time.  Why would he do so now?  Besides, she didn't want to use
Davis to hold him.  And she was so confused she wasn't sure what was best for
her son anymore.  "No, of course not," she said, dashing the moisture from
her eyes.  "He's just on edge."

"You'd tell me if there was something I should know, wouldn't you?"   he
persisted, still gripping her wrist.   Meg gazed at him in misery.   The
thought of being a father frightened him so badly he couldn't even speak the
words.

"Honestly," she lied in a hoarse whisper.  "There's nothing you need to know."

CHAPTER EIGHT

red sky AT night, sailor's delight.  Red in morning, sailor take warning.
Protected against the wind by his wet suit, Spencer studied the thick dark
clouds obscuring the sky.  A sky that this morning had dawned blood-red.  A
storm was brewing and it wasn't far off.  All morning they'd searched for the
pod without success.  Now, with time running out, they'd returned to
Trincomali Channel to replace the faulty hydrophone before making the trip
back to Victoria.  It was too deep to anchor, so Roger was forced to motor
slowly in tight circles while Spencer and Meg donned wet suits and prepared
to dive.

"You can't go down there.  It's too rough," Roger yelled, his words spun into
ragged wisps and blown overboard by the wind.  Salt spray beaded his face.
Spencer ignored him and helped Meg ready the scuba tanks.  Conditions were
marginal, he had to admit.  The swell tossed the boat as if it were a child's
toy, and the wind, which had backed around to the north, ripped at the
red-and-white dive flag on the stem of the boat.  He'd dived in worse and so
had Meg, but for her that was seven years ago.  And this morning she looked
in no condition to dive.

The dark circles beneath her eyes spoke of a sleepless night.  As she
struggled on with her wet suit, she met his gaze, then quickly turned away.
Something gnawed at her, something very upsetting.  Was it about Norway?
Or was it.  He let the thought fly away on the gusting wind.  Vague guilt
pressed on him.

Clasping Meg's shoulder to get her attention, he said,

"I'll go down by myself."  She flashed him a grim glance and added a five-
pound chunk of lead to her weight belt.  "Like hell you will."

"It's my responsibility, not yours."   "Never dive alone.   You drilled that
into me."   "How much weight have you got there?"   "Enough, I hope.   I have
a hard time staying down at shallow depths, especially with the surge tossing
me around.   If I have to work to maintain depth, I'll use up a lot more
air."   He frowned as she added another two-pound weight.

"Don't overdo it.  You get too deep, and the weight of the water and all that
lead will pull you straight to the bottom."

"Yes, Dr. Valiella.   That's why I wear a buoyancy compensator."   She
twisted the weight-belt strap on itself to secure it before threading it
through the slot on the last weight.   Then with a grunt, she hoisted thirty
pounds of lead around her waist.

"Meg..."  He gripped her arms, willing her to look at him, though he hardly
knew what he wanted to say, only that it wasn't about the dive.  As she
raised her eyes to his.  Spencer felt Roger's hand reach from behind and
tighten around his shoulder.

Roger's face was a black scowling mask.  "You can break your fool neck for
all I care, Valiella.  But if anything happens to Meg, so help me, I'll" --
"For God's sake," Meg said, glaring at her father as she twisted out of
Spencer's grip.  "There's enough testosterone here to fill a Spanish bull
ring.  Back off, both of you."

She perched on the edge of the cockpit to shrug the straps of her scuba tank
over her shoulders.  Then she rose to her feet, staggering on the listing
deck to cinch the straps tight and clasp the waistband.

Spencer hoisted his own scuba tank over his shoulders.  The sooner they got
this over with, the sooner he could get back to Victoria and off this boat.
Meg was already sitting on the edge of the boat, hand holding her mask and
regulator in place, ready to enter the water.

Suddenly she took the reg out of her mouth and pointed across the cockpit.
"Look!  Killer whales!"  Spencer turned.  About half a mile distant a great
black shape leaped from the white-tipped waves and fell back down with an
almighty splash.  It could be Kitasu's pod, but he wasn't sure; only three
dorsal fins were visible.  From this distance it wouldn't be surprising if
they didn't see the calf.  But where was the fourth adult whale?  He glanced
at Meg and motioned her to lift her hood away from her ear so she could hear.
"If we don't do the dive, we could probably get more recordings," he shouted
over the wind.  "But if we do the dive, we'll almost certainly lose the
opportunity."

"But Doc's hydrophone..."   "It's important, but so is your thesis.   Your
research is the main purpose of this trip.   It's your call."   She looked so
weary at the thought of having to make a decision he almost wished he hadn't
felt obliged to give her the option.   "Let's dive," she said at last.
"We're pretty far away from the whales.   Maybe they won't leave, or if they
do, we might be able to find them again."   "Okay.   When we get down, stick
close.   Visibility will be poor, and the hydrophone is located on an
underwater cliff face."   He reached for the net bag containing the
replacement hydrophone assembly and clipped it to his belt, then attached the
hose connecting the air tank to his buoyancy compensator and checked that it
was working.   Depth control on this dive was going to be tricky for him, as
well.   Feeling vaguely uneasy, he swung on his weight belt and sat to ease
his fins over his diving boots.   Roger watched and his angry frown seemed an
extension of the brewing storm.   Spencer could understand his concern for
Meg; he was worried about her, too, though he had more faith in Meg's ability
than her father apparently did.

Spencer pulled on his hood and mask and took his place beside Meg.

Just before he inserted the regulator into his mouth, he shouted to Roger,

"I'll watch out for her."  Roger didn't appear to be reassured, if the purple
hue his face was turning was anything to go by.  "Why should I trust you with
my daughter?  You don't even take care of your own son!"  Spencer watched
Roger's lips move and wondered what he was shouting now.  But with a quarter
inch of neoprene over his ears and the wind whistling around his head, he
couldn't hear a thing.  With a careless shrug, he waved farewell.  Then he
nodded at Meg and over they went, somersaulting backward into the trough of
a wave.  The swell rolled them around in a circle as the wave passed through
the water column.  Cold seeped down the neck of Spencer's wet suit.  Bubbles
swarmed around his head.  His breath, given a mechanical sound by the
regulator, rasped in his ears.  He twisted in the water to face Meg.  Holding
her gaze, he made the

"Okay?"  signal with thumb and forefinger.  She nodded and returned the
signal.  Spencer took her hand and kicked hard, pulling them down, down below
the clutches of the surge.  At thirty feet they leveled out and battled
through the turbulent water toward the shore.  Spencer glanced at his compass
every few seconds.  The eerie calls of the distant killer whales seemed to
surround them, disorienting him.  Visibility was limited to fifteen feet, and
below them the dark water stretched fathoms deep.  At his side, Meg was
working hard to stay level.  Too much weight, he thought as she injected
another burst of air into her buoyancy compensator.  His sense of unease
intensified.  Suddenly the rock face and the hydrophone station loomed out of
the murk.  His relief at finding it quickly was overshadowed by a sudden
burst of intense staccato clicking.  The killer whales were hunting.  Spencer
took off his wet suit mits and stuffed them into his net bag.  Working as
quickly as he could, he detached the broken hydrophone from the cable that
led to the relay station on shore.  His breath rasped louder.  The clicks
increased in volume, coming closer.  The water roiled around him, pushing him
this way and that.  He lost his grip on the wrench and it slipped out of his
hand.  He lunged downward and snagged it before it dropped into oblivion.
Meg clung to the rocks, her weights dragging at her.  Behind her mask her
face was white, her brows pinched into a frown.  Spencer worked feverishly,
his only thought.  Get Meg back to the boat.  At last he freed the damaged
hydrophone and handed it to her to hold while he installed the new one.
Above the whales' clicks he could hear the putt-putt of the motor.  He hoped
Roger would follow their bubbles and be close by when they came up.  There,
he was finished.  He put his tools back in the net bag and held out his hand
to Meg for the damaged hydrophone.  Without warning a wave surged over them,
smashing him against the rocks and tossing Meg aside like a leaf.

Spencer saw the hydrophone drop from her hand and tumble down the vertical
rock face.  Silver shapes flashed by.  Salmon.  He sensed the momentous rush
of water even before he saw the huge black-and-white shape approaching at
great speed.  In the split second before the surrounding water erupted in a
froth of bubbles and he was knocked sideways, he saw Meg kick away from the
path of the oncoming killer whale.  She seemed to be swimming through
molasses.  Too late.  Too slow.  Too deep.  Joker's nipper caught her head
and shoulder as he streaked past after the salmon.  The blow knocked her mask
off and the regulator out of her mouth and sent her tumbling backward,
downward, through the water.  Spencer gave a strangled cry around his
regulator and dove, his fins flaying the water in his effort to get to Meg.
She was obviously disoriented, blindly reaching for her mask, she retrieved
it and put it on, instead of grasping her regulator and restoring her air
supply.  Bubbles rose from the sides of her mouth.

She was already fifty feet down.  And sinking.  Meg.  Meg.  Ditch the weight
belt!  Instead, her legs lashed the water as she tried to halt her descent.
It was futile without an injection of air into her buoyancy compensator.  She
seemed to have forgotten about that, too.

Spencer kicked harder, his lungs straining, heart pounding.  He focused his
entire being on reaching her because any other thought was untenable.  She
remembered her regulator at last and tried to grasp hold of the thin black
tube that floated above her scuba tank.  And all the time she was still
sinking.  Her face tilted up.  Behind her mask a wide band of white
surrounded the blue of her desperate eyes.  She was suffocating.  Falling and
suffocating.  With every ounce of power he possessed, he churned his legs,
surging down.  His fingertips stretched, strained, and finally grasped the
mouthpiece of her regulator.  He hauled on it, yanking Meg to him.  His arm
circled her waist below the tank and he started to fall with her.  The skin
around her eyes was white and tight.  Her nostrils were pinched.  Her mouth
opened.  No bubbles escaped.  She was out of air.  He pushed the regulator
into her mouth.  She sucked like a starving baby taking the teat.  His eyes
closed.  Safe.  Meg was safe.  His eyes snapped open.

Not safe.  They were still falling, their combined weight and the weight of
the water pulling them down.  He reached for his depth gauge.  Eighty feet,
eighty-five.  And no bottom in sight.  Meg was pulling on her reg as if
breathing was soon to be outlawed.  Spencer flicked the clasp of her weight
belt and it dropped away.  With a dizzying sense of relief he felt their
descent slow.  He pressed the valve that controlled the intake into his own
buoyancy compensator and heard a hissing as air inflated the bladder.  They
hung in the water, going neither up nor down.  He released his grip on Meg to
inflate her buoyancy compensator.  Her panicked eyes darted to his and she
grabbed his arm with the hand that wasn't clutching the reg to her mouth.
Air filled her buoyancy vest.  Slowly they began to rise.  Meg was rigid
inside his encircling arm, sucking in deep breaths and holding them as long
as she could.  If she didn't breathe out, she was going to burst her lungs.
Spencer tapped her stomach with his knuckles.  She stared at him, clearly
still too spooked to release oxygen without a fight.

He tapped again.  No response.  She was holding her breath.  Damn.

He'd almost lost her once, he wasn't taking any chances.  He punched her hard
in the gut.  It knocked the wind out of her.  And the regulator.  Quickly he
grabbed the mouthpiece and gave it back to her.

She glared at him but breathed out in a cloud of bubbles that told him she'd
realized her error.  He smiled around his regulator.  He would have taken it
out and kissed her if he hadn't been quite certain she'd sock him in the jaw
if he tried to take away her air supply again.

They broke through the surface.  A hard rain was falling, bouncing off the
water, pelting their heads and shoulders.  Spencer pushed his mask onto his
forehead and pulled her into a fierce hug.  "Don't scare me like that."  Her
face was almost as gray as the water, but she summoned up a shaky grin.  "Do
we have adventures or what?"  Spencer just looked at her and shook his head.
Then lifted a hand to signal Roger to come and pick them up.  meg clambered
up the ladder attached to the stern, ahead of Spencer.  Roger was waiting, the
boat bobbing in neutral.  "What happened down there?"  he asked her
anxiously.  "Did you see that killer whale go by?"  Spencer hung back so Meg
could tell the story her way.  No doubt this would be the last time he'd be
allowed on Roger's boat regardless of how the situation had unfolded.

Surprisingly, Roger hadn't seemed to notice Meg's missing weight belt.

"My mask got knocked off when Joker went by," she said, blandly understating
the truth.  "He was chasing salmon."  Roger's searching gaze darted from Meg
to Spencer and back again.  "So there were no problems?"  Spencer waited.
Meg glanced at him.  She seemed to reach a silent decision and made a pact
with him with her eyes.  It's over, she seemed to say.  We won't rehash a
disaster that didn't happen.  "No,"

she said, turning back to her father.  "No problems."  Spencer shed his scuba
tank, then his weight belt, feeling lighter with every pound dumped.  He
felt irrationally, irrelevantly, victorious.  Meg had aligned herself with
him, not her father.  But later, when Meg was dressed warmly in a
fisherman-knit sweater and wool pants, she huddled alone in a corner of the
set tee in the main cabin, sipping a mug of steaming coffee and evading all
Spencer's attempts at conversation.  Outside the wind whistled relentlessly
and the rain beat against the wide, sliding-glass doors.

Frustrated, Spencer dropped his empty mug in the sink, reached for a raincoat
and went out onto the deck.  Gripping the bow rail, he stared into the
driving rain, heedless of the water sheeting off his face.  The currents that
flowed between him and Meg were deep and strong, sometimes invisible from the
surface.  But currents could be treacherous to the unwary traveler; they
could take a person off course.  I'm here for a good time, not a long time.
Weren't those some of the first words he'd spoken to Meg?  Right from the
beginning he'd recognized a kindred spirit in her and it had scared him.
He'd realized that the feelings they shared would bind him despite the
differences in their backgrounds, ythey were allowed to grow.  If, if, if.
If only they hadn't gone to Saltspring.  After wanting her all year and
holding himself back, he'd walked into that weekend knowing he'd make love to
her if she let him.  It had been crazy to succumb, days within leaving.  But
he'd been crazy about her.  She was soft and warm and giving.  Bright and
smiling and loving.  He hadn't been able to resist any longer.  Those days
were long ago.  She'd changed.  He'd changed.  What he was imagining now
couldn't be true.  She would have told him.  Surely she would have told him.

Spencer's head lifted as the boat slowed to approach the marina.  On the hill
above sat the Tudor- style Oak Bay Hotel, warm yellow lights glowing in the
windows of the Snug.  Spencer jumped onto the wharf as Roger threw the boat
into reverse and brought the stern in close.  Meg tossed him the lines and he
tied them securely to the bollards.  Roger cut the engine and leaped off the
boat, stalking past him in hostile silence.  Oh, well, he was getting used to
it.  The irony was, he respected Roger's knowledge of boating and might have
liked him under other circumstances.  Meg climbed down from the boat as
Spencer wound off the last line and straightened.  He thought at first she
was going to walk straight past him, as well.  But she stopped, her eyes
bright and lips tremulous.  She put her arms around his neck, laid her head
on his chest and heaved a deep sigh.  His arms went around her, pulling her
close.  Oh, Meg.  "It's okay.  We're both okay," he murmured into her hair.
What if it was true?  All these years.  Meg was still warm and soft and
giving.  But needful, too.  It's okay to need, he wanted to say, but
couldn't.  Because it wasn't okay for her to need him.  A strand of her hair
fell like a whisper across the back of his hand.

She was stirring, lifting her head, when he heard voices in the distance.
Her eyes were so blue.  "Meg?"

 ease away from him.  "I want to thank you.  You saved my" -- "Don't say
it," he broke in, tightening his embrace.  "You can't know that."

With her de fences stripped away he could see she was keeping something from
him.  He had a sick-to the-stomach feeling he knew what it was.  He didn't
believe she'd lie if he asked her outright.  So why don't I?

"Spencer, there's something I should" -- She broke off, anguish twisting her
face.  "What, Meg?  What is it?"  The wire gate at the top of the wharf
clanged against the fence, startling them.  Roger had found a wheelbarrow and
was bumping down the ramp over the strips of wood nailed across as
rudimentary steps.  Meg jerked away as if she were guilty of something.
Spencer let her go.  "You can start bringing out your things, Meg," Roger
said, depositing the wheelbarrow beside the boat.  "Go on," he added when she
hesitated, his stern gaze never leaving Spencer's face.  "Go on, Meg," Spencer
repeated softly.  So this was it.  The showdown between the father and the
undesirable.  If it wasn't so hurtful to Meg, it would be laughable.  If he
wasn't halfway to agreeing with Roger that he was wrong for her, he'd stay
and fight for the woman he loved.  When Meg had disappeared inside the boat,
Roger took a step closer to Spencer.  His gray eyes looked cold and the skin
around them was strained.  "I'm going to tell you this just once, Valiella.
Stay away from my daughter."  Spencer thrust his hands into his pockets and
tilted  his head in an expression of bored insolence calculated to drive
Roger into a frenzy of irritation.  "Pretty hard to do, sir, when I'm
supervising her honors project."

"You know what I mean.   No contact outside university unless absolutely
necessary."   "Meg is an adult.   I wouldn't presume to tell her what she can
and can't do.   Or whom she can and can't see."   He straightened, tired of
the phony man- to-boy skit.   "Look, Roger, I know you don't like me.   But
believe it or not, we have one thing in common-- we both care about Meg."
"How dare you claim to care about Meg, you piece ofsh" -- "Daddy!"   Spencer
turned to see Meg standing on the boat deck, her arms full, her expression
one of hurt and surprise.   She dropped the duffel bag and sleeping bag in
the wheelbarrow and jumped to the wharf.   Stepping between Roger and
Spencer, she spoke to her father in a lowered voice.   "You're being
ridiculous and you know it.   You're going to be very embarrassed later."
"Don't bet on it.   But if making a fool of myself is all it takes to keep
that creep out of your life, I'll turn cartwheels on the steps of the
parliament buildings."   "Stop it."   She turned to Spencer and it hurt him
to see her eyes awash with tears.   How many times and in how many different
circumstances had he been the cause of her tears?

"Never mind, Meg.  I'll just get my things and go."

"But... I was going to help you take the hydrophones and the rest of the
equipment back to the university."

 "Don't worry about it.  Stay and help your father."  -' Spencer started
toward the boat.  His gear was packed.  Just a matter of picking it up and
he'd be out of here so fast-- "Yes, Meg, you come back to the house with me,"
Roger said, his voice thick with satisfaction.  "Your mother will be worn
out, and Davis will be anxious to see you."  Spencer halted in mid stride.
Davis?  He turned back to Meg and stared at her.

"Davis?"  he repeated.  "Who is Davis?"  She swallowed hard, her fingers busy
twisting her braid into knots.  "Davis is the name of my son."  Her voice
fell to a whisper.  "Our son."  Since last night he'd been half expecting it.
But hearing the actual words hit him like a fist to the solar plexus.  He
didn't think he was breathing, and only force of will kept him from doubling
over with shock.  Him, a.  father?

He couldn't deal with the notion of having a child, couldn't comprehend.  He
needed time to think.  No, he needed to talk to Meg.

Oh, God, Meg.  Her beautiful eyes met his.  Her sweet smile quivered in a bid
for control.  She was gazing at him expectantly, hopefully, trustfully.  What
did he have to offer her?  Nothing.  He couldn't be a father.  He was only
just discovering what it was to be a son.  He glanced from Meg to Roger, who
stood behind her like the Wrath of God.

No wonder Roger hated him, running out on his pregnant daughter.  / didn't
know!  he wanted to shout.  But that didn't alter the fact that, child or no
child, he had run out on Meg.

They'd been friends, they'd made love, then he'd dropped her cold.  He and
Meg needed to talk--but not with Roger around.  Spencer stepped past Meg and
picked his duffel bag off the deck.  Her pleading look intensified the pain
in his heart.  "Spencer..."  Her voice, liquid with tears, cracked.  He
loaded everything that was his into the barrow, knowing that when he unloaded
it, he was going to get into his car and get the hell out of there as fast as
he could.  He paused in front of Meg.  "I'll call you," he said, his voice
rough.  He tried to convey love and regret with his eyes, but hers were
blurry with unshed tears.  He'd failed.  Again.  "he just cut and ran," Roger
said for the third time with grim satisfaction.  "Just what you'd expect of
that son of a bitch."

 "All right, dear."   Helen pressed her fingers to her temples.

"Meg, can you please ask Davis to stop making that noise?

He's been doing it all weekend.  " " Sorry, Mother.  " Meg bent to take the
toy fire engine out of Davis's hand, cutting his siren sound off mid wail.  "
Go get your bag from the spare bedroom, honey.  We have to go now.  " Davis's
dark green eyes were alert and curious.  " Who's Grandpa talking about?
What's a son of a bi"-- " Nobody and nothing.

Please go.  " She'd exhausted her emotional energy defending Spencer to her
father on the drive back from the marina, although she didn't know why she
bothered.  Spencer had confirmed her worst fears he didn't want to know his
son.  " Wait a minute, Davis,"

she said as the boy was about to run off.  "Let me give you a big hug.  I
missed you."  She pressed his small body close.  They didn't need Spencer.
They didn't.  She had enough love to give her son and more.

"Dad," she said when Davis had left the room, 'you simply must watch what you
say around Davis.  It's bad enough you let the cat out of the bag today with
Spencer.  I was going to tell him, but now he probably thinks I planned to
withhold the information forever.  " " I don't care what he thinks.  " Roger
circled her shoulders with one arm.

"I'm just worried he's going to hurt you again."

"Look, you're not even being consistent.   You say you want Spencer to know
about Davis, and then you warn him to stay away from me.   He's not the evil
person you think he is.   And I'm not going to get hurt because I don't
expect anything from him.   I never did."   This was technically true; she'd
hoped for love and warmth for her and Davis, but she'd never expected it.
"What's the worst-case scenario?"   she went on.   "He leaves at Christmas as
he said he would from the beginning.   As long as Davis doesn't find out who
he is, nobody will be worse off than before."

Roger threw up his hands.

"I suppose you think you know what you're doing.  But don't come running to
me when you're down and brokenhearted again."

"Oh, Roger, of course she can come to us," Helen surprised Meg by saying.
"She's our daughter.   Davis is our grandson.   We're not going to turn our
backs on them."   Well, that was news to Meg.   Helen had turned her back on
her and Davis for the past seven years.   "Thank you.   Mother," she said
cautiously.   "I hope Davis wasn't too much trouble.   Next time I'll arrange
my field trip so Patrick can look after him."   "You most certainly will not!"

Meg took a deep breath.  "I know you mean well," she said through her teeth,
"but Patrick is perfectly trustworthy."

"That's not what I meant, darling."   Helen's voice softened.   "It's just
that ... I wouldn't mind looking after Davis again.   If you want me to, that
is."   Meg stared.   "Are you serious?"   Helen laughed self-consciously.
"He is a handful.   I had to tell him twenty times to brush his teeth.   And
he's constantly wriggling and jiggling, tapping and banging.   Then there was
the hole he... Well, never mind about that.   He surprised me.   I never knew
he was such an affectionate little thing."   Her expression turned quizzical,
as though she still couldn't understand Davis's appeal.   "He comes up with
the most extraordinary ideas.   He's really quite an intelligent child..."
What had Meg been telling her for the last six years?   "in spite of his
handicap," Helen continued dampeningly.   "I guess he got that from Spencer."
"Yes, didn't you say Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder usually comes
from the male side?"   Roger said.

"Probably explains why Valiella can't settle down.  He's hyperactive."

Meg had to laugh.  "Davis could have got it from my side of the family," she
said.  "Nonsense!"  It was unlikely, she had to admit.

Then she had an awful thought.  If Spencer found it hard to cope with the
idea of being a father, how much worse would it be for him knowing his son
had a learning disability?  Not that Meg saw it as such.  True, Davis found
it harder than other kids his age to learn to read, but she was working with
him on that.  And there was no doubt his intelligence was above average.  He
just couldn't always express himself clearly.

Kind of like his father.  on the other side of the dining room door, Davis
clutched the backpack containing his pajamas and change of clothes.  He was
glad Grandma hadn't told Mom about the great big hole he'd dug in the garden.
She wasn't so bad when she wasn't telling him what to do.  She smelled
really nice and her clothes felt soft and smooth.  They were talking about
that Spencer again.  He had to be his father.  The thought made his insides
feel funny, like the time Patrick had taken him on the front seat of the
roller coaster in Vancouver.

Excited but scared, too, and a little sick.  Grandpa and Grandmother didn't
sound as though they liked Spencer very much.  And they talked like they
thought his dad, if it was his dad, wouldn't like him very much, either.
Tears burned the backs of Davis's eyes.  They were wrong.  His dad would so
love him.  Mom said he would.

CHAPTER NINE

spencer left the marina and hit the highway, his mind in neutral and his car
in overdrive.  She'd lied to him.  She'd lied by omission and she'd lied
outright.  He'd thought Meg the most honest, most caring person he'd ever
known.  He'd imagined himself falling in love with her again.  How could he
love a woman who lied about something so important?  How could he trust her?
He would leave tomorrow.  Go directly to Bergen.  Do not pass Meg's house.
Do not collect hugs from son.  Son.  He had a son.  He had a son and she
hadn't told him.  His thoughts went around in circles, blurred but not
obliterated by the music blasting from the CD player.  He was halfway to
Nanaimo before he decided running was not an option.  It was too late for
that.  He had a responsibility to Meg and their son.  Their son.  And Ray.
Not to mention the commitment he'd made to Doc and the university.  But what
of the future?  Could he really go to Norway and leave his son behind?

Spencer rubbed his eyes.  He couldn't think about that now.  Slowing, he made
a U-turn across the deserted highway and retraced his journey south to
Victoria, west to the cottage.  The lights were still on when he climbed the
steps, even though it was nearly eleven at night.  Wearily he pushed open
the door and walked into a pigsty.  Empty beer cans crowded the coffee table.
Newspapers were strewn over the floor.  Spencer kicked the front page of the
newspaper out of his way in disgust.  This wasn't like Ray.  Years of living
on the road in the limited confines of a bus had given him a sailor's
appreciation for tidiness.  But Ray had ceased acting like Ray for weeks now.
His father lolled on the couch in his bathrobe, a can of beer at his elbow.
Out of bourbon, on to Spencer's beer.  Ray's uncombed hair hung lankly around
his shoulders as he dealt himself a hand of cards.  "Hey, Spence, how you
doin'?"  Spencer couldn't find the words to express how he was doing.  Ray
glanced up, bleary-eyed.  "Wassa matta?  Don' I even get a hello anymore?"

"Hello."  If he said more, if he let his feelings show, he just might
explode.  He walked past Ray into the kitchen.  He sat at the table and laid
his throbbing head in his hands.  Ray shuffled into the room to toss his
empty can into the overflowing garbage pail.  "He shoots, he scores!  Aw,
shit."  The can bounced out and rolled across the floor spilling drops of
beer onto the linoleum.  "Sorry."  He bent to pick it up and had to support
himself on the edge of the counter.  "Sorry, Spence.  I was gonna clean up
'fore you got home.  Wha're you doin' back so early?"

"It's after eleven."   Spencer got up from the table, angrily crashing the
crusted plates together and piling dirty cutlery on top.

"Look at this mess.  What's happening to you.  Dad?  You're turning into a
bum!"

"I'm already a bum," Ray said dolefully, and sank into a chair.  "I wouldn't
blame you if you threw me out on my ass."  He was tempted.

Lord, he was tempted.  "It's your house."  Under his breath he muttered,

"Jerk."

"Huh?   Din' catch that last bit."   Spencer looked into his father's
red-rimmed eyes and was ashamed.   "Nothing.   It's just... you've got to
pick yourself up, Dad.   How are you going to get a band together when you
sit around all day drinking and playing cards?"   "I got irons in the fire,
don't you worry.   First thing tomorra' mornin' I'm callin' my old friend
Johnny-- he's the big kahuna over at Mega records in L.A.   He'll get
something' lined up for me, you'll see."   If Ray had said this a month ago
Spencer would have believed him without question.   Now he just nodded
wearily.   "Sure, Ray."   "You don't believe me!   My own son don't believe
me."   Ray stalked back and forth in the tiny kitchen, working himself into a
state of righteous indignation.

"Think your old man don't have what it takes anymore, eh?  Well, we'll just
see about that."  He reached for the phone on the wall and began to jab in
numbers.  "I'm callin' Johnny right now" -- "Ray.  Ray.  Dad."  Spencer rose
and took the phone from his father's hand.  "It's late on a Sunday night.  He
won't be at his office."

"Then I'll call him at home.   Jus' lemme find my address book."   Ray
pulled away and stumbled, knocking himself against the counter.   Spencer
pulled his father into his arms, supporting him, embracing him.   Words
tumbled out.   "Don't, Dad.   It's okay.   You don't need to prove you're a
bigshot musician to me.   I'm your son.   Your son."   His throat choked up
and a sob, a release of repressed emotion, shook his shoulders.   Ray
staggered backward, still clutching Spencer's arms.

"What is it, Spence?  What's the matter?"

"I have a son."   Tears were rolling out of his eyes and he had no idea how
to stop them.   "I have a six- year-old son.   And she didn't even tell me."
"Who?   Who didn't tell you?"   Ray straightened.   He pushed his hair out
of his eyes and peered into Spencer's.   He didn't seem quite so drunk
anymore.   "Meg.

Just after I graduated, before I left Victoria, we spent the weekend
together.  She got pregnant.  " " Son of a"-- Ray spun away.  " Didn't I tell
you to use condoms?  From the time you were fifteen, didn't I tell you to
always use condoms?  " " Yes.  And I did.  " Spencer went to the sink.  He
ran the water till it was cold, then splashed some on his face.  Splashed
some more into a glass and drank it.  " Seems they're not foolproof.  " Ray
threw his hands up.  " So what are you going to do?  " Spencer slumped
against the counter.  " I don't know.  She obviously doesn't want me to see
him.  " " You've got to.  You're the father.  " Ray retied his sagging
bathrobe and used both hands to smooth back his hair.  " Hell, that makes me
a grandfather.  " " I'm leaving in a few months," Spencer said gloomily.  "
What use would I be to that kid?  "

Ray scowled.  "You gonna leave Meg in the lurch?"

"She managed just fine without me for seven years."   Spencer wallowed in
the memory of his loneliness without her.   Self-imposed loneliness maybe,
but painful nonetheless.   "How do you know she was fine?"   Ray demanded.
"Did she say so?"   "She didn't say anything.   We never talked then and we
haven't had a chance to talk about it now.   No, that's not true," he said
angrily.   "She's had plenty of opportunity to tell me in the last few weeks
and she chose not to.   The only reason I found out is because Roger made a
slip of the tongue."   He pushed away from the counter.   "Why didn't she
tell me when it happened?"   Suddenly he remembered her phone call to the
group house he'd lived in in Seattle.

"Hang on, she called the first year I was away.  Let's see, it must have been
late November because all the stores were gearing up for Thanksgiving.  She'd
have been" -- he was silent, counting backward "--seven or eight months
along.  She let me rattle on and on about my acceptance at Stanford.  Why
didn't she tell me she was pregnant?"

Ray's glance was pointed.  "I think you just answered your own question."
Spencer stared at him.  Did Meg really think he was so selfish he'd put his
university education above their baby?  Was he that selfish?  If she'd said,

"I'm pregnant," would he have dropped everything and come back?  He honestly
didn't know.  Ray moved unsteadily to the sink.  He halfheartedly shifted a
stack of dirty dishes out of the basin, looked at them a moment, then, as if
deciding it was just too much to tackle, turned his back on the mess and went
to sit down.  "Are you gonna marry her?"

"Marry?"   It was an alien concept.   "That's how your mother and I got
together."

"You lost me.  What do you mean?"  "Lome joined the band as a singer.

We took to each other right away.  Weren't figurin' on a family but.  "

Ray shrugged.  "You know how it is."

"You mean you only got married because Mom was pregnant?"   Spencer was a
little stunned.   He'd never heard this before.   "Hey, we were in love," Ray
said a little too heartily.   "Okay, maybe we got married too soon.   The
moving around got to your mom in the end, especially when your sister came
along.   Lome put her foot down then, insisted I stop touring."   He rubbed
moodily at his calloused fingertips.   "That was when you bought this
cottage, wasn't it?"   "Yeah.   I tried to stick it, I really did.   I got a
job playing with a local band, weddings, dances, crap like that.   You don't
remember, eh?   Well, I guess you'd have only been about two.   The guys in
the Brass Monkey were plenty cheesed off."   "I'll bet.   What happened?"
"I lasted six months."   Ray got up and paced the room as though still
plagued by itchy feet.   "Then my agent called.   He'd got us a chance to
front for some really big bands.   Lome, she was crying, and I felt like a
shit, but I just walked out that door.   I still had hopes of being really
big myself back then.   And being' a solid citizen just wasn't my gig."   He
stopped pacing and rubbed his hand along his jaw.   "She stuck it out for a
few more years, but eventually she went back to California and took you and
Janis with her."   Spencer'd already known most of this, but it seemed to
take on new significance in light of his own situation.   Was he doomed to
fail his son the way Ray had failed him?

The thought shocked him.  He hadn't realized until this moment that he felt
his father had let him down.  The eighteen months he'd been left with
strangers was the worst, but Ray hadn't been around for a lot of his
childhood and all of his teen years--except that summer Spencer was thirteen
and he went on the road with Ray and the band.  Anger rose in him.  Anger for
this pathetic old man he'd hero-worshiped all his life Well, it looked as if
that was a lie, too.  He didn't know what was the truth anymore.  He wondered
if, in spite of his failed marriage, Ray was glad he'd fathered a son.  It
wasn't something you could ask a person.  It wasn't something he'd want
anyone to ask him.  He rubbed his temples in confusion.  What was he going to
do about Meg?  Until now, each step in his life had been obvious.  This
university, that research project.  Life had been simple because he'd never
allowed himself any deep emotional ties.  No commitment.  If a girl got too
close, he just left.  Or sent nonverbal messages that were so clear she'd
either get demoralized or pissed off and that would be the end of the
relationship.  He couldn't do that now.  Sure, he could leave, but he'd
always know what he left behind.  Suddenly he was angry at Meg, too.  Not
only for betraying him with her silence but for binding him with a child.
"I'm going to bed," he said, and started from the room.

"Sleep doesn't work for long," Ray called after him.  "Tomorrow morning
you'll be the same person with the same problems.  Take it from me--I know."

when spencer awoke the next day, he quickly found Ray was right.  The whole
damn mess hung over his head like a black cloud.  He didn't want to go into
work.  He didn't want to see Meg.  Didn't want to deal with this new element
in their relationship.  But he dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a pair
of jeans and threw a pullover over his white T-shirt.  He picked up a brush
off the dresser and ran it through his hair as he stood in front of the
mirror.  His hair immediately flopped back into its usual rumpled tangle.  In
the kitchen doorway he paused, blinking in surprise.  Ray was at the sink, a
navy apron tied around clean black denim pants and his damp hair held back in
a ponytail.  He was washing the dishes but not rinsing them, piling them,
foaming with soapsuds, haphazardly in the dish rack.  "Morning," Spencer
said.  "So you're up already."  Ray glanced over his shoulder.  "Been up for
hours, walking the beach, doin' some thinking.  How about we invite Meg and
the boy for dinner?  What did you say he's called?"

 "I didn't."

"Well?"

"Davis.   She called him Davis."   Ray's hands left the sink, dripping with
water and suds.   He hooted with laughter.   "Davis!   I can't believe it.
I told you it was a good name."   His father's laughter dragged a reluctant
smile from Spencer.   "It's not that funny."   "It's poetic justice."   Still
laughing.   Ray pulled the plug and dried his hands on a towel.   "So what do
you say?   I'd like to meet the boy."

Spencer reached into the fridge for the milk.  Supplies were dwindling
again.  "I don't know.  Dad.  I'm going to need time to figure out what this
means to me.  Don't count on meeting Da--my so--the boy right away."  By the
time he'd finished stumbling over his words, a sweat had broken out on his
forehead.  He poured himself a glass of milk and drank it down, backhanding
the droplets of white from his upper lip.  He couldn't be a father; he wasn't
grown up yet himself.  He opened his wallet and tossed a couple of twenties
on the counter.  "If you get a chance, could you pick up some groceries?
I've got to run."

"Sure thing.   Right after I give Johnny a call."   Spencer gave Ray a wry
half smile but restrained himself from being sarcastic.   He wasn't anyone to
tell other people how they should run their lives.   "Thanks, Dad."

when spencer arrived at the biology building, he could hear the high-pitched,
haunting calls of Kitasu's pod all the way down the corridor.  He entered the
lab to find Lee practicing Tai Chi kicks at the lab bench while the printer
ran off sheets of data.  "Hey, there.

Dr.  Spencer.  " Lee gave him a huge grin and effortlessly raised his leg at
right angles to his body.  " Hydrophone station on Galiano coming in loud and
clear.  " " So I hear.  " Spencer deposited the wooden box containing the
electronic gear he'd taken on the field trip on the floor outside his office.
" Is Meg in?  " Lee turned down the speaker.

"Not yet.  She has an eight-thirty class in the chemistry building."

"Right.  I'd forgotten."  Relief flooded through him and he realized how
much he'd dreaded seeing her.  Anger mixed with guilt was a nasty
combination, especially when you threw in resentment.

For she'd surely want to hash it all out, discover exactly how he felt about
having a son and exactly what he was going to do about it.  He hardly knew
what he felt, much less feel able to articulate it.  "How come you do Tai
Chi, Lee?  You're so speedy I would have thought karate or kick boxing would
have been more your style."

"Tai Chi is my father's idea.   He started me on it to slow me down," Lee
said as he brought his arm around in a graceful arc.   "I am almost ready to
start writing the journal article.   Maybe you have time to discuss it, yes?"

"Sure."  Spencer glanced at his watch.  "But don't you have hotel management
or something this morning?"  Lee brought his arm in abruptly and his
perpetual smile faded.  "Economics.  But I am not in that class anymore.  Did
so badly on the first exam I dropped the course."  Then his face lit up
again.  "Now I have more time to work on killer whale research."

"Are you sure that's wise?   Maybe you could get your prof to give you a
make-up exam."   "It's no problem.   I got lots of credits."   Lee grinned.

"If you say so.  I'm going to get some coffee.  Be back in a minute."  In the
staff room, Ashton-Whyte sidled up to him, stirring cream into his man-size
mug.  "Ah, Valiella.  A little birdy tells me your research assistant's major
isn't biology but business."

"You can't believe everything you hear in trees, Randolph," Spencer said,
pouring himself a coffee.   "Lee is only fifteen credits short of graduating
with a Bachelor of Science."

Ashton-Whyte narrowed his eyes.  "That may be, but I suggest you counsel him
to choose either business or biology."  Spencer shrugged, bewildered.
"What's it to you?"

"Just keeping tabs on my department, that's all.   How is Angus doing, by
the way?"   Spencer added cream to his cup.   "Just fine.   He's out of the
hospital and recovering at home with the help of some physiotherapy."
"Good, good.   Happy here, are you?"   "Yes," Spencer said cautiously.   "Why
do you ask?"   "No reason.

It just occurred to me that if Angus decides to retire, you would be well
qualified to take over his position.  " " Doc has no plans to retire.  "
Ashton-Whyte tilted his head to one side and smiled.  " He might not have a
choice, dear boy.  " " You can't get rid of Doc.  He's the best in his field.
He's got years of good research left.  He's"" He's had a stroke that left
him partially paralyzed.  Perhaps that fact has escaped you?  " " He's
recovering.  He'll be back in the lab in no time.  " " We'll see.  "
Ashton-Whyte's phony smile turned to a frown.

But it was a concerned frown, calculated to let Spencer know he wanted the
best for his faculty and that he felt keenly the onerous burden of
responsibility he bore as head of the department.  "I'm reviewing his years
of service.  He's had a very impressive career, although there seems to be a
slight discrepancy in the chronology of his curriculum vitae.  But that's not
your concern."  He glanced at his watch.  "Oops.  Must be off."  Spencer left
the coffee room only to see Rachel Walsh approaching at the head of a group
of students carrying buckets and dip nets.  Her lab coat hung open over a
short skirt and tight sweater.  An algologist and a babe.  He should be
panting for her.  "Spencer," she said as she sauntered past, her voice low
and husky.  Her eyes slid sideways to meet his and she smiled, a mixture of
bold and coy that left him cold.  He nodded an acknowledgment.  "Rachel."
She turned to her students.  "You people go ahead.  I'll meet you outside."
The students moved past to clatter down the stairs, their buckets banging
against the concrete wall.

Spencer had little choice but to fall into step beside Rachel.  "We still
haven't had that drink together," she murmured.  "It would be a farewell
drink, I'm afraid.  I'm leaving for Norway after Christmas."

He flashed her a smile with no humor or substance.  "I'm here for a good
time, not a long time."

"What a shame," she murmured, placing a hand on his arm as though she needed
help negotiating the bottom step.

"We'll just have to do our best to make sure it is a good time."  He should
have ditched that crummy line long ago.  He needed this complication like a
hole in his buoyancy compensator.  Rachel lingered by the exit, waiting for
his answer.  "I appreciate the offer," he said, trying to sound tempted but
regretful.  "But I've got a few loose ends I need to tie up before I leave."
He felt ill describing his son as a "loose end,"

but he had to do something to put her off.  How the hell was he going to go
to Norway and leave behind Meg and their son?  It was a question that had no
answer.  Rachel put on a pouty smile and ran a finger down his lapel.  "If
you change your mind, just knock on my door.  Anytime."

"Sure."  His smile was genuine now, one of relief.  He carried on back to the
lab.  If he went to Norway he ought to at least provide for them.  He had
savings, but until now hadn't made any conscious effort to maximize his
income or increase his assets.  Jeez, he couldn't believe he was thinking
this way.  He slipped through the lab door and pushed it shut behind him.
Lee was working at the computer.  "Hey, Lee.  Got any hot tips for the stock
market?"  Lee glanced up and grinned.  "Buy futures."

"What kind?"   "Any kind look pretty good right now."   Not from where
Spencer was standing.   "Never mind.   Let's go over your results for the
journal article."   after her chemistry class Meg walked over to the Student
Union Building cafeteria.   With a coffee and a blueberry muffin on the table
in front of her, she pretended to study her notes.   Then she pretended to
read over the lab book in preparation for this afternoon's physiology lab.
She couldn't avoid Spencer forever, but she'd hoped to do so at least until
he'd left for lunch.   He'd said he would call her and he hadn't.   It could
only mean he didn't want anything to do with their son.   A couple of hours
later she drained the last of her coffee and glanced at her watch.   By the
time she walked across campus, he should have left the biology building and
be halfway to the car park.   If she went in the front entrance, she'd miss
him entirely.   She wended her way through the crowded tables, smiling at
some girls she recognized from her biostatistics class.   She knew they'd
welcome her if she chose to sit with them, but they seemed so young.
Completely devoid of responsibilities beyond homework and maybe a part-time
job.   It was hard to relate to them.   Between the fountain and the library,
students sprawled on the grass or the stone steps, soaking up the feeble rays
of precious October sunlight while they ate lunch.   Meg checked the time
again and slowed her pace.   She had no reason to feel nervous.   Spencer was
the one who should feel nervous.   Maybe he did.   Maybe he felt guilty.
She hoped so.   No, that wasn't fair.   What she wanted was for him to feel
immediate and unconditional love for their son.   Ha.   Not likely.   Meg
went through the heavy glass doors of the biology building and down the long
corridor, past the student lounge, around the corner, and paused outside the
lab.   She had her key out, but the door was ajar.   Cautiously she pushed it
open and quietly walked in.   And stopped short.   Spencer's office door was
open.   He sat sideways to his desk, facing the door, one long leg crossed
over the other as his chair tilted backward at a dangerous angle.   He held
no book, no journal, no papers, no piece of electronic equipment.   Nothing.

He was waiting for her.  Meg swallowed and gripped the shoulder strap of her
bag with both hands.  She took a step toward her desk behind the partition.
Spencer rocked forward so that his feet fell to the floor.

"Meg, I've been waiting to talk."  "I waited for your call last night."

Till one in the morning.  "I had to think things through."  He beckoned her
to a seat.  "At least now I know why your father hates me."  She sat.  "Daddy
doesn't hate you."

"Please.   I don't think there's room for doubt.   I can't say I blame him."
"I'm sorry you had to find out that way.   I was going to tell you about
Davis."   "When?"   "I don't know."   They fell into a tense silence.   Meg
struggled to find a way to ease into the discussion they had to have about
their son.   She and Spencer had never lacked things to talk about; their
words had always poured out in an excited exchange of ideas and opinions.
But they'd never before had to deal with anything so deeply emotional, so
fraught with consequences.   "I don't expect anything from you," she began,
anxious he not think her needy or desperate.   "Why don't you?"   he cut in
harshly.   "I'm partly responsible, after all.   Am I so goddamn useless I
can't be a father to my son?"   She saw the fine film of perspiration on his
forehead and knew he'd spoken aloud his secret fear.   He was angry with her
for not thinking him trustworthy--and at the same time certain that she was
right.

"Of course you can be a father to Davis," she said quietly.  "If you want to
be.  Do you have any idea what that entails?"  He stared at her so long she
became conscious of the faint ticking of her watch and the murmur of students
in the hall.  She started to rise.  "I'd like to meet him."  She remained
poised on the edge of her seat.  "I'm not so sure that's a good idea.  He's
vulnerable.  You see, he" -- how could she put this?  "--he hero- worships
you."  The skin around Spencer's eyes tightened as if he was in pain.  "He
doesn't even know me.  What have you told him about me?"

"Just that you're a biologist and you study killer whales.   You have to
travel for your work--that's why you don't live with us.   I don't know how
long he'll accept that explanation if he meets you."   "Why didn't you tell
me sooner?   Years ago."   "You know why."   He swiveled away from her to
gaze out the window.   Meg felt weary.   It always came back to the same
thing--he couldn't be relied on to stick around.   It hurt that he didn't
deny it.

Finally he swung back to her.  "I want to meet him.  I... need to meet him."
His long fingers braided together, knuckles white.  Fear for Davis stopped
her voice in her throat.  "Meg, he's my son.  Don't make me beg."  She took a
breath.

"You can meet him.  But I won't tell him who you are.  Then, when you leave,
he won't miss you."

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut.  He nodded, then waved a hand, motioning for
her to go.  Her heart ached for him.  For herself and for Davis.  She
couldn't get out of there fast enough.

CHAPTER TEN

"I got it!"  Patrick shouted as he breezed into the kitchen and twirled Meg
around.  "I got my promotion."

 "Congratulations!"   She hugged him.

"I'm so happy for you."  "Isn't it bliss?  We're going to celebrate.

Want to join us?  " " I can't.  Spencer is coming to dinner to meet Davis.  "
Patrick brought his hands to his face.  " Oh, my goodness.  Maybe I'd better
stay and give you moral support.  " " I'll be fine.  " She got the white
linen napkins out of the drawer.  " By the way, who's we?  "

"Well," Patrick said, taking the napkins from her to arrange them beside the
plates on the table, "remember I told you I was going to spill my guts for
the selection committee?"

"Yes, what happened?   I've been so busy studying for midterm exams and
going on field trips it's been an age since we've talked."   "I told them
everything and they were great about it.   They as good as said right then I
had the position, but I didn't want to tell you until it was confirmed.
Anyway, as I was leaving the sergeant's office, the Human Resources officer
winked at me."

"No!  Isn't he the cute one you told me about months ago?"

"The very same.   I had no idea he was gay."   "So what did you do?"   Meg
went to the cupboard for the salt-and-pepper shakers, two white porcelain
pigs curled around each other.   "I waited till everyone else had gone, then
I popped back into his office and asked him out to dinner."   Patrick set the
cutlery in a precise line half an inch from the edge of the table.

"He said yes and the rest is history."  "That's wonderful.

What's his name?  " " Douglas.  " Patrick picked up a carved wooden bowl full
of fruit.  " How about this as a centerpiece?  " " Too big.  " Meg moved the
bowl back to the counter.  " So, we both have dates tonight.

Fabulous top, by the way.  " " Thanks.  " The clinging stretchy black top
shot with gold threads was the first new piece of clothing she'd bought since
the beginning of the summer.  And the first item in a much longer time that
wasn't strictly utilitarian.  " I hope he doesn't think I'm trying to be
alluring.  " " He should be nattered.  " Patrick tilted his head.  " Are you?
" She ignored the question and went to the stove to check the rice.

"Or worse, trying to compete with the nineteen-year-old coeds on campus."
"Honey, you'd blow them out of the water.  And your hair is absolutely
wonderful all naturel.  Like a golden waterfall."  He gave her a stern look.
"If you're going to get serious about this Spencer fellow again, I'm going to
have to meet him."

Meg shook her head.  "This is a once-off."

"Sure it is.   What did you tell you-know-who?"   Patrick whispered even
though Davis was in the backyard playing with his new baby lop-eared rabbit.
"Just that he's my professor.   Davis thought I was weird for inviting my
teacher to dinner."   Meg brought a jug of water to the table.   "How is he
doing at school?"   Patrick asked.   "Is that bully still bothering him?"

"Sometimes.  He's made one friend, though, I think."  "That's good."

Patrick glanced at his watch.  "I'd better go get ready."  A short time later
Meg walked with him to the door.  They'd just stepped out onto the porch when
Spencer's Camaro pulled up out front.  The knot that had been growing in her
stomach all day twisted tighter.  "Have a good time," she said to Patrick,
edging him toward the steps as Spencer climbed out of the car.  He wore a
brown tweed jacket over a black T-shirt and was carrying a bottle of wine by
the neck.  Patrick planted his feet.  "I'm not going anywhere till I get a
good look at Lover Boy."

"Stop it," Meg hissed, jabbing him in the ribs.   "And quit ogling him.
He's not your type."   "Ooh, but I just love that bad boy-college professor
look.   My, my, my.   What he does for a pair of blue jeans."   "I'll tell
Douglas on you."   Patrick raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay.  I'm just kidding."

 "Hi, Spencer," Meg said as he approached the porch.

"This is my housemate, Patrick."

Spencer extended his hand.  "Hi."

"I believe we spoke on the phone once," Patrick gushed.   "It's so nice to
meet you.   Meg's told me all about you."   Spencer glanced at Meg.   "Hope
it wasn't all bad."   "Not all of it," Patrick said, laughing.   He turned to
Meg and kissed her on the cheek.   "If you need anything at all, you call me
on my cell phone, you hear?"   Meg gave him a little shove.   "Goodbye.
Have a nice evening."   When he was out of earshot, she said to Spencer,

"He's a little protective."

"He's gay."   Spencer sounded relieved.   "Do you have a problem with that?"
He shook his head.   "Not at all."   "Come in."   Meg led the way into the
house.   "Da- vis is in the backyard."

Spencer nodded.  "What did you tell him about me?"

"Only that you're my professor."   She frowned.   "I'm a little worried.
He knows his father's name is Spencer and that he--you--study killer whales."
"Does he know my last name?   I mean, his father's name?"   Meg thought for
a moment.   "It may have come up at some time in the past, but I doubt he'd
remember."   "Then introduce me as Dr. Valiella.   I don't normally like
being so formal, but under the circumstances..."   "One other thing," Meg
said, touching the rough cloth of his jacket sleeve.   "He looks like you."
Spencer's face went blank as he absorbed the information.   His hands gripped
the bottle, twisting the brown paper into pleated folds around the neck.
"Will he notice?"   "I don't know.   Do you still want to see him?"   She
waited anxiously for his response.   If he dared back out now.   "Yes, of
course.   But if he asks, we'll tell him."   Meg pulled on the ends of her
hair.   "Okay."

She paused.  "Spencer?"

"What?"   "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Davis earlier."   She waited
for him to say,

"It's okay," but he didn't, and the anger and hurt in his eyes made it hard
for her to breathe.

She turned and led the way through the dining room into the kitchen.

Noel bobbed his head at the sight of her and gave her a wolf whistle.

"Pretty lady!"  Smiling and embarrassed, she took the wine bottle from
Spencer and placed it on the counter.  He gazed back, unblinking, deep in his
own thoughts.  With a shrug, she took him through the laundry room and out
the back door.  So much for being alluring.  Davis squatted in the middle of
the small grassed yard, his knees meeting his chin as he watched his pet
bunny nibble grass beneath a wire-mesh grazing arc.  He wore a bright blue
jacket, and his brown hair lifted with the breeze.  Spencer moved onto the
top step beside her and gripped the wooden railing.  Meg wondered, as she
often did when it came to Davis, if she was doing the right thing.  Nothing
else in her son's short life had ever had such potential for good or ill as
introducing him to his father.  Either way, she wouldn't know until it was
too late.

"Shall we?"  she said, and walked down the short set of steps to the yard.
Spencer followed.  "Davis," she called as they approached.

Davis didn't look up.  Oh, no, she thought.  Please let this not be a bad
day.  A bad day was one where Davis answered in monosyllables if he answered
at all.  A day where his focus was so intense and narrow she couldn't get him
to do anything that wasn't his idea.  A day where, when the tablets wore off,
as they inevitably did because she couldn't keep him on them twenty-four
hours a day, Davis went into a major blow-out of erratic behavior.  She knew
she should tell Spencer about the A.  D.  H.  D.  " but every time she
thought about doing so she felt a rush of maternal protectiveness that closed
off her powers of speech.  More than anything, Meg wanted Spencer to accept
Davis as he was.  For Spencer to love Davis seemed almost more than she could
hope for.  But if he liked him, that was a start.  " Davis," she repeated
more insistently.  Then caught herself.  She was sensitized to his moods, too
ready to overreact.  " Mom!  " He looked up suddenly.  " Patch eats and poops
at the same time.  " " Charming.  " She laughed nervously and glanced at
Spencer.  His face was a mask, his muscles so tense he seemed not to be
breathing.  " Eats and poops.  Eats and poops," Davis chanted, oblivious once
more to their presence.  " Eats and poo"" Davis!  " Her voice betrayed her
anxiety, rising in pitch and volume.  Meg took a deep breath.  He'd done
nothing.  Nothing to get upset about.  " This is Dr. Valiella, my professor.
He's come to have dinner with us.  " Davis glanced at Spencer without
interest.  " Say hello, Davis," Meg prompted.

"Hello," Davis said, and returned his attention to the wonders of rabbit
digestion.  The gray-and-white bunny's mouth moved with almost unbelievable
rapidity, chomping through stalk after stalk of grass.

"Hi," Spencer said.  He hunkered down beside the grazing arc.  "Patch is a
regular munching machine."  Davis smiled.  "Yeah."

"I had a rabbit when I was a boy, for a little while, anyway.   His name was
Benjamin.   He liked to eat tomatoes."   "Yuck."   Davis poked a long grass
stem through a hole in the mesh and tickled the rabbit's ear.   The rabbit
hopped away.   Davis moved to the other side of the grazing arc and did it
again.   Meg bit her lip to stop herself from telling Davis to cut it out,
not wanting to interrupt the interaction between Spencer and her son.   His
son.   Their son.   Saying it, even to herself, invested it with too much
meaning.   "What do you suppose that means when he hops away from being
tickled?"   Spencer asked, his tone neutral.   "He doesn't like it," Davis
replied matter-of factly.   He pushed the stem of grass all the way through
the mesh into the grazing arc.   The bunny hopped over to eat it.   Wow, Meg
thought.   Spencer handled that really well.   Maybe he's a natural father.
Fantasies formed unbidden.

"I think his nose is really cute when he eats," Davis said, cutting into her
thoughts.  He plucked another handful of grass.  "Are you a marine
biologist?"  Spencer hesitated a fraction of a second.  "Yes."

"My dad's a marine biologist.  Do you know him?"  Spencer got to his feet,
his hand clenching at his side.  "I ... uh... There are a lot of marine
biologists around."  His glance at Meg was a blatant plea for rescue.  "Would
you like a glass of wine.  Dr. Valiella?"

 "Oh, yes."

She almost laughed at the fervor of his reply.  Almost.  The situation would
be hysterical if it wasn't so tragic.  spencer watched the small boy across
the table from him pick at his food.  So this was his son.

He still couldn't quite believe it.  But when he looked into eyes the same
dark sea-green hue as his, topped by brows the same straight-across shape,
saw the finely etched upper lip in miniature and the softly rounded cheeks
that would sharpen into angles similar to his.  he had to believe it.  What
he couldn't come to grips with was his re- action--a mixture of overweening
pride, which he had no right to feel, and pure terror.  He was overwhelmed
with fear of a sort he'd never experienced before.  A fear so profound he was
barely able to speak all throughout the dinner he ate but didn't taste.  He
was terrified of everything to do with Davis.  Terrified of saying the wrong
thing.  Terrified of not saying anything and losing the one chance Meg would
allow him to get to know his son.  Terrified of loving him.  Terrified of
not loving him.  Terrified of leaving him.

Terrified of staying.  Thank God, Davis didn't know who he was.  The added
pressure and expectations would be intolerable.  He didn't know how Meg was
carrying the largely one-sided conversation, but, boy, was he glad she was
there.  "Do you like music?"  he managed to ask Davis when she took a break
to eat some of her chicken.  The boy might show an aptitude if he was
nurtured.  Goodness knows.  Spencer hadn't inherited his father's musical
ability.  Davis shrugged.  Wriggled in his chair.  "It's pretty good."
Spencer realized he couldn't suggest Davis have piano lessons or something.
He had no rights.  Only responsibilities.  "When he was a baby," Meg said,
"he used to bang his head against the wall with rhythm."

"Did I?"   Davis exclaimed, fascinated.   "What's rhythm?"   Spencer
laughed, and some of the tension in his chest eased.   "So you're a
head-banger already.   I'll have to tell your gr" -- He choked off the
sentence.   Coughed.   Picked up his knife and put it down again.   His gaze
flashed to Meg.   7 almost slipped up.   Her expression changed as she read
his.   Strange how they could still do something as intimate as read messages
in each other's faces after so long apart.   Did that mean, once you knew
someone, you'd always know them?   Or was that just her?   Don't worry, her
small reassuring smile told him.   He wanted to believe it.   And he might
have, if he couldn't see that she was worried, too.   It was as though the
reality of the situation had only just hit them both.   They should have met
at a park or gone walking on the beach.   Anything but sitting together
around the family dinner table.   "He likes to listen to records," Meg said.
"Don't you, Davis?"   Davis shrugged.   He stared at Spencer with the
intense curiosity of the very young.   "I like the song Patrick always sings
about the navy."   Spencer glanced at Meg.

"The Village People?"

"Gilbert and Sullivan.   Patrick adores Gilbert and Sullivan."   He laid his
knife and fork across his empty plate.   If Davis was never told who Ray was,
what Spencer said about him wouldn't matter.   "My father plays the guitar."
"Cool.   Does he play in a band?"   "Ah, not anymore, but he used to."
Davis turned to his mother.

"What's for dessert?"  "Nothing until you eat your dinner."  "Aw, Mom."

Davis picked up a forkful of chicken, brought it to his mouth, then put it
down uneaten.  He squirmed on his chair, pulling his knees up to his chin and
dropping them again.  Up and down.  "Can I have an orange?"  Meg pursed her
Ups.  What's to decide?  Spencer wondered.  An orange is healthy.  "Okay,"
she said at last.  "Spencer, could you pass him an orange from the bowl
behind you?"  Spencer reached behind him to the counter and brought back an
orange.  "I'll peel it for you."

"Have you lived here long?"   Spencer asked Meg as he dug his thumbnail
into the spongy peel near the stem.   "About five years.   Davis went to
preschool at the recreation center down the road.   He took swimming lessons
there, too."   Spencer turned the orange, keeping the peel going in one
continuous strip.   "Do you like swimming.   Da- vis?"   Davis nodded, his
gaze on the orange peel.   His foot began to beat continuously and
monotonously against the leg of his chair.   "Davis..."   Meg said in a low,
warning voice.   "Maybe you'll be a marine biologist like your mom," Spencer
said.   Davis picked up a spoon and tapped it on the table in a contrapuntal
beat to the foot on the chair.   "I want to drive a dump truck."   Spencer
was halfway down the orange now.   The peel dangled from his fingertips in an
unbroken spiral.   Davis's wide-eyed gaze was glued to it.   His spoon went
tap-tap-tap.   "Enough," Meg said, and laid her hand on Davis's arm.

With the silence Spencer felt an immediate reduction in the tension created
by the repetitive noise.  The frown disappeared from his face.

Meg took her hand off Davis's arm.  The tapping started again.  Spencer heard
a tiny sigh escape from Meg.  Man, it must be hard bringing up a kid all by
herself.  Guilt harpooned his conscience and took it for a ride.  Teething,
nightmares, illness.  He speeded up his peeling of the orange.  Da vis's lips
were pressed tightly together, his eyes unblinking.

Spencer dropped the strand of peel on his plate.  Breaking the orange into
segments, he handed them across the table.  "There you go."

"What do you say, Davis?"   Meg prompted when Davis accepted the orange
without a word.   "Thank you," Davis said around a mouthful, but his gaze had
taken on a strangely watchful quality, as though he didn't dare take his eyes
off Spencer.   Juice dripped between his fingers where he squeezed the orange
too tightly.   Unnerved, Spencer said the first thing that came to his mind.
"Do you know what you want for Christmas?"   Davis squeezed tighter.   Juice
flowed down his upraised arm.   "My father to come home."   Spencer felt the
prickly heat of adrenaline rushing through his veins.   He opened his mouth
to say something, he didn't know what.   Suddenly Davis dropped the orange
pieces among the rest of the discarded food on his plate and scrambled off
his chair.

"Davis!"  Meg called.  He ran out of the room.  ' "Whoop, whoop, whoop."
"You've got sticky hands.  Don't touch anything!"  She turned to Spencer with
a harried apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry.  He's... I don't know what's got into him.  Excuse me."

Stunned, Spencer watched the scenario unfold.  Meg, speaking sternly; Davis,
ignoring every word, a manic grin on his face as he tore around the house,
dodging her outstretched arms.  Davis's eyes held a crazed expression Spencer
found unnerving.  Should he help her?  What could he do?  He'd never seen a
child act this way before.  His sister's kids were docile little lambs by
comparison.

' "Whoop.  Whoop.  Whoop."  The situation demanded action, but he couldn't
act.  Courtesy demanded he avert his eyes from Meg's difficulties, but it was
his son behaving like a brat.  He rose and began stacking dishes together,
glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to see if Meg wanted him to
help.  She didn't appear to.

Finally, Meg caught the boy as he rounded a corner, grunting as he slammed
into her stomach.  She clamped her arms around him and he could only squirm,
his eyes wild and brimming with mischief, his grin an exaggeration of his
mother's impish smile.  She wasn't smiling now.

Exasperation pushed her lips into a straight line.  Her long, tangled hair
moved around her shoulders as Davis struggled in her arms.  She spoke in a
low controlled voice.  "Quiet, Davis.  Calm down."  Still holding him, she
sank to the floor.  "Calm.  That's right, breathe slowly."  Gradually, Davis
quieted in her arms.  Bit by bit she relaxed her grip, still talking to him
softly.  Spencer moved around the kitchen, tidying things, staying out of
their way.  If he'd felt too much part of the domestic unit before, now he
felt like a total outsider.  Meg sent Davis down the hall.  His feet dragged
as though they were pulling dead weights, in direct contrast to the frenzied
behavior he'd exhibited only minutes before.  All Spencer could do was feel
vaguely guilty and wonder why such a neat kid should behave so abominably for
no apparent reason.  Meg came into the kitchen, her arms wrapped around
herself, her face drained of energy.  "Sorry about that," she said.  "He gets
wired sometimes.  Too much excitement, I guess."

"I guess."   Spencer put down the salt-and-pepper shakers he'd removed from
the table.   "Maybe I should go."   Two sharp lines appeared between Meg's
light brown eyebrows.   She nodded, as though she'd been expecting him to say
that.   "I won't run out if you want me to stay," he tried to explain.   "But
if I'm the cause of the excitement..."   "He's going to have a bath.   That
usually calms him down."   She moved around him to reach for the kettle.
"Do you want some coffee?"   What he wanted was to pull her into his arms and
kiss the tension from her brow.   Not a good idea under the circumstances.

Anyway, there was something he had to get off his chest, and it was hard
enough to say without the added complication of being too close to Meg.
"Is... is it because he doesn't have a fath-- I mean, because I'm... not
around?"  Meg turned off the tap and plugged in the kettle.

Still without a word, she went to the cupboard and pulled down two cups.
"Meg?"

"No, i-it's not that," she assured him brokenly.   She spooned ground coffee
into the plunger.   "I don't really believe you, but I'm craven enough to
feel relieved.   Especially when I know how hard it must have been for you,
raising him alone."   The spoon dropped from her fingers to clatter onto the
counter, and she pushed a long strand of blond hair away from her face.   He
wished he could still feel angry with her for deceiving him all these years.
But her blue eyes were filled with anguish, and her mouth was working--as
though there was something she badly wanted to tell him but couldn't.   "I
find it hard to talk about him with you, too," he said quietly.   "But that's
something we're going to have to get over."

Spencer's voice turned husky.  "After all, he's... our son."  Not looking at
him, she nodded, her clenched knuckles white.  "I... don't know what's going
to happen," he continued, each word hard to say, as if he had to push it out.
"I just want to do the best for Davis as... I'm capable of."  Which might
not be very bloody much.  This time she glanced his way with weary eyes.  "It
might be best if you do nothing."

Her words stung.  He was worse than useless; he was dangerous to his son's
well-being.  He swallowed hard.  "He's really a wonderful kid when you get to
know him," she said, smiling tremulously.  "You could bring him out to the
cottage next week during midterm break," Spencer suggested.  "Ray would like
to meet him."

"Would he?"   Her smile became steadier.   "I guess we could.   I mean, as
long as Ray didn't say anything..."   "He won't if I ask him not to."
"Okay, then.   I'd like to see Ray again, too."   Spencer's answering smile
faded.   "Ray's still going through his crisis, whatever it is.   Don't
expect too much."   He shoved a hand through his hair.   "In fact, he's
pretty much a mess."

Her big eyes clouded and she put a comforting hand on his chest.  "Oh,
Spencer, I'm sorry."

Warmth spread beneath his shirt where her hand lay.  His teeth ground with
the effort of not reaching for her.  "Don't.  Don't be, I mean."

How could she feel sympathy for him after he'd let her down?  "I'd better go.
Why don't you and Davis come on Tues- day?  We've got the Cape Beale booked
Wednesday and Thursday."

"I remember.   Don't you want your coffee?"   She gazed up at him, her lips
half parted.   "No.

Thanks.  " What he wanted, badly, was to taste her lips and feel the warmth
of her skin.  He had to get away.  Away from those eyes that were too
forgiving and those soft curves that were too enticing.  Away from the
memories and the what-ifs and the coul da-be ens.  Away from the evidence of
his failure.  She snatched her fingers away, curling them into her palm.  "
I'll walk you out.  " " No sooner was dinner over than Davis went berserk,"
Meg said to Patrick over a late-night cup of coffee.  She knew she'd regret
the caffeine when she was still awake at 2:00 a.m."  but she suspected she
wouldn't get much sleep tonight, anyway.  "What triggered it this time?"  he
asked.  "I don't know."  Meg tucked her legs up on the sofa.  "It wasn't the
bedtime routine.  He hadn't eaten anything sweet.  He hardly ate anything at
all, except an orange Spencer peeled for him."

 "Maybe that's it--not enough food."

"Maybe," Meg said doubtfully.  The pediatrician had told her that food, types
of it or lack of it, made little or no difference to the behavior of A.  D.
H.  D.  kids.

"Or maybe it was just having a stranger to dinner," Patrick suggested.

"You know how he acts up whenever someone new comes around."

"Lots of kids do."   Meg tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the defensiveness
out of her voice even though Patrick knew all of Davis's faults and had seen
him at his worst.   Patrick, who Only wished for tolerance from others and
gave it back in abundance.   But Patrick also never let her get away with
wishful thinking.   "Yes, Meg," he said gently, "but not to the same extent."
She fell silent.   Patrick leaned over and put his arm around her.   "What
is it, sweetie?"   "I didn't tell Spencer about Davis's AD.H.D."   Patrick
shook his head.   "Isn't it better to tell him than have him think Davis is
simply a badly behaved child and it's all your fault?"   Meg winced,
remembering some of her mother's comments before Davis had been diagnosed.
"I want to tell him, I really do.

But what if it turns him against Davis?  " " I don't think you're giving him
enough credit.  But if he does turn against Davis, then he's a total jerk and
you're better off without him.  " Meg sighed.  Patrick was right.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Hi, ray.  It's so good to see you again.  You're looking great."

Davis heard the bright inflections in his mom's voice, the way she spoke when
she started acting like Grandma.  He stared at the man she was hugging.  He
didn't look great at all.  His skin was kind of gray and he had big bags
under his eyes.  If Patrick looked in the mirror and saw those on his face,
he'd moan about it for hours.  "And this is Davis."  His mom was tugging on
his hand, urging him forward.  He dug in his heels and stared mutinously at
the ground.  "Davis, say hello to Dr. Valiella's father.  Mr. Valiella."
"Hello, son.  You can call me Ray."  The man had a booming raspy voice and a
handshake that hurt.

For a moment Davis was confused to be called "son."  Could this be.  No, he
was too old, more like a grandpa.  But what kind of grandpa had a ponytail?
Davis reached out and touched the man's pants.  They felt like his mom's
purse.  Weird.  Ray chuckled.  Davis felt everyone's gaze on him and he
ducked behind his mom.  The man Mom called Dr. Valley-Alley-Something, the
man whose name Davis thought was really Spencer and who peeled an orange so
the peel was all in one piece, crouched to look him in the eye.  "Would you
like to walk on the beach?"  Davis hesitated.  He loved the beach, but.  "Is
my mom going to go?"

"We'll all go, honey," Mom said, and then it was okay.   "Let me get my
camera," Ray said.   They walked over the cobble and the coarse sand, down to
the waterline.   The tide had gone out, leaving a broad strip of hard-packed
muddy sand strewn with tangled clumps of brown kelp and ridges of shells and
tiny stones.   Davis stomped in the shallow water till his runners were wet
and squishy, then ran off before his mom could yell at him to stop.
Slowing, he saw sunlight glint off a trickle of water spouting from a small
hole surrounded by a mound of sand squiggles.   He crouched beside it.
While he watched, a noodle of sand was ejected onto the pile.   He patted the
squiggles with his finger, feeling how smooth they were, then flattened them
with his palm.   A shadow crossed the sand in front of him.   He glanced up.

Uh-oh.  Dr. Valley-Alley.  Was he going to yell at him?  Davis wasn't sure
what he'd done wrong--except for the shoes--but somehow he was always getting
in trouble.  But the man just crouched beside him and cleared away the sand
grains from the hole.  "A worm lives in here.

Abarenicola pacifica.  " Davis relaxed a little.  " Mom said it's a lugworm.
" " That's what its friends call it.  This worm is special.  It introduced
your mom and me.  " Davis stared at the hole, disbelieving.

Then he tilted his face up, squinting into the sun and laughed.  "Worms
can't talk!"  The man laughed with him and told him some more things about
the worm and the other animals that lived in the mud.  It made Davis feel
warm and good inside.  Mostly adults just talked to other adults.

This man knew lots of stuff, just like his mom, except he didn't try to make
him remember everything.  Also, he'd taken off his shoes and rolled up his
pants and didn't seem to mind when they got wet, anyway.

Da- vis decided he liked him.  It would be neat if he was his dad, he thought
wistfully.  "What's this?"  Davis asked, pointing to the sand noodle.

"That's a fecal casting," the man explained seriously.  "The worm ingests
sand and mud.  As the material passes through the digestive tract, the worm
digests the organic detritus before ejecting the mucus encased casting."
Totally lost, Davis scrunched up his face.  "Huh?"  The man shook his head at
his own foolishness.  "It eats and poops.  Eats and poops."  Davis giggled at
a grown-up saying "poop."

"What else does it do, Dr. Valley... Valley..."  He stumbled over the long
name.  The man reached out and brushed a clump of sand grains from Davis's
cheek.  "Just call me" -- He stopped and blinked, like he was going to cry,
except that grown-up men didn't cry.  Then he took a deep breath.

"You can call me ... Doc."

"Okay."   That was easier, Davis thought.   But for some reason he felt
disappointed.   He jumped to his feet and ran back to his mom.   Her arms
went around him in a hug and his vague sadness was chased away by her warm
voice saying,

"How you doing, guy?"

"Good."   He clung to her for a moment.   Then a large shaggy golden dog
went rollicking past, chasing seagulls off a sandbar and into the sky.
Davis ran after him, laughing for no reason except that it felt good.
Spencer fell into step beside Meg.   "He's a nice kid."

She nodded, wondering what had passed between him and Davis that had sent her
son running for a hug.  "You didn't..."  Understanding warmed his gaze.
"No."  Farther up the beach, Ray trudged over the sand, hunched in his
sheepskin jacket, occasionally stopping to snap a photo.

Spencer strode at her side, loose-limbed, lean and strong, as much a part of
the beach as the sea and the sky.  His arms and feet were bare, even though
it was mid-October and the air was crisp; like Davis, he was impervious to
cold.  Meg breathed in the fresh salty ah" and felt the gritty sand beneath
her bare toes.  Autumn always brought out a wild nostalgia in her, full of
unfulfilled promise and yearning and regret.  Now it tugged at her so
strongly it was almost unbearable.

"I'm going to run," she said, loping ahead.  And although partly she was
running away from him, another part of her hoped he would follow.

He did.  And then he was passing her, splashing through the shallows, kicking
up spray to wet her jeans, laughing and reaching out to touch her arm.
"You're it."  She chased after him onto the sandbar.  Around in circles they
went like a pair of puppies.  Davis ran after them, shrieking with delight,
the dog barking joyously at his heels.  Davis and Dog ran off at a tangent.
Meg finally caught Spencer.  Or was it the other way around?  She'd lost
track of who was chasing and who was running.  Together they slowed to a
laughing, panting halt, hands loosely touching each other's arms, waists.

Spencer's kiss seemed as natural as the day.  A mere touching of salty lips,
warm in contrast to the coolness of the air and water.  Tingling where they
touched.  Kindred spirits communicating simple profound pleasures.  Brief;
too brief.  Eyes full of yearning and unfulfilled promise.  But no regret.
Not yet.  Smiling, she touched his hair, tangled and tossed by the breeze.
"You need a haircut.  I could do it for you."

"No way, Delilah.   Remember last time?"   Seven and a half years ago he
couldn't afford a professional cut and she'd offered to do it for him.   That
day had been her first visit to the cottage.   She'd adored its simplicity
after her parents' huge house and envied Spencer his freedom and knowledge of
the world.   While she clipped his hair with kitchen scissors to the sounds
of Ray and the Brass Monkeys, they'd talked about traveling and philosophy,
evolution and the stars.

And all those things she'd hoped to discuss at university but hadn't because
she hadn't found anyone who shared her interests--till she'd met him.  That
day had marked the beginning of their friendship--and almost ended it the
moment he'd looked in the mirror.  She laughed at the memory.  Spencer's
smiling eyes reflected the thoughts that flowed through her mind.
Remembering time spent together strengthened the bridge from past to
present.  But how were they to cross the gap from the present to the future?
"I've had a lot of practice since then on Davis," she said.  He slid his hand
down the length of her thick blond braid to tug on the end.  "Thanks, we'll
see."  The sound of splashing made them look around.  Davis was sitting in
the shallows, his arms dug into the sand up to his elbows, excavating a
channel to the castle he'd built on the sandbar.  The splashing came from the
dog, who was helping dig and in the process sending a spray of water and
muddy sand straight onto Davis.  Who was, of course, oblivious.  "Man, is he
a mess!"

Spencer said.  "Don't worry," Meg said, resigned.  "I never go anywhere
without a complete change of clothing.  Let's get him back to the cottage
before he freezes to death."  They found Ray sitting on a log, staring out to
sea.  He chuckled when he saw the muddy bedraggled mess that was Davis.
"Reminds me of another kid I used to know," he said with a wink at Meg.  "How
on earth did you survive?"  Meg murmured.

His smile faded.  "Lome did most of the coping."  Back at the cottage.

Spencer ran a bath for Davis and got him a towel and shampoo.  Meg hovered
outside in the hallway.  It felt strange for someone else to be caring for
her son when she was there.  "I usually wash his hair for him," she said when
Spencer simply handed Davis the bottle and left.

"He can't rinse it properly himself."

"Time he learned," Spencer replied, maddeningly unconcerned, and started
back toward the kitchen.

"But ... but..."  Meg glanced from the bathroom, where she could hear Davis
happily talking to himself in the tub, to Spencer's retreating back.  Spencer
paused and turned.  "Come and talk to me while I make dinner.  Ray's not too
good at playing host these days."

"I'll help with the food, if you like."   "Thanks.   I'm going to barbecue."
"Barbecue?   It practically feels like winter."   "So?"   Meg shrugged.
Maybe she was getting too rigid in her old age.   Why not barbecue if that
was what he felt like doing?   "Okay."   She made a salad while Spencer
dragged a rusty hibachi from under the house and cleaned it at the outside
tap.   Ray was working on his second drink and propping up the counter.
Making conversation with him wasn't easy.   She couldn't ask him what he was
doing now because it was painfully obvious he wasn't doing much of anything.
She couldn't speak of the future because he didn't seem to have one.   And
talk of the good old days seemed to depress him.   Ray's guitar stood in the
corner of the small living room.   Spencer had whispered a warning when she
and Davis had arrived not to mention the guitar or to ask Ray to play.   He
was sensitive about it, apparently, and still angry at Spencer for getting it
out of hock and thereby inadvertently putting pressure on him.

Privately, Meg thought if he just tried to play, he might recover his spark,
but you couldn't make that decision for another person, and she liked him too
much to risk upsetting him.  Davis came into the room with his hair un dried
and dripping down his inside-out T-shirt.  "Hey, Mom, look at the shell I
found in the bathroom," he said, holding up a conch.  "I'll bet Doc found it
on the beach."  Doc?  It took her a moment to realize he was talking about
Spencer.  "As a matter of fact, young fella, / found that shell.  We were
doing a gig in Mexico" -- Ray broke off and took a swig of bourbon.  "What's
a gig?"

Davis asked, unaware the subject was closed.  Ray's face shut down and he
curled his arms protectively around his waist.  "Davis," Meg said, dropping
the tomato in her hand and coming around the counter.  ' "Please go back to
the bathroom and dry your hair properly.  Is it even rinsed?"  She did the
squeak test on a strand of hair as she gently steered him toward the hall,
and surprisingly it passed.  Resisting her manipulations, Davis craned his
neck around to ask again,

"What's a gig?"  Meg cast about for a better diversion.  Once Davis got
going, he clung to a subject tighter than a limpet to a rock until his
curiosity was satisfied.  "Why don't you go see if you can help Dr. Valiella?"

But Davis pulled away from her to stand in front of Ray.  "What's a gig?"
Ray stared balefully back at Davis.  "It's when a band plays a concert."
"Are you in a band?"

"I was."   Ray went to the fridge for more ice .   cubes, Davis on his
heels.   "Why aren't you in one now?"

"Don't ask."  "Is that your guitar out there?"  Davis asked.  "Can I try it?"

Ray spun away from the freezer, a scowl on his face.  "No."  "Meg?"

Spencer called from outside the back door.  "Can you bring me the barbecue
scraper?  It's under the sink."  Davis edged closer to Ray.

"Please?  I won't hurt it."

"Don't pester him, honey," Meg said.   She poked about in the cupboard under
the sink for the scraper.   "Only / touch that guitar, son," Ray said.   "You
play it, then."   "Davis!"   Meg said.   "Sorry, Mom.   I mean, please play
it?"   Ray's face grew tight and dark.   "Meg?"   Spencer called again.
Damn.   "Coming."   Meg forced herself to turn her back on the pair and shut
the back door behind her.

Sooner or later Davis was going to have to learn not everyone was as
accommodating of his demands as she was.  "What's going on in there?"

Spencer asked as she handed him the barbecue scraper.  "My son and your
father are having a battle of wills."

"So Davis inherited the Valiella stubborn streak?"   "To put it mildly."
Meg hesitated, hating to risk destroying the fledgling connection Spencer and
Da- vis had forged today on the beach.   But the risk of total alienation by
not speaking out was greater.   "Davis is very stubborn," she said.   "Also
impulsive and unpredictable and, as you've seen, hyperactive.   And although
he's brighter than average, he finds it hard to concentrate, especially when
it comes to learning to read and write."

Spencer tossed aside the scraper and started to pile charcoal briquettes
into the base of the hibachi.  "He's only six."

"He's got AD.H.D."   Spencer frowned.   "What?"   "Attention Deficit
Hyperactive Disorder.   No one knows exactly what causes it, but they think
it's an imbalance of the neuro transmitters that send messages between brain
cells" -- "No," Spencer broke in forcefully,

"I've heard about AD.--whatever.  I just don't see what that has to do with
Davis.  He doesn't have a... a disorder.  He's just your typical kid."  Meg's
heart sank at the denial in Spencer's harsh voice.  She'd been afraid of this
reaction.  "He's been diagnosed by a pediatrician in consultation with his
kindergarten teacher," Meg said.  "And me, of course."

"I had trouble learning to read and write," Spencer said.   He crouched to
pour lighter fluid on the briquettes and lit a match.

"It's often carried through the male genes."  Flames flared over the
charcoal.  "Now you're suggesting I've got it!"

"No."   Meg wanted to warm her cold fingers at the fire, but Spencer's angry
glare made her turn away.   She hugged her arms around her waist and walked
over to the ramshackle wooden fence where the tattered white blooms of a
climbing rose clung to the boards.

"But maybe you had it as a child.  The fact that you've done so well gives me
confidence Davis will outgrow it and won't always have to take the
medication."

"You've got him taking drugs?"  Spencer exclaimed.  "Please keep your voice
down," Meg said, glancing at the open window into the kitchen.  ' "His is
only a mild case and he's on a very low dose.  There's nothing to be alarmed
about."

"I don't believe this."   "Well, you'd better start believing it, because
this is your son.   AD.H.D.   is part of his reality.   And mine."   "I
think this whole AD.H.D.   thing is way overblown," Spencer said, poking the
coals into place.   Gray tips had sprouted on the corners.   "I don't believe
in giving kids drugs.   And I don't want my son growing up thinking they're
the answer for every little setback in life."   "Your son?"   Meg said in a
harsh whisper.

"Excuse me, but you're in no position to make pronouncements on what you want
or don't want for Da- vis.  You haven't been around."  Spencer got to his
feet to return her whispered shout.  "If you'd told me I had a son" -- "You
haven't had to deal with his behavior.  The medication makes a real
difference."

"Keeps him doped up so he's easier to handle."   "It allows him to
concentrate so he can learn.   And anyway, what's wrong with me keeping my
sanity?   You don't know what he can be like."   Tears of anger and
frustration pushed at Meg's eyelids, threatening to spill.   Spencer rammed a
hand through his hair.   "I'm trying to learn."   "What's the point?   You're
not going to be around in the future."

"You don't know what I'm going to be doing in the future."  "Exactly!"

Meg took in a ragged breath.  "I resisted the pills for a long time.  I felt
the same as you.  But being on medication is better for Davis's self- esteem
than constantly failing or being yelled at by the one person who loves him
just as he is, not for who he should be."

 "I lo" -- He stopped abruptly.   He couldn't say it, she thought bitterly.

She'd accepted that he couldn't say he loved her.  But if he couldn't even
say he loved their son.  She bowed her head.  Spencer stepped forward and
wrapped his arms around her.  "I'm sorry, Meg.  So sorry."

She burrowed her head in the hollow of his neck.  "Sorry doesn't help."

"You're right to blame roe."  His arms tightened.  Oh, how she'd craved the
warmth of those arms.  The feel of his strong body next to hers.

The love and support, the passion and tenderness.  All this she missed and
longed for.  All this she felt in one simple embrace.  All this was false.
Spencer had never lied, never promised more than he could give.

She'd be a fool to start lying to herself.  With effort, she pulled away.
"Please don't" -- She broke off, hearing a sound from the house.

"What was that?"  Spencer lifted his head, his hands falling away from her.
The vibrating thrum of a guitar chord filtered through the window.  "Ray got
his guitar out," he said in amazement.  "He's playing for Davis."  Spencer
moved quickly toward the door, then paused on the threshold with a
triumphant grin.  "There can't be very much wrong with Davis if he's gotten
Ray out of his slump, can there?"

Meg rubbed the heel of her hand across her eyes.  The momentary lift she'd
felt at Spencer's happiness faded.  He didn't truly understand Davis.  If he
didn't understand, he wouldn't accept.  And if he didn't accept him, nor the
way she raised him, her job became that much harder.  Spencer walked softly
through the kitchen so as not to disturb Ray and Davis.  They sat side by
side on the shabby couch, Ray showing Davis where to put his fingers and
Davis's small hand stretching across the bridge of the guitar.  Neither
noticed Spencer.  "The strings hurt my fingers," Davis complained, even as he
stubbornly tried to press the wire down to the frets.  "You've got to toughen
them up, get callouses on your fingertips," Ray said.  "Okay, now hold the
pick in your right hand and pull it down the strings.  Over the hole.  That's
right."  A faint twang was plucked from the strings.  Brimming with
excitement, Davis gazed up at Ray.  Ray smiled back.  Spencer blinked, an
unexpected lump forming in his throat.  That's my son.  Davis glanced over.
"Hey, Doc!  Ray is going to teach me to play the guitar.

Listen.  " He strummed again, his splayed left fingers slipping on the frets
and delivering a discordant twang.  " You won't find a better teacher than
Ray.  Did he tell you he's almost a rock-and-roll legend?  "

Spencer said, grinning at his father.  "What do you mean 'almost'?"  Ray
flipped his ponytail indignantly over his shoulder.

Spencer laughed, he was so pleased to see Ray's spirit returning.  But the
adoring expression on Davis's face sent a fearful pang through him.

"You realize it takes a long time to learn how to play the guitar," he said
to his son.  Davis shrugged.  "That's okay."  Okay as long as you didn't have
a teacher who changed cities with as little thought as he changed his
underwear.  Spencer wanted to warn Davis not to expect too much.  Not to get
his hopes up in case they crashed.  Not to count on his grandfather to be
there for him.  He shook his head, trying to clear the emotional confusion.
And experienced a staggering empathy for Meg, knowing what she must feel in
relation to himself and Davis.

spencer walked along the path from the faculty parking lot just as Meg was
hurrying toward the biology building.  Her long blond hair streamed out
behind her, her cheeks were rosy with the cold and the blue of her eyes was
intensified by the bright cobalt blue of her wool jacket.  Her smile gave the
jolt to his system that three cups of coffee at breakfast hadn't been able to
accomplish.  "Do you have the tapes?"  he asked when she'd caught up.  Their
field trip aboard the Cape Beale the previous week had been more than
successful.  It had taken a whole day to locate the killer whales, but once
they had, they'd gotten enough hours of recordings for Meg to complete the
research for her thesis.

"Yes, although I had to make copies, because listening to them once wasn't
enough for Davis.  I can't wait to start analyzing these new recordings of
Ta- kush and her calf."

"By the time you're finished you'll be hearing whale calls in your sleep,"
Spencer said, holding the door for her.  "I already am."  She glanced at her
watch.  "I'd better run or I'll be late for my class.

See you later.  " She started off, then paused.  " Would you like to come for
dinner again on Friday?  Davis has been asking when we're going to see

"Doc' again."  Spencer was surprised at how good that made him feel.

"Thanks.  I will."

"Great.   Six o'clock.   Bye."   She hurried off.   Whistling, Spencer moved
along the hall to his lab.   He inserted the key in the lock.   The door
swung open--good.   Lee was here already.

He entered and stopped short.  Coming from behind the partition was the sound
of a very distressed Lee speaking on the phone in Cantonese.

His voice was high-pitched and strained, alternately defiant and diffident.
Spencer cleared his throat.  Even though he couldn't understand a word, he
didn't think it polite to listen without announcing his presence.  Lee broke
off abruptly and poked his head around the partition, his dark eyes wide and
worried.  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and uttered a single word in
English.  "Help."

Spencer strode across the room.  "What can I do?"  Lee jammed the receiver
against his chest.

"My father is very angry.  He found out I dropped out of economics class.  He
demands to talk to the professor.

Wants to know why his son failed the exam.  " Lee thrust the phone at
Spencer.  " Please.  You talk to him.  " " What?  Me?  What can I say?  "

But suddenly the phone was in his hand and Lee's beseeching gaze upon him.
If Lee had failed his exam, it was probably because Spencer had given him the
extra lab work he'd begged for.

"Hello.  Mr. Cheung?  This is Dr. Valiella, Lee' s... professor."

Without actually saying so.  Spencer let Cheung Sr.  think he was Lee's
economics professor.  He reassured him that Lee was indeed a good student and
was doing well in all his subjects.  The failed exam was a fluke caused by
fatigue and overwork.  Spencer said he was certain it wouldn't be repeated.
Lee would make up for the bad grade at Christmas.  "You're welcome, Mr.
Cheung," Spencer said, winding up at last.  "You know, Lee is also very
interested in marine biology" -- A barrage of excited Cantonese forced him to
temporarily hold the receiver away from his ear.  "I understand... yes... I
know... Yes, it is possible to make a living as a marine biologist.  No, not
a lot, but he'd be doing something he loves.  Isn't that important?"  Cheung
Sr.

then proceeded to tell Spencer what he thought was important--family honor,
tradition, carrying on the business he'd worked many years to build.  Spencer
couldn't find a lot to disagree with.  Yet he knew Lee was right, too.
Finally he said goodbye, handed the phone back to Lee and walked into his
office.  The leather seat let out a sigh as he slumped into it, head
pounding.  It was only Monday morning.  He pulled out a batch of essays he
was grading and tried to concentrate.  A few minutes later Lee appeared in
the doorway.  "Thank you.  Dr. Spencer."

Frowning, Spencer leaned back in his chair and toyed with the red marking
pen he held.  "Don't do that to me again."

"I won't.  Very sorry, Dr. Spencer."  Lee hung his head.  Spencer rocked
forward.  "Lee, look at me."  Lee peered between the strands of black hair
that had fallen over his eyes.  "Yes, Dr. Spencer?"

"You've got to decide, you know, whether you're going to be a businessman or
a biologist."  Damn Ashton-Whyte for being right.  ' "You think I should be
biologist?"  Lee asked eagerly, his smile resurfacing with the smallest
encouragement.  "I think you'd make a fine biologist--if that's what you want
to do.  But I can't make that decision for you.  Neither can your father."
He paused to let that sink in.  "But if you decide on marine biology, you're
going to have to tell your father.  This pretense can't last.  You know
that."

 "I know.

Thank you.  Dr. Spencer.  " friday afternoon, Meg spotted Davis through the
crowd of parents and children milling in front of the school and hurried
over.  Shoulders slumped, jaw set obstinately, he stood kicking the metal
base of the bicycle stand.  Her heart sank.  Of all days for Davis to be in a
bad mood... " Hi, honey.  Everything okay?  " She brushed the hair out of his
eyes so she could see his face.  Traces of dirt-smeared tears were visible on
his cheeks.  Davis shrugged, dropped his head and resumed kicking the bicycle
stand.  " I guess you've had a bad day," Meg said sympathetically, and took
his hand to lead him to the Toyota.  " You can tell me about it on the way
home.  We have to hurry.

Spen--, er.  Doc is coming for dinner tonight.  " As she edged into the
traffic, Meg asked,

"What happened?"

"Nothin'."   "Come on, Davis, I know something happened.   What is it?"   He
stared out the window.   "I got sent to the principal's office."   "Why was
that?"   Meg hid her shock by keeping her voice neutral.   It was the best
way she'd found to prevent whatever the crisis was from escalating.   "hit
Tommy," Davis mumbled.   "You hit Tommy?   Why?"   This time she couldn't
stop her voice from rising.   One eye on the road and the other on her son,
she navigated a left turn across an intersection and turned down their
street.   "He was mean."   Suddenly Davis blurted,

"I'm glad I hit him.

I hate him.  He's always annoying me.  " Meg breathed deeply.  " What did he
do that was so annoying?  " Davis turned away again.  " Dunno.  " " If you
don't know, then why did you hit him?  " " I forget.  " " Davis, we've talked
about hitting.  You know it's not right.  No matter what someone does, they
don't deserve to be hit.  Did you say you were sorry?  " " No.

That's why I had to go to the principal's office.  " " Well, Davis"-- Meg
gripped the steering wheel " --when we get home you're going straight to your
room.  "

"But, Mom!  Doc said he was going to play catch with me next time he came
over."  Meg would have liked to say, You should have thought of that before
you hit Tommy, but she didn't.  Kids didn't always think before they acted,
especially kids like Davis.  But she couldn't let him get away with bad
behavior just because she wanted him to look good in front of his father.
"Then I guess you'll both be disappointed."

Davis burst into tears.  He kicked the glove compartment.  He yelled at Meg
that she was the meanest mom in the whole world.  By the time she pulled up
in front of the bungalow, he'd worked himself into a full-scale tantrum.
Great.  Spencer's black Camaro was parked across the street.  Meg didn't wait
for Spencer to get out of the car; she didn't even look his way.  She hauled
Davis out of the car and carried him kicking and screaming into the house and
down the hall to his room.

"Time out, buster.  Ten minutes--fifteen if I hear one single peep.

Maybe, just maybe, you'll be allowed to play catch with Doc before supper.
If you behave yourself.  " She went back to the front door and greeted
Spencer with a weary smile.  " Sorry about that.  Davis had a fight at
school.  " " What about?  " Spencer asked, moving past her into the house.  "
Is he hurt?  Where is he?  " " He's not hurt, but the other kid is.  Davis
was sent to the principal's office.  " Spencer put an arm around her
shoulders.  " I'll talk to him.  " Oh, the seductive power of a comforting
embrace.  Of shared responsibility.  Meg shook her head and stepped away.  "
I sent him to his room.  He's being punished.  " " Were you ever sent to the
principal's office?  " " Of course not!  " " Well, I was.  I know what it's
like.  Let me talk to him.  " He's my son, too.

Spencer didn't say it aloud but his intense gaze communicated the message
loud and clear.  "Oh, all right.  Second door on the left down the hall."

CHAPTER TWELVE

davis sat on the floor, his knees up around his ears, and moved his toy cars
in ever-tighter circles, crashing them into each other in head-on collisions.
Stupid old principal.  Stupid old Tommy.  Stupid old Mom.

They didn't understand him.  Nobody understood him.  He didn't even know why
he acted so badly sometimes.  That was hardest of all.  Crash.

Crash.  Crash.  Crash.  There was a knock at the door.  Davis ignored it.  It
would just be Mom come to tell him again why he shouldn't hit.

He knew he shouldn't hit.  His hand had just flown up and smashed into
Tommy's shoulder before he knew what he was doing.  Knock, knock.  "Go away!"
"Davis?  It's me."  Doc.  Davis brought the little red sports car to a halt
before it smashed into the four-wheel drive.  "What do you want?"

 "I just want to talk."   Talk.   Davis knew what that meant.

All the things he'd done wrong and how he should try and behave better.

But somehow Doc seemed different.  He hadn't said anything about his wet
clothes that day at the beach.  "Okay."

The door opened and Spencer came in.  He sat on the floor beside Davis.
"Which is your favorite?"

"This one," Davis said, holding up the red sports car.   Spencer picked up a
white Camaro and ran it across the floor in front of him.   "I'll bet you a
doughnut my car can annihilate that old Jeep real easy."   "What's
annihilate?"   "Destroy!"

Spencer said and smashed the Camaro into the Jeep with a force that sent it
flying across the room.  "Cool!"  Davis said, and ran to retrieve it.  "Let
me try."  Mom hated it when he crashed his cars and lectured him about
damaging the cars and, the walls.  But Doc didn't mind.  He even liked it,
too, Davis could tell.  After they'd thoroughly annihilated the Jeep, they
lined up all the cars and set up a ramp to do an Evil Knieval-style jump.
While they worked they hardly needed to say anything.  Doc seemed to know
just what to do.  Davis laughed when his sports car crashed down in the
middle of the row of cars and quickly set them up again.  "I used to get in
trouble at school," Spencer said, holding his white Camaro by the roof and
moving it toward the ramp.  Here it comes, Davis thought.  "You know, Davis,
there are a lot of people out there who want you to be just like them.

They don't understand that it's your differences that make you special.  "
Mom was always saying he was special, but Davis hadn't heard anything quite
like this before.  He wasn't sure he understood.  " Tommy laughs at me when
I have to read out loud.  " " Tommy's a jerk.  Was that why you hit him?  "
Davis shook his head.  " He tells lies about me.  " " What kind of lies?  "
Davis's heart started to pound.  He was scared to tell Doc what Tommy said
about him not having a father in case it settled things once and for all--and
not in the way he hoped.  Making a vroommg sound in his throat, he pushed his
car down the ramp and sent it flying up and over all the cars.

"Good one!"  Spencer straightened the lineup of cars.

"If you know the truth, does it really matter what Tommy says?"  Davis
shrugged.  "I dunno."

"I guess other kids listen to Tommy and believe him."   Davis nodded.
Everybody listened to Tommy, instead of him.

"That kind of thing makes you hurt inside.  When I was a kid my dad and mom
went away for a long time.  I told everyone my dad was the leader of a rock
band and he was playing in Europe.  Nobody believed me.  They didn't like me
because I didn't fit in.  I wasn't good at games.  I didn't know how to make
friends."

"Did your dad come back?"   Davis found he couldn't take his gaze off Doc's
face.   Doc.   That wasn't his right name.   Spencer's straight dark brows
pushed together, making a wrinkle above his nose.

"Yeah, he came back eventually."

"Tommy says I don't have a dad."   Davis looked Doc straight in the eye.
"I know I have a dad.   His name is Spencer."

Davis held his breath while he waited for Doc to say something.  Would he
tell the truth?  Would he lie?  Or would he say something stupid like

"Everybody has a dad" The small bump in Doc's throat slid up and down.  Davis
felt his hands grow clammy and he gripped the sports car till the tires dug
into his palm.  "Afy name is Spencer," Doc said at last.  His voice was low
and raspy.  "I'm your father.  But I think you already know that."  Davis
blinked.  His throat closed up and he couldn't speak, so he nodded.  He
waited for Spencer to hug him or something, but he didn't.  He just put a
hand on Davis's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  "Hey, do you want to go
kayaking sometime, just the two of us?  I've got a kayak that seats two
people."  Davis nodded again.  "S-sure.  Thanks..."  He wanted to say

"Dad" but couldn't.

"Great."  Spencer unfolded his legs and rose to his feet.  "And, Davis?

I don't believe in violence, but sometimes the Tommys of this world need to
be reminded they're not the boss of you.  You're a great kid.

You do what you think is right.  " " Okay.  " Davis felt better than he had
in a long time.  His father liked him.  He hadn't gotten mad at him for
hitting.  He understood.  And he was taking him kayaking.  Happily, Davis
started to line up his cars again.  This time the sports car was really going
to kick some butt.  Meg was putting out the plates when Spencer came into
the kitchen.  Her questioning glance sought his across the table.

"Davis wasn't very happy with himself for what he did, but he's okay now."
Spencer hesitated.  "I told him."  Her eyebrows rose further.

"I thought we'd do it together when the time was right."

"It just came up."   If the situation had been reversed, he would have
wanted it to be a joint effort, too.   But he didn't think it pure conceit to
believe he'd made a difference to the boy today.   He knew how Davis felt in
this situation, probably better than Meg.   He walked around the table and
put his hands on her waist where it curved into her hips.   Mother of his
child.   He couldn't be angry with her anymore.   Not now that he knew what
it was like to feel protective of Davis.   "He knew already.   I don't know
how."   Meg's gaze shifted from his mouth to his eyes.

"More goes on in his head than I sometimes give him credit for because he
doesn't always express himself well."  Her eyes were so blue they made him
dizzy, as if he was looking up, up, up, into a summer sky.  "I said I'd take
him kayaking one day soon."  The tip of her tongue touched her lower lip as
she held his gaze.  "He'll like that."

"Can he" -- He forgot what he'd been about to ask.   He just wanted to bury
his hands in her hair, to kiss her sweet mouth.   Her shallow breath was
audible.

"Swim?  A little."  Spencer was drowning.  He bent to kiss the corner of her
smile.  She turned her head so their lips met full-on.

Meg--soft, warm, infinitely desirable.  He pulled her to him, molding her
body to his.  Their mouths opened to each other and their tongues met.
Suddenly he was so hard he ached.  His hand slipped inside her sweater,
skimmed upward across heated skin to cup her breast.  His thumb brushed her
nipple and she moaned, her hips pressing into his.  Oh, Meg.  Oh, Meg.
"Vrooom, vrooom, vrooom."  The sound of a toy car being driven along the wall
heralded Davis's approach.  Meg's lashes swept Spencer's nose.  She pushed
him away, fumbling to pull down her sweater.  "Oh, hello, Davis.

You can come out of your room now.  " Dazed, Spencer let her go only to be
confronted by Davis's curious gaze.  The boy looked at him, then said to his
mom,

"Spencer's my dad."  Spencer listened for anger or resentment.  After all,
they hadn't been straight with him.  There was nothing but quiet pride in the
boy's voice.  Pride in having him as his father.  Spencer hadn't considered
that possibility.  Or how good it would feel.  "That's right."  Meg pushed
back her long hair.  "I didn't tell you before because I was waiting for the
right time."

"What time is it?"   Davis asked, glancing at the wall clock.   Spencer
chuckled and caught Meg's eye.   She smiled back and a feeling of warmth
stole through him, catching him off guard.   This was what belonging to a
family felt like.   "Time for dinner," she said, and pulled her son into a
hug.   "Go wash your hands."   He didn't move.   "You two were kissing.

Are you going to get married?  "

Meg's gaze darted to Spencer's and back to Davis.  "Married?  My goodness,
no!"  Spencer didn't know what to say.  Marriage had never been in his plans.
"Better go wash your hands, Davis."  He stayed till Davis was tucked into
bed.  Before he had a chance to take up with Meg where they'd been
interrupted, she said, in her bright false voice, "Wow, look at the time.
It's been a really nice evening, but I've got homework to do.  Some slave
driver of a prof assigned the class three chapters to read and a ten-page
essay due next week."

 "You'll ace it."

He reached for her but she slipped away.  "If I do, it'll be because I work
like a dog.  Not everyone is naturally brilliant."  She continued toward the
front door, forcing Spencer to follow.  "You're kicking me out.  Why?"  She
dropped the pretense.  "Because of Davis, of course.

He saw us kissing and jumped to the conclusion we were going to marry.

What would he think if he found you in my bed?  " Spencer opened his mouth to
protest.  " You know that's where we were headed," she said.

"It's what I wanted."  He stepped closer, tucked a strand of hair behind her
ear, his eyes searching her face.  "I could leave before he gets up."  She
shook her head, her gaze never leaving his.  "I think about making love to
you."  His voice came out low and husky.  "All the time."  Meg shut her eyes,
swallowed and stepped back.  "It's too soon."

 "You mean, it's seven years too late."

She wrapped her arms around herself.  "No."  Spencer took a deep breath and
got hold of himself.  It wasn't going to happen.  At least not tonight.  He
took his jacket from the rack and put it on before opening the door and
stepping out onto the stoop.  "Davis took the news very calmly."  Meg came
forward to lean on the door frame.  "I know, and it worries me.  We haven't
talked about the future.  He may be expecting more than you're willing to
give."  She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.  But at this
point, the future was too uncertain for him to make pronouncements on it.
"One day at a time, Meg.  But no matter what happens, I'll always be his
father.  I won't forget that fact."  He leaned forward, unable to leave
without one more kiss.  Her lips felt lush and warm, but her mood was cold.
"What's wrong, Meg?"  he murmured.  "Nothing.  Everything.  I don't know.

Maybe I'm just tired.  " She pulled away and retreated into the warmth and
light of the house leaving him on the step with the cold wind seeping through
the seams of his jacket.  He jammed his hands into his pockets.  " I'll see
you tomorrow.  No, wait, not tomorrow.  I've got a field trip with my
first-year class.  I'll call you, okay?  " " Sure.  "

She gave him a small sad smile.  And shut the door.  spencer didn't see much
of Meg the next week; they were both in and out of the lab, busy with
classes, but he arranged to take Davis kayaking the following Saturday.  On
that morning.  Spencer was awakened by an unfamiliar sound outside his window.

A metallic click-thwack, click-thwack underscored by a swish, swish, swish.
What the hell?  He sat up in bed and pushed the dark blue curtains aside to
see Ray walk past pushing.  a manual lawn mower?

That was strange enough but.  Ray had cut his hair.  Gone was the ponytail
he'd worn for as long as Spencer could remember.  His black hair with its
frosting of silver had been cut in a short spiky style, and his chin was
shadowed by the bristly outline of a future goatee.

Ray turned the corner at the end of the patch of lawn, glanced up and saw
Spencer staring at him.  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and
waved.  Spencer twisted the latch and shoved on the window to push it open.
"What's going on?  Where'd you get that contraption?

What'd you do to your hair?  " Ray stopped pushing the mower.  " The old boy
up the road had a garage sale.  He gave it to me for a dollar.

How many things can you get these days that are so useful for only a dollar,
eh?  " " And your hair?  " Ray grinned and shrugged.  " Felt like a change,
is all.  " Spencer shook his head, unable to come up with a coherent
response.  Dropping the curtain, he pushed himself out of bed.

By the time he'd washed and had breakfast, Ray had finished cutting the lawn
and was stripping the peeling paint off the front of the cottage.

Spencer took him out a cup of coffee and sat on the step to drink his own.
His feet were bare and his toes curled against the cold, reminding him that
it was already November and the end of term wasn't far off.

"What brought on this surge of activity?"  he asked Ray.  "Can't sit around
doing nothing forever," Ray said, scraping energetically.  "It's not right
the boy should come here and see us living like pigs."  Well, well, would
wonders never cease?  "Isn't this the wrong time of year for painting
exteriors?"

"Just getting it ready for next spring.   The whole place could use some
sprucing up."   "You planning on being here next spring?"   Ray paused to
reach for his coffee.   "I might."   They eyed each other for a moment in
silence.   Finally, Ray said,

"I called my agent last night.  Told him I'm going solo.  I've been working
on a couple of new songs.  Whole new style."  Spencer nodded.  Once or twice
he'd heard his father playing late at night in his room.  What he'd heard
he'd liked, although he hadn't said a word for fear of jinxing it.  He was
just glad to see his father happy again.  "Comes a time when a man's got to
reinvent himself," Ray went on as he resumed scraping paint.  "If what you're
doing isn't working, you've got to change."

"Are you really going to give Davis guitar lessons?"   Ray squinted over his
shoulder.   "Afraid I didn't mean it?"   Spencer shrugged, not saying
anything.   "/'w not going to be the one to disappoint that kid," Ray said,
shaking his scraper at Spencer.

Finding the wooden porch suddenly uncomfortable, Spencer got to his feet.
The wind coming off the beach carried the iodine scent of seaweed, and far
out over the water it was already starting to rain.  "I gotta admit, it was a
shock to find out I'm a grandfather," Ray said.  "But now that I'm used to
the idea, I kinda like it.  It's a chance for me to make up for screwing up
as a father."

"Forget it.   Dad, you didn't screw up."   Spencer drained the last of his
coffee.   Ray glanced down at the scraper in his hands.

"I always felt bad about that year and a half we left you with Bob and
Julie."

 "Yeah, well."   Spencer set his gaze on a distant freighter.

"We were still struggling then.  Going to Europe was the chance of a
lifetime."  He shouldn't let his father get into this.  There was always a
justification.  Still.  "How could you abandon me to strangers?"  Ray glanced
at him in surprise.  "Bob was my cousin.  I hadn't seen him in a few years,
but at one time we were very close.

They had kids, animals.  I thought you'd like it there.  And I wasn't
abandoning you, I was protecting you.  " " From what?  " " Life on the road.
It was bad enough taking you that summer you were thirteen, but as a
five-year-old?  No way.  You would have missed your first year of school,
seen and heard things no child should see or hear.  And who would have looked
after you?  Your mom was part of the band.  " Spencer hadn't thought of it
that way.  Odd how childish feelings of rejection could color adult
perceptions.  But he was the last person to suggest Ray ought to have
compromised his career for someone else's sake.  " Yeah, well, maybe you're
right.  " He glanced at his watch.  " I've got to go.

I'm taking Davis kayaking.  "

" Say, Spence," Ray called after him.

Spencer turned and waited.  "All that boy wants is someone to look up to."
Spencer nodded, but he knew better.  Davis wanted a father to be there and to
love him.  meg peered fretfully through the kitchen window at the rain and,
shivering, wrapped her royal-blue robe around herself more tightly.  On the
radio the weatherman announced light winds increasing to strong later in the
day.  She wished Spencer hadn't said he'd take Davis kayaking today.  She was
still upset with Spencer.

She'd given him a clear opening to say he'd be around for Davis in the future
and he hadn't taken it.  Well, it was no more than she'd expected.  He'd
never been able to commit himself.  She supposed she should be grateful he
wasn't making promises he couldn't keep.

Patrick's humming baritone and light step made her turn.  "You're up early
for a Saturday," she said.  "Couldn't sleep," he replied, making a beeline
for the coffeepot.  "What's with Davis?  He almost knocked me over racing for
the bathroom to brush his teeth.  Is he sick or something?"

"Spencer is taking him kayaking."   Patrick folded his arms and gave an
exaggerated shiver.   "You wouldn't catch me on the water today for love or
money."

"Patrick, you're in the navy.  You're supposed to like the ocean."

"Yes, love, but we're on those great big boats, high above the actual wet
stuff."  He sipped at his coffee.  "The north Pacific is damn cold.

You fall in, you can die within thirty minutes in these temperatures.  "

"Thank you so much for reminding me."  Meg had awakened in the night from a
dream of Davis falling out of the kayak and floundering and sinking, hampered
by heavy clothing.  When he reached out to Spencer, his father wasn't there.
She snatched the phone off the wall and punched in Spencer's number.  "I'm
going to call and cancel.  It's too nasty a day."  As she picked up the
receiver, Davis raced into the kitchen.  "Is he here yet?"

"Shh, I'm on the phone.   Oh, hi.   Ray.   Is Spencer there?"   Her
shoulders slumped.   "Thanks, anyway.   No, no message."   She paused,
listening.   "How about next Saturday?   He's really looking forward to
learning to play.   Take care.   Bye."   She hung up and bent to put an arm
around Davis's shoulders.   "I don't know if you'll be going on the water
today, honey.   It's wet and miserable outside and" -- "Mom!"   Davis wailed.
"I wanna go kayaking."   "Weather conditions aren't very safe.   And not
much fun, either.   Spencer will tell you the same thing."   "But you
promised!"   She hadn't, but Meg wasn't about to engage in a session of

"Did too" "Did not" --a battle she never won.  Instead, she removed herself
to the laundry room to throw a load of wet clothes into the dryer.

Charlie the lizard slithered out from behind a rock and flicked his tongue
at her.  She heard the doorbell ring and hurried back out, but Davis had
already run to answer it.  Spencer entered, his hair beaded with water, his
shoulders damp.  Davis tugged on his jacket.  "We're still going kayaking,
aren't we?  It's not too wet, is it?"  Spencer reached out and ruffled
Davis's hair.  The simple gesture stabbed at Meg's heart.  "Of course we're
still going," he said.  "What kind of marine biologists would we be if we let
a little rain put us off?"

"You won't be kayaking among killer whales, I hope," Meg said, twisting the
cord on her bathrobe into a knot.  "Oh, boy, I hope we do!"  Davis exclaimed.
Over Davis's head.  Spencer lifted his eyebrows and Meg was marginally
reassured.  The gesture told her that he wasn't planning on pursuing killer
whales and that if he encountered any, they would keep a safe distance.  But
he wasn't going to say so aloud and spoil Davis's excitement.  "Well, if
you're really determined to go, I'll get the lunch I packed for Davis."

"I brought sandwiches."   "But you don't know what he likes."   "Peanut
butter and jam."   He glanced down at Davis.

"Right?"  Davis smiled up at him.  "Right"

"Have you got drinks?"

"Hot chocolate for Davis.  Coffee for me."  Spencer plucked Davis's raincoat
off the coat rack and handed it to him.

"What about a life jacket?"  she said, more to detain them than because she
thought he wouldn't have one.  Unfamiliar panic was overtaking her.  Spencer
had opened the door and Davis was slipping away.  "I borrowed a child-size
jacket from the neighbors."

"The wind is freshening."   "I checked with the Department of Meteorology
this morning.   The wind's from the southwest, gusting up to twenty knots.

I'll take him to Pedder Bay--it's very sheltered.  " He stepped onto the
porch.  " See you later this afternoon.  " " Wait!  " Meg cried.  " Davis's
medication.  " She ran back to the kitchen to dig the plastic pill container
out of Davis's lunch bag.  Patrick spooned bran flakes into his mouth and
shook his head in amusement.  She started back, then grabbed the lunch, as
well.  Davis was already in the Camaro, his face a pale blur behind the
rain-streaked glass.  " One tablet after lunch,"

she said, handing Spencer the vial.  "But he's got to eat first."

Spencer held the vial up to the light and frowned.  "There's half a dozen
pills in here."

"Just in case."   She thrust the plastic bag into his other hand.   "You
might as well take the sandwiches, too."   His dark green gaze softened.   He
laid his palm against her cheek and smiled.

"I'll look after him as if he was my own son."

"I know," she whispered, her eyes shutting briefly.   His touch made her
weak.   She'd been alone so long and the illusion of partnership, of love,
was so strong, so tempting.   And then his hand was gone and he was pulling
an envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket.   "If you're going near a
post office today, would you mind mailing this for me?"   She glanced at the
address.   Bergen, Norway.   "I've decided to defer the fellowship for a
year.   Get to know my son.   See what happens.   But maybe you shouldn't
tell Davis just yet."   Meg searched his eyes.   She saw confusion and the
willingness to try.   He'd accepted fatherhood, if only temporarily.   Slowly
she reached out and took the envelope.   Now, more than ever, she had to hold
on to her heart.   She gave him a little shove out the door.   "Go."   meg
HAD A TON OF HOMEWORK to do, but although she spread her books over the
kitchen table and sat herself down, she couldn't get her mind to focus.
"Why don't you come to the art gallery with me and Douglas?"   Patrick
suggested, checking his hair in the hall mirror.   "Thanks, but no.   I might
go visit my mother."   "Now there's a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
Give the Dragon Lady a big kiss from me.   Ta-ta, sweet cheeks," he said, and
waggled his fingers in farewell as he went out the door.   "Bye.   Have fun."
Meg put Spencer's letter in her purse and drove across town.   He was only
staying out of a sense of duty, but that was better than nothing.   Maybe.
As she passed the post office she slowed, but the traffic light was about to
change so she sped up to catch it before it turned red.   Plenty of time to
find a mailbox later.   The situation with her mother had improved in some
respects and deteriorated in others.   Helen no longer shunned Davis or
refused to talk about his A.   D.   H.   D.   Instead, she spent hours at
the library and on the Internet researching the subject--and coming up with
reams of unsolicited advice for Meg.   By the time Meg turned into the long
curving driveway, the rain had stopped.   She drove slowly past the
rosebushes, stripped of blooms but strung with spiderwebs beaded with water
droplets.   Helen was kneeling on an old cushion and digging in the garden
bed.   When she saw Meg, she brushed the dirt off her gloved hands and rose
stiffly to walk over to the car.   Her gray sweatpants were damp at the
knees, and she wore a yellow silk scarf around her neck above the matching
top.

"Hello, dear."  Helen glanced at the empty back seat.  "Isn't Davis with
you?"

"Spencer took him kayaking."   Okay, so maybe she had another reason for
coming by today--to let her parents know Spencer was taking a genuine
interest in his son.   "Is that safe?"   Helen asked, frowning.

"Perfectly," Meg replied blithely.  "What are you planting?"

"Hyacinth and daffodil bulbs.  Come and talk to me while I carry on.  I want
to finish in case it starts to rain again."  Meg glanced at the lowering
clouds.  They would be out on the water by now.  She hoped Spencer made sure
Davis wore his hat.  She took a handful of bulbs from the burlap sack lying
by Helen's cushion and crouched to dig a hole in the soft, loamy soil.  She
had to admit digging in the dirt held a certain sensual enjoyment.  Davis
apparently thought so; he liked to get right down and roll around in it.

"So Spencer has acknowledged Davis as his son?"  Helen's acerbic tone grated
on Meg's nerves.  "He never denied it.  Mother.  That day on the boat when he
left so abruptly he was just shocked by the news.  He likes Davis.  Likes him
a lot."

"But is he going to be a real father to him or just drop in whenever he's in
town?"   Something, some doubt or fear, stopped Meg from telling Helen that
Spencer was opting out of Norway to stay in Victoria.   "Wherever he is,
he'll be Davis's real father."   "Now, Margaret, you know what I mean.   I
only have your and Davis's interests at heart."   Meg rammed the hyacinth
bulb into the hole she'd dug.   "For six years you barely acknowledged
Davis's existence.   Now suddenly he's the flavor of the month and you're
blaming Spencer for not immediately knowing how his son is going to fit into
his life?   Give the guy a break."   Helen's Ups pressed together as she
stabbed at the earth with her trowel.   "How can you defend him after all
he's done to you?"   "He's done nothing to me."   "Then what has he done for
you?"   "He gave me Davis."   "He ruined your life."   "Mother.

My life is what I make it.  " " He won't marry you.  " j Meg put down her
trowel.  Damn Helen for saying | that.  All the hurt and fear and confusion
she was feel- I ing welled up.  She fought back the tears.

"I know," i she said quietly.  I

"Oh, Meggie."  Helen moved across the grass and I put her arms around her.
"You love him."  | Meg nodded against Helen's shoulder.  It seemed years
since her mother had embraced her.  Heedless of her dirty hands, she clutched
Helen's back.  Before she knew it, her tears were flowing.  "Does he love
you?"

"I don't know."

"Have a good cry--you'll feel better."   Helen rocked Meg as though she were
a little girl and not a full-grown woman.   Meg abandoned herself to being
comforted, soaking up her mother's love and support.   But when finally she
got herself under control, she wished she hadn't broken down in front of
Helen.   Slowly she lifted her eyes.

Helen's gaze was sympathetic rather than judgmental.  It almost made her cry
again.  "Thanks, Mom," she said, sniffing.  "I needed that."

Helen smiled and patted her on the back.  "I understand your attraction to
him."  Meg pulled back, surprised.  "You do?"  Helen nodded.  "He's
good-looking and sexy and intelligent.  But it's the attraction of the
unattainable, darling.  Not a good bet in the long run."

"I dreamed about this," Davis said from the bow of the kayak, awkwardly
wielding the heavy paddle with his small arms.   His stroke fell into the
water with a splash that would have sent the boat sideways had Spencer not
anticipated the movement and compensated with a stroke of his own.

"About kayaking?"  The boy hadn't stopped talking since they'd left the
house.  Spencer hadn't realized there were so many questions in the world.
The red bobble on Davis's knitted hat bounced as he nodded.  "I dreamed I
was in a kayak with my dad behind me.  And you are," he added happily.
"Wait'11 I tell Tommy."  Spencer paddled closer to the rocky tree-lined
shore, not knowing quite what to say.

Davis seemed to accept his sudden appearance so matter-of factly and to take
for granted Spencer's continuing presence in his life.  Spencer almost felt
he should warn the boy, but couldn't bring himself to damage the bond forming
between them.  "Do you have a lot of dreams?"

"Oh, yes," Davis said, and went on to describe in vivid detail his latest.
Spencer listened in wonder.  Until Davis, he'd had no idea children led such
complex inner lives.  To the boy, everything was a source of intense
interest, from the row of long-necked black cormorants perched on a log to
the whiskery splash of a sleek brown head as a harbor seal slipped beneath
the water.  With Davis, Spencer felt as if he was experiencing being on the
water for the first time.

The splash the paddles made as they dipped, the cool wetness on their cheeks
as the breeze blew the spray back into their faces.  When Davis was older and
a more accomplished paddler.  Spencer would take him out on the open water--
Spencer chopped his thoughts short.  He'd put off going to Norway for the
moment, but just how long was he planning on staying here?  One year?  Two?
It was almost impossible to imagine.

Would he be around to teach Davis how to paddle properly?  Or how to swim and
use a snorkel?  The boy needed someone to play catch with, too.  Sure, he had
Meg's father, but Roger was, well, Roger.  Ray was teaching him
guitar--until he got a hankering for different scenery and took off.  Spencer
decided he'd leave this kayak behind when he left so Meg could take Davis to
see the killer whales.  The decision made him feel only slightly better.
weeks flew by, and suddenly Meg noticed that Christmas decorations had gone
up in stores.

It was early December and still she hadn't mailed Spencer's letter.  It
weighed on her conscience.  She thought of it whenever she passed a mailbox.
Once she even went so far as to push it halfway through the mail slot.  But
at the last minute she pulled it out again and stuffed it back in her purse.
For regardless of all Spencer's efforts to be a dad, she knew he wasn't fully
committed to staying in Victoria.  Oh, he saw Davis regularly and she could
tell he enjoyed their son's company.

But there was an air of impermanence about him that she couldn't pin down,
but couldn't entirely dismiss, either.  Maybe it had something to do with the
fact that ever since the night Davis had caught them kissing.  Spencer hadn't
tried for a repeat performance even though the sexual tension between them
had heated unabated till the pressure was almost unbearable.  If he really
intended to stay, he would have pursued an intimate relationship.  What she'd
admitted to Helen was true--she loved Spencer.  But it wasn't enough that he
should stay for Davis's sake.  She wanted him to stay for her, as well.  She
wanted them to marry so they could become a real family.  But unless and
until he wanted that, too, until he spoke those very words, Meg wasn't going
to burn his bridges.  The time might come, sooner than he thought, when he'd
decide to leave, after all.  If that happened, she knew she'd want him out of
her life as fast as possible.  So the letter sat in her purse in a tangled
nest of grocery-store receipts and tissues, its edges curled and worn, a
constant reminder of how her life could change on a whim.  And then one day
while she was working in the lab and her eyes were starting to cross from
staring too long at spectrograms and her brain was turning to mush from
hearing the same weeoaws over and over again, she heard a slightly different
sound.  She played it again just to make sure.  She peered at the
accompanying spectrogram, and excitement started to build.  She'd have to
analyze it statistically to be certain but.  "Spencer!"  she shouted, leaping
to her feet.  "Come and see this!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"i'm going to run the program again to double- check," Meg said to Spencer
from her seat in front of the computer.  Spectrograms of Takush and her calf
etched themselves across the monitor screen.  Spencer glanced at her tired
intent face as she punched in the commands, and wondered if she was taking
care of herself.  Wondered what she'd say if he put his hand on her cheek and
brought her mouth slowly around to meet his lips.  Who was he kidding?  He
didn't even kiss her casually hello and goodbye anymore.  Every time he so
much as brushed her lips with his, he became instantly aroused.  He thought
about her every second of the day and night.  He wanted her so badly he could
taste it.

Sometimes he caught her looking at him, and knew she wanted him just as much
as he wanted her.  But he didn't pursue a physical relationship.

It wasn't fair when he knew she wanted more from him.  Meg was being cautious
and he didn't blame her.  He was beginning to think he shouldn't have
canceled Norway so hastily.  The tighter the bonds of responsibility and
commitment became, the more he wanted to run.  "If this test confirms your
results" -- "Don't," she said quickly.

"Because if it doesn't, I'm going to shoot myself.  I should have been
studying for Christmas exams this week, instead of spending all my time on my
project."

"A little sleep wouldn't have hurt, either."   "Sleep?   What's that?"
"How's Davis?"

Ever since their kayaking trip Spencer devoted Saturdays to his son.

They went beach combing, to a movie, and once they went on the ferry to
Vancouver and visited the aquarium in Stanley Park.  And he always made
sure he was home when Meg brought Davis out to the cottage for a guitar
lesson with Ray.  When they weren't together, Spencer thought about the boy
and wondered what he was doing and how he was feeling.

"He's supposed to be a reindeer in the school Christmas concert, but he
refuses to wear antlers."  Meg's voice held exasperation and a touch of
motherly indulgence.  "I'd feel silly in antlers, too."  Spencer was tolerant
of Davis's quirks, but maybe that was because he didn't have to deal with
their consequences on a daily basis.  He knew now how frustrating the boy's
unpredictable and sometimes difficult behavior could be.  Yet also how
rewarding his quick intelligence and huge capacity for affection were.  Meg
flashed him a wary glance.  "He's hoping you'll come to the concert."

"When is it?"   he asked, equally wary.   Appearing in public as a family
was something he had trouble dealing with.   He was trying hard to do and be
everything a dad was supposed to, but he hadn't been able to perform one
essential task--making a commitment to Meg and Davis in his heart.   Norway
was always at the back of his mind as an escape hatch.   With one call to
Bergen he could be gone.   There were days when his hand itched to pick up
the phone.   "Next Wednesday night," she said.   "At the school."   "That's
the night my Philosophy of Science class is sitting their exam."   "Can't you
get someone else to supervise?"   "I promised I'd buy them all a beer
afterward."   Meg turned back to the computer, her lips compressed.   i

"I'm sorry, Meg.  It's not something I can get out I of."

"Don't worry about it.   I understand how a bunch of students could be more
important than your son."   What might have developed into an argument was
cut short by the sound of voices in the corridor.   Voices speaking
Cantonese.   A moment later Lee entered the lab with a balding man in a
well-cut business suit.   Lee glanced nervously at Spencer.

"Dr.  Spencer, this is my father, Cheung Yau."

"Hello, Mr. Cheung."  Spencer rose and extended his hand, hoping this wasn't
what he thought it was.  "Welcome to the lab.  Have you come to see where Lee
works?"

 "I have come to take my son back to Hong Kong,"

Mr.  Cheung replied, courteously dipping his head.  "Pack your things, Lee."
"Yes, Father."  Lee cast a dejected glance at Spencer as he slipped past him
to the desk behind the partition.  In a few seconds they could hear the
sounds of him emptying his drawer.  Mr. Cheung waited silently, hands clasped
in front of him.  Spencer pushed his fingers through his hair.  He couldn't
believe Cheung was going to take Lee away.  He had to do something, or Lee
would lose all he'd worked for.  He glanced at Meg.

White-faced and anxious, she'd risen from her chair, her spectrograms and the
new stats program forgotten.  "Mr.  Cheung," Spencer began, "Christmas exams
start soon.  If Lee leaves now, he won't get credit for the term."  Cheung
Yau bowed his head again.  "Lee will stay to write his business exams, but I
do not wish him to be distracted by working in this laboratory.  As for
biology exams, they are irrelevant."

"But what will he do back in Hong Kong?"   "He will go to work in my office
until he can enrol at a local university.   In the business school."   Lee
reappeared, his ordinarily smiling face set in gloom.   All his energy and
exuberance seemed to be packed into the briefcase that weighed down his right
arm.   "I am very sorry, Dr. Spencer, to leave so suddenly.   Please tell Doc
I will finish the journal article and send it e-mail..."   His voice trailed
off, his Adam's apple bobbing.   Spencer stepped between Lee and his father.
' "Lee, you've worked hard to accumulate your biology credits.   If you went
to summer school, you could probably start an honors project next year.   And
after that, a master's degree."   An agonized expression appeared on Lee's
face.   "Lee, come," his father commanded.   Lee hesitated, then started
forward.   "Wait a minute," Spencer ordered.

"Mr.  Cheung, Lee has what it takes to be an excellent biologist."

"Lee also has an aptitude for business."  "What do you think.  Lee?"

Spencer demanded.

Lee glanced at his father and shifted his briefcase to his other hand.

"I could do biology or business."

"But marine biology, you love.   What about your passion for killer whales?"
Lee hung his head.   "Imagine what it would be like to spend the rest of
your life doing something you don't enjoy.   Living somewhere you don't want
to be."   Stuck in Victoria, under Ashton-Whyte's thumb.   Just the thought
made Spencer start to perspire.   "" Think, Lee.   What do you want?   "
Slowly, Lee raised his head.   Conflict raged in his tortured eyes.   Tension
pulled the skin taut around his unsmiling mouth.   He looked at Spencer.   He
looked at his father.   " Family honor comes first.   " His father nodded
approvingly.   " Nothing is impossible if you want it badly enough,"

Spencer said, refusing to give up.  "You can write your own story."

Lee stared at Spencer, his gaze opaque now.  Cheung Yau barked out a few
sharp words in Cantonese Lee's shoulders stiffened and he moved toward his
father and the door.  "Goodbye, Dr. Spencer.  Thank you for all you have done
for me."  All he'd done wasn't anywhere near enough.  Spencer's gaze darted
to Meg.  "You can jump in anytime."

She gave her head a tiny shake.  She hugged Lee, blinking hard.  "Good luck,"
she said, a catch in her voice.  "Come back as soon as you can."

And then Lee and his father were gone.  Just like that.

Spencer turned on Meg.  "Couldn't you have said something to try to get him
to stay?"

"Do you think he'd listen to me with his father right there?"   she shot
back.   "People do what they have to do.   You should know that better than
anyone."   "But he's just thrown away years of study.   Hell, he's thrown
away his future.   Don't you care about that?"   "Of course I care.   But you
can't interfere.   You want him to choose biology because that's what you see
as most important.   Maybe he's just dabbling.   Maybe this isn't the big
crisis of conscience you think it is for him."   Spencer shook his head.
"Doc doesn't waste time with dabblers.   Look what Lee's already gone through
to work with killer whales.   He deserves a chance to study marine biology if
that's what he wants.   He could have told his father he wasn't going back to
Hong Kong.   Maybe he would have if he thought more people were on his side."
"I know what it's like to want and wait and sacrifice to get an education,"
Meg said forcefully.   "It's worth almost anything.   But I'm afraid I don't
agree with your individual-is-all stance."   She jumped up and pushed past
him to her desk, returning with her backpack and purse.   "I've got to get
out of here."   She was out the exit door and halfway down the steps when
Spencer caught up with her.   "Why are you running away?"   She strode on.
"I'm not running away."   "Then maybe you're on your way to my car."   "I'm
not going anywhere with you."

"Have you forgotten?"  he said.  "We're visiting Doc today."  Meg strode on.
"I'm not in the mood for visiting."  Spencer grabbed her arm and made her
stop.  "Don't you want to tell him your results?"  She clapped a hand over
her mouth.  "My results!"  Together they hurried back into the lab.  The
computer had finished running the new stats program, and the results she was
hoping for stared up at her from the monitor screen.  Meg shrieked and threw
her arms around Spencer's neck, their heated words forgotten.  "It's true!
Oh, Spencer, we did it!"

He picked her up and swung her around.  "vom did it."  Laughing, Meg said,

"I couldn't have without your help."  Spencer set her back on her feet, his
eyes locked with hers.  "We make a helluva team."  Meg's breath caught in her
chest as his intense gaze dropped to her mouth and his lips parted.  She
pushed herself out of his arms.  "If only Lee could have stayed just a little
longer, he would have known about this, too."

"There'll be a lot of things he won't learn about now."   "Oh, Spencer, I do
feel badly about Lee."   She laid a hand on his arm.   "I'm sorry."   "Hell,
it's sure not your fault."   His hand closed over hers and squeezed.   "Let's
go see Doc."   While Spencer got his things from his office, Meg hit the
print button and waited impatiently for the sheets of data.   Spencer came
out, one arm in the sleeve of his jacket, a sheaf of papers stuffed in his
briefcase.   "Have you got the tapes?"

"Never go anywhere without them," she said, patting her backpack.

When they were in the car, Meg took his briefcase and tried to shuffle the
crumpled pages into order.  "These are student essays you've messed up.  Do
you have any idea how much care these kids take to make them perfect?"
"Since when did you become a neat freak?"  He took the briefcase away from
her and tossed it into the back seat.  Then he started the engine and
squealed out of the parking lot.  "You know what your trouble is?"  Meg said,
stabbing the air in his direction.  In spite of Lee's departure, getting the
results she'd hoped for had put her on top of the world, and she was more
than ready to take Spencer to task.  "You think you can have it all your own
way."  One hand draped over the wheel, he squinted sideways at her.  "What
are you talking about?"

"You're just like your father--afraid of the future."   Spencer snorted
disparagingly.   "It's true," she said.   "You're treading water, refusing to
acknowledge it's time to move on to another stage of life."

"Just what am I supposed to metamorphose into?"  Spencer flattened a hand
against his chest.  "This is it, baby.  What you see is what you get.  My
father's problem is that for years he's been living in the past and he's only
just realized it."

"It would help if you weren't so critical of him.   But I guess I shouldn't
be surprised," she said, turning away and putting her nose in the air.
"According to you, family obligations are subordinate to individual desires."

"Oh, no, you can't throw that back at me.  I've given him money, listened to
his drunken ramblings..."  Spencer pushed a hand through his rumpled hair.
"He's trying, I guess, to bring himself up to date.

Look at the haircut.  " " The haircut is nothing.  Don't you know Ray is that
close to signing a new recording contract?  " She held up two fingers almost
touching.  Spencer turned to stare at her.  " Are you kidding me?  " " Watch
out!  " He straightened the wheel, narrowly missing an oncoming delivery
truck.  " Why didn't he tell me that?  " She shrugged.

"Maybe he wants it to be a sure thing first.  For some strange reason he
values your opinion of him."

 "Well, I'll be damned,"

Spencer said, grinning proudly.  "This will be a solo album, right?"

She nodded.

"Did you know he's seeing a woman?"

"The painter who lives a few cottages down from us?   Yes, I know about her.
I'm not totally out of touch."   Meg turned sideways in her seat to face
him.   "Ray is doing just fine.   What are you doing to step out of the
past?"   His smile faded.   "I'm moving forward all the time."   "Right," she
muttered.   "So fast no one can keep up."   Spencer turned onto the short
gravel road that led to Doc's Panabode house overlooking the ocean.   "Here
we are."

Marjorie Campbell, a tall strapping white-haired woman in a hand knit sweater
and skirt of russet wool, opened the door.  "Spencer, Meg!"  she boomed.
"Angus is waiting for you.  I've got hot griddle scones and a pot of tea
ready.  Come in, come in."

"Thank you, Mrs. Campbell," Meg said, stepping inside.   "Call me Marjorie,
my dear."   They followed Marjorie through to a light-filled living room with
floor-to-ceiling windows where Angus Campbell, leaning on a walking stick,
was squinting through a telescope.   "Hello, lad," Doc said to Spencer as he
straightened.   "Meg, you're a sight for sore eyes."   "Hiya, Doc."

Spencer clasped Angus's good hand.  "Hi, Dr. Campbell," Meg replied.

"See anything interesting?"  He grinned evilly.  "There's a couple sunbathing
in the nude down the beach."

 "In the middle of winter?"

Marjorie scoffed.  "Do you think we're all daft?  You can't believe a word he
says," she told Meg and Spencer as she bustled over to help her husband back
into his reclining chair.  "Look at you, man, you're supposed to be resting."
"Rubbish.  Go fetch the tea and scones like a good wee wifey."  He waved Meg
and Spencer over to the sofa.

"Sit down."  Meg intercepted a worried glance from Spencer as they took their
seats side by side.  She knew what he was thinking.  In spite of Dr.
Campbell's bluster, he still walked with a limp and didn't appear to have
full use of his right hand.  Both those things would likely come right with
time and physiotherapy, but there was no escaping the fact Doc was a lot
frailer than he used to be.  "Heard from Ashton-Whyte lately?"  Spencer
asked.  Doc waved his left hand in disgust.  "Aye.  He ferreted out my true
age.  Lord knows how.  But I don't want to talk about that rat bag.  Meg,
how's your project coming along?"

"Wonderfully," she replied, digging in her backpack for her preliminary
results.   "I've identified calls from Takush's calf, as well as interactions
between the mother and baby.   And" -- she glanced at Spencer and the look of
pride in his eyes intensified her excitement "--I've identified a call used
by those two that isn't used by the rest of the group."   Doc pushed his
chair to an upright position.   "Isn't that interesting.   Are you sure about
that?"   "Spencer helped me design a statistical test to determine if it is,
in fact, distinct from a call made by all the whales in Kitasu's group," Meg
said.   "And I'm running a literature search to see if anyone else has
recorded similar results."   "So far, it looks like a first," Spencer said.
Doc's eyes gleamed.   "What were the whales doing when they made the call?
Did you get any direct observations?"   "The call appears to be associated
with the calf nursing from its mother," Meg said.   "It makes some sense when
you think about it.   After all, nursing is something these two share that
the others don't."   "This is thrilling news, Meg," Doc said.

"You're taking it calmly."  She shrugged modestly but knew her face must be 
glowing.  If her results proved correct, it was a very big deal and would
gain her recognition in certain scientific circles.  "Until I double-check
all the stats and get the results of the literature search, I'm keeping a
rein on my excitement."

 "Very wise," Doc said.

"Keep me posted."

"Of course.   You're still on my supervisory committee."   Doc's bushy dark
eyebrows pulled together.   "Not if Ashton-bloody-Whyte has anything to do
with it."   Spencer started to open his mouth but Doc held up a hand.   "No,
don't talk to me about that man."   Marjorie Campbell returned with a loaded
tray, which she set on the glass-and-walnut coffee table.   "Has Angus been
telling you about his plans for retirement?"   "Retirement?"   Spencer
exclaimed.

"Is AshtonWhyte forcing you out?  You can fight it, Doc.  There must be an
appeal process."

"Calm down, lad," Angus said quietly.   "I don't want to fight it, though I
do want to see Meg's thesis through."

Marjorie had gone to stand behind his chair and now he reached up to grasp
his wife's hand.  "I'll go on my own before I let that hamster handler push
me out.  The stroke was a warning to slow down.  We're going to take an
Alaska cruise" -- "We're going to the Caribbean,"

Marjorie interjected.

"I fancy a little warm air and sunshine.  And you're not going to spend your
holiday looking for killer whales.

Before we knew it, you'd be lowering a lifeboat into the water to get closer
to the wretched beasts and having another stroke.  "

 Doc scowled up at her.  "We're going to Alaska, woman, so I'll hear no more
of your nonsense."  Behind his head, Marjorie mouthed, "Caribbean" to Spencer
and Meg.  Meg suppressed a smile.  She'd lay money the Campbells ended up in
Jamaica.  "Er, when are you planning this trip to... Alaska?"

"As soon as the physios will let me go.   I'll be back in time for your
thesis defense," Doc assured her.   "And I daresay these new cruise ships
have facilities on board for e-mail.   You can post me your thesis and I'll
post back my comments."   "But when did you decide all this?"   Spencer
asked, getting up to pace the room.   He clearly wasn't happy with the
situation.   "We've been talking about it for some time, but we only made the
final decision when you told us you weren't going to Norway.   I wouldn't
have wanted to leave Meg wi&out one of us to supervise her thesis."   He
glanced at Meg.   "With Spencer as your adviser, you can't go wrong."   Meg
nodded.   And thought about the letter.   Doc turned to Spencer.
"Ashton-Whyte will be calling you any day, no doubt, to offer you my
position."   Spencer turned to gaze out the picture window.   Silence filled
the room.   Then his face angled toward the light and Meg caught his
expression in profile.   Trapped.

There was no other word to describe the look of his downtumed mouth and drawn
features.  One way or another, she was responsible for him being stuck in
Victoria.  Finally, with a grim smile, he turned back to her and the
Campbells.  "I guess it's me and the hamster man."  meg followed spencer down
the Campbells' winding front path to his car.

Dead leaves littered the lawn and skeleton twigs reached across the paving
stones to scrape her cheek.  "You don't have to do it, Spencer,"

she said.  "You don't have to stay."  He put the key in the lock and turned
to look at her.  "What choice do I have?  I canceled Norway in that letter.
Even if I hadn't, I couldn't leave you without a supervisor."  She shrugged,
pretending his presence or absence didn't matter one whit.  "I've already got
most of my results and, like Doc said, we can correspond by em ail.  As for
Norway" -- she reached into her purse and withdrew his letter to Dr. Henrik
Jorgensen "--I'm sorry, I just never got around to mailing it."  Slowly he
reached for the envelope.  "I'll mail it."  But just for a second his eyes
had lit up and she glimpsed his true feelings, the elation and the relief at
knowing the bridges he'd thought were burned were suddenly whole again.

Something died inside her.  Hope.  Funny, she thought she'd lost that a long
time ago.  christmas exams came and went and Spencer still hadn't mailed the
letter.  Mail it and he was stuck in Victoria, playing a role in which he
felt increasingly uncomfortable.  Tear it up and he could go on to Norway
as planned.  Spencer hadn't told anyone in the department he was thinking of
staying in Victoria.  As far as they all knew, he was still leaving at
Christmas.  Getting the letter back was a reprieve, as though the past two
and a half months of playing at being a father had been a dream and he could
wake up if he chose to.  Moving on tempted him every waking moment and at
night he dreamed his Camaro had sprouted wings.

The biology building was silent when Spencer let himself in late one morning
two days before Christmas.  The students had all gone home and only a handful
of die-hard professors and research assistants beavered away quietly in their
labs.  Spencer didn't have any real work to do, but Ray was out with his
girlfriend, Linsey, and Meg and Davis were at her parents'.  It seemed a good
time to tidy up loose ends.  He put the key in the lab door and found it
already open.  Strange.  He came around the lab bench and stopped short.  Lee
was seated at the computer.

"Lee!"  he said, coming forward with a glad smile.  "I thought you'd have
left for Hong Kong by now."  Lee jumped up, a huge smile on his face.  "I
write my own story, as you say.  It is about killer whales, not business.  I
told my father, no business degree for me!"

"Good for you!"   Spencer clapped him on the shoulder.   "You think I will
be able to write make-up exams for biology?"   "Absolutely.   I'll help you
explain the situation.   This is fantastic."   Lee's smile widened.   "I am
glad you are happy."   "It's more important that you're happy."   Spencer
threw his briefcase down on the lab bench.   "Wait till you hear about Meg's
results with Takush and her calf."   He went on excitedly, telling Lee all
about her findings.

Suddenly he stopped.  Something was wrong.  Lee wasn't really paying
attention.  He wasn't smiling and getting excited.  And then Spencer noticed
the dark circles under the young man's eyes and his drawn face.

"What is it.  Lee?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."   "Was your father okay with your decision?"   Lee's
face crumpled and he seemed to shrink from within.   "No, he is not okay with
it.   He is very unhappy with me.   He cut off my money, for one thing."
Spencer dropped into a chair.   Foreign-student fees were high.   This was
serious.   "Maybe we can squeeze more hours out of the grant budget for you.
Have you thought about moving into shared accommodation?   It's often
cheaper."

"Money is not the real problem," Lee said, blinking rapidly, his eyes very
black in his pale face.  Oh, no.  Spencer's heart sank.  He had a bad feeling
about this.  "What is the problem?"

"Father says" -- Lee swallowed, his bony Adam's apple bobbing "--I am no
longer his son."

Spencer pulled back in stunned disbelief.  "He disowned you?"  Lee nodded
then quickly averted his head.  "He says if I stay in Victoria I am not
welcome back to the family home."  Guilt propelled Spencer to his feet and
sent him pacing across the lab.  It was his fault.  He had prodded Lee into
choosing biology.  Lee had followed his advice and now he was miserable.  Meg
was right.  He had no right to interfere.

 "He'll forgive you.  You're his son."  He was ashamed to realize he was
asking Lee for reassurance.  Lee shook his head.  "He is a proud man with big
hopes for his only son.  He will not forgive."  His mouth tugged into a wan
smile.  "I am very fortunate to know you.  Dr. Spencer.  You are very kind,
helpful.  You are like family to me."

Every word of praise and regard stabbed like a knife.  The unspoken message
that now Spencer was all the family Lee had put the twist on the blade.  His
chest tightened as though he were being squeezed by a giant vise.  It was too
much responsibility.  He'd never wanted it, never asked for it.  He wasn't
worthy of trust.  He wasn't dependable.

He'd failed Human Relations 101 and now he was screwing up people's lives.
An awful thought occurred to him.  What if it had been Davis's life he'd
screwed up?  He really ought to do them all a favor and leave.  Just go to
Norway as he'd planned.  The thought of leaving the entire tangled mess
behind brought a sweet rush of relief.  A lifting of an insupportable burden.
He made the decision on the spot.  "Uh, Lee, I guess you didn't know--I'm
going to Norway, after all."

White-faced, Lee stared at him.  His voice sunk to a whisper.  "When?"

"Tonight.  Or maybe tomorrow."  Whenever he could get a ticket.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Lee said.  "My father flies out tomorrow, too."
Spencer fell into an agonized silence.  He was afraid to say anything in case
he made matters worse, but Lee looked so miserable he had to do something.
"Maybe you should go with him.  Lee.  Doc's retiring, I'm leaving.  Sort
things out with your father and when you can come back to biology I'll do
whatever I'm able to help.  We'll stay in touch through Meg."  Lee nodded
sadly.

"Why do you not stay for Christmas with Meg?  I thought you and she make
romance."  They'd told no one about their personal history, not even Lee, so
he had to be guessing.  "No," Spencer said, "there's no romance between Meg
and me."  And now that he was going to Norway, there never would be.  But he
couldn't leave without saying goodbye to her.  He'd promised he wouldn't do
that to her again.  Nor could he do it to Davis.  "I--I've got to go, Lee.  I
wish I could stick around but ...I've got to go."  He grabbed his briefcase
and headed for the door.  "Got to go."  He pushed through the lab door and
headed toward the exit.

"Spencer!"  Dr. Ashton-Whyte's voice boomed down the empty corridor.  Spencer
groaned.  Ashton-Whyte was absolutely the last person he wanted to see right
now.  Reluctantly he slowed his headlong flight.

"Randolph."  Ashton-Whyte caught up with him and flung an arm around his
shoulders.  "Looking forward to the holidays, my boy?"  Spencer glanced with
distaste at the beefy hand clutching him in fake camaraderie.  His intense
dislike of Ashton-Whyte bordered on the irrational, but dammit, the man stood
for everything he'd avoided all his life--small-minded adherence to
regulations, mind numbing routine and rigid thinking.  He stepped away,
regaining his personal space.  "I'm in a hurry."

"This will only take a moment.   It's come to light that Dr. Campbell is
well past the age of retirement.   The situation I alluded to some time ago
has come to pass, and we used a permanent replacement.   Naturally the
position will be advertised, but your application could be fast-tracked
should you choose to submit."   "Took you a while to get to me.   Did you
already have a look around and not find anyone to take the position on short
notice?"   "Well, humph, ah..."   Ashton-Whyte pulled on his mustache.
"Just answer the question--do you want the job or not?"   Spencer started for
the double glass doors that would take him out of here.   "I've got a
research position in Norway.   I'm leaving on the next available flight."

Ashton-Whyte followed him outside into the frigid December air.  His phony
smile turned to a frown.  "This is a good opportunity.  Assistant
professorships don't come up every day."

"Sorry, I can't help you out."   He lengthened his stride down the path to
the faculty parking lot.   The last thing he heard was Ashton-Whyte calling,

"The keys to your office and lab.  Dammit, Valiella, give them back!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

black thoughts crowded Spencer's inner vision like the dense forest that
encroached the winding road back to the cottage.  It was only four o'clock
and already darkness was falling.  He didn't have to go to Norway.  No one
was forcing him.  He had a job he was a fool to leave, in a part of the world
he'd always loved.  Leaving Meg and Davis would tear him apart.  Part of him
longed to stay, to slip into a life of love and companionship.  But every
time he thought about Lee, his hands started to tremble and he had to grip
the wheel.  He'd let that kid down badly.  The scary thing was he still
didn't quite know how it had all come out so wrong.  His take on the world
was obviously faulty, his judgment too different from the norm for him to be
a good influence on others.  What kind of father would he be to Davis?  Meg
was doing a great job raising him.  Who was he to barge in and screw it all
up?

Davis was too important to be at the mercy of someone like him.  He'd tried
to be a part of their lives, but it wasn't working.  His father hadn't been
able to stick out domestic life and he couldn't, either.

Sometimes he had visions of marrying Meg.  Of the two of them living,
working, loving together.  Until he thought of all that went with that
scenario--mortgage, routine, boredom.  Sooner or  later he'd leave again.
Run, like the coward he was.  Like he'd run from Lee today.  Oh, God, Lee.
Spencer groaned.  How could he have just taken off from the lab that way?  No
explanation.  No advice or provision for the future.  He hadn't thought; he'd
just acted.  But maybe it was better.  Make a clean break.  Yes, that was the
only way.

For all concerned.  A few thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall as he
turned in to the cottage driveway.  But lights were on, which meant Ray was
home.  Good.  He wanted to get all his goodbyes over with tonight.  Spencer
heard the shower running and Ray singing above the sound of the spray, so he
went straight to his room to pack.  Some of this stuff he'd have to have
shipped on to him, such as his books and equipment from the lab.  He crammed
as much as he could into his suitcase.  Then from the closet, he took a large
package wrapped in Santa Claus paper.  Davis's Christmas present.  He was
staring sadly at it when Ray appeared in the doorway, dressed and toweling
dry his short hair.  "You're back early.  Want to grab a meal with me and
Linsey at the Metchosin Inn?"  He noticed the suitcase.  "Hey, what's going
on?  I thought you'd decided not to leave."

"Changed my mind."   Spencer set the Christmas present aside and pushed down
hard on the suitcase to pull the zipper closed.   "I'm heading out tonight."
"What about a ticket?"   "I'll get one at the airport.   Or go standby if I
have to."

He heaved his bags off the bed and walked to the door.

Ray stood in his way.  "Do you want to tell me what this is all about?

Did Meg give you the boot?  " " No, and I'd rather not talk about it.  Can
you pick up my car from the airport after I'm gone?  You can use it while I'm
in Norway.  That van is just about to crap out on you.  "

"I'll drive you to the airport."  Spencer glanced at Ray's freshly pressed
shirt and best leather pants.  "I thought you had a date."

"Linsey will understand.  She can come with us."

"Thanks, but it's starting to snow and the forecast is for a heavy fall."
He was going to miss Ray, he realized suddenly.   These past few months he'd
spent more time with his father than he had in years.   They'd gone through a
lot of changes together in a short time.   "Well, okay.   Give me your extra
set of keys.   But with the snow, and Christmas, I might not get out to the
airport until Boxing Day."   "That's okay."   Spencer put down his suitcase
to dig in his briefcase for the keys.   "What will you do Christmas Day?
Spend it with Linsey?"   "Meg invited us to Christmas dinner at her parents'
place."   Spencer almost dropped his briefcase.

Meg had invited him, too, but he'd waffled, planning to deliver presents in
the morning before making himself scarce.  "Roger and Helen agreed?  You
accepted?"

 "Hey, I'm not so bad," Ray said cheerfully.

"I'm almost respectable these days."

"God forbid," Spencer said, laughing.   He picked up his bag again, not sure
he liked the idea of Ray cozying up to Roger and Helen.   And Meg and Davis.
What was missing from this picture?

Ray walked him to the front door.  "I hope you intend to say goodbye to Meg
and Davis."

"I'm going over there now, on the way to the airport."   He fought the
sadness that welled up in his chest.   "I gotta tell you, Spence, I think
you're making a mistake.   You leave now, and Meg isn't going to welcome you
back the next time you feel like dropping in."   A muscle in his cheek began
to twitch from the effort of holding his jaw tight.   "Let me know when your
next CD is out."   "Send me your address and I'll mail you one just in case
they don't play music above the Arctic circle."   "It's not that far north,"
Spencer said.   It might as well be Timbuktu for all the real contact he was
going to have with the people he cared about.   He put down the suitcase and
embraced his father.   Ray hugged him back tightly.   Blinking, Spencer
stepped back.   "Ray-- Dad, let's keep in touch this time, okay?"   Ray
smiled his crinkly eyed smile.   "You know where to find me.

Take care of yourself, son.  " " Will do.  Goodbye.  " Snow came down all the
way to Esquimalt, splat ting against the windshield to be swept off in melting
drops by the wipers.  By the time he pulled up in front of Meg's house, a
thin layer had accumulated on the grass.  Spencer's footsteps lagged on the
path.  A warm glow shone from the kitchen windows, and the colored lights of
the Christmas tree twinkled through the open living room drapes.  Saying
goodbye was the hardest part of any journey.  One he usually avoided.  He
tucked Davis's present under his arm and rang the doorbell.  Muted footsteps
approached from within.  His heart beat faster.  The door swung open... He
was glad to see Patrick's smiling face.  A few more minutes' grace.  " Hey,
Patrick, what's coo kin'?  " Spencer asked over the now familiar sound of
Gilbert and Sullivan.  The Mikado, if he wasn't mistaken.  " Come in, dear
boy.  We finished dinner ages ago but I'm sure I can find you something.  "

Patrick bustled around, taking Spencer's jacket and hanging it on the
coat rack beside the door.  "Thanks, but I didn't mean that literally.

Is Meg here?  "

" She's putting Davis to bed.   A glass of wine, perhaps?   "

"Not right now, thanks.  I'll say good-night to Da- vis."  First he went into
the living room and put Davis's parcel under the tree.  What he had for Meg
he wanted to give to her personally.  His heart weighed heavily in his chest
as he moved down the short hallway.  Outside Davis's door he paused,
listening to the indistinct murmur of voices inside.  He touched the ceramic
nameplate on the door.  It had originally said David, but someone, Meg,
presumably, had obliterated the d with white paint and replaced it with an s,
using a black felt pen.  As the rest of his legacy to his son, nothing was
straightforward.  He was about to knock when he heard the faint creak of
Davis's captain's bed and a moment later, Meg opened the door.  "I wasn't
expecting you."  Fine lines creased her eyes.  Lines that only appeared when
she was tired or strained.  There was so much he wanted to tell her.  And so
little he could actually say.  "I know I haven't been around much lately."
She shrugged.  "I've been busy, too."

"Can I say good-night to Davis?"   "Yes, but please don't get him excited.
He had another trip to the principal's office today.   He seems to think you
told him it was okay to punch people."   "I said it was okay to stick up for
what he believed was right."   "Well, I guess he translated that differently
from the way we would.   The trouble is.

Tommy's twice as big as he is.  When Davis hit him.  Tommy belted back.

Your son got a bloody nose and a black eye, thanks to you.  " Thanks to him,
his son had gotten beaten up.  If Spencer needed confirmation he was doing
the right thing by leaving, this was it.  He touched Meg's hair, missing her
already.  She shook his hand off.  " Go on.  Before he falls asleep.  " She
shut the door behind him as Spencer walked over to the bed.  Davis, realizing
who had arrived, was up on one elbow, looking more wide awake than a small
boy had a right to be at nine o'clock at night.  " Hi, guy.  " Spencer sat on
the edge of the bed and ruffled Davis's hair, smiling at the boy's eager
expression.  How on earth was he going to say goodbye?  " Hi.  " Davis threw
his arms around Spencer's neck in a spontaneous hug.  Spencer felt an
intense painful stirring in his heart.  He hugged Davis as tightly as he
dared, careful not to crush his small bones, and for a few precious seconds
savored the warmth of his son's love.  If only he was a different kind of
person.  If only his life was set on a different course.  Spencer eased Davis
back onto his pillow.  " That's quite a shiner you've got there.  " " I
punched out Tommy.  " Davis looked pleased with himself.  " I thought you'd
worked out all that stuff about having a father.  " " Oh, it wasn't that.  He
was picking on a little kid.  Calling him names, making him cry.  He wouldn't
stop, so I popped him one.  " Spencer suppressed a proud smile.

' "Listen, Davis, it's great that you stuck up for the other kid, but hitting
isn't an acceptable way to do it.  You know that, don't you?"

Davis shrugged and squirmed, his lower lip jutting obstinately.

Spencer sighed quietly.  He didn't want his last conversation with Davis to
take the form of a lecture.  "Never mind.  I guess Tommy won't mess with you
again."

"Can we go kayaking again?"   "Davis, there's something I have to tell you."
Spencer paused, searching for the right words.   There were none.   He took
Davis's hand in his.   In the low light of the bedside lamp, his son's dark
eyes looked huge and solemn, as if sensing something important was coming.
"Someday I hope we can go kayaking again.   But right now I have to leave.
I'm going on a | plane to Norway."   | "Why?"   "I have another job there.
I'm going to study Norwegian killer whales."   "Why can't you study the
killer whales here?"   Da- vis sounded hurt and bewildered.   "I could... but
I arranged to go to Norway way before I came to Victoria.   I only came here
as a favor to my old professor."   Davis's lower lip began to tremble.   "I
thought you came to be with Mom and me."   Dear God.   How could he have said
that?

The hurt in Davis's eyes flashed him back to the day his father and mother
had left him weeping and struggling in the arms of a ca retaker he barely
knew.  Pain constricted his heart and he didn't know if it was a response to
his son's loss or his own.  "Spending time with you and your mom is one of my
favorite things.  I'm going to miss you."

Just how much he was only starting to realize.  Tears in his eyes, Davis
threw his arms around Spencer's neck again.  "I want to go with you."
Spencer held him tightly, feeling the moisture and heat prick his own eyelids.

"You've got to stay here for your mom," he said, his voice husky.  "She loves
you.  She needs you to love her."

"Don't you love me?"   Davis sobbed.   The tightness in Spencer's chest made
it almost impossible to speak.   Somehow he got the words out.   "I do love
you, son."   Davis's arms pulled tighter.   "I love you, too, Dad."

Wet-cheeked, he held Davis to him, silently rocking him back and forth.

Love and loss.  Love and loss.

 "I'll write to you," he said at last.  "And you can write back."

Davis sobbed harder.  "I can't write.  I can only print."  Spencer hugged him
closer, laughing through his tears.  "You'll learn.  You're going to learn so
many things.  And when I come back, we'll go kayaking."  Davis pulled away.
"Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Spencer said, sketching a cross over his
chest.   "I'll leave the kayak for you and your Mom so you two can practice
while I'm gone."

"No," Davis said impatiently, scrubbing away the tears,

"I mean, do you promise to come back?"  One way or another he would always be
a part of this boy's life.  "I won't ever be able to stay, but I'll come back
for visits.  Okay?"  Davis shrugged and dropped his gaze, his small face
bleak.  Spencer felt a pain in his stomach.  Davis was already learning to do
without the love to which he had every right.  "I brought you a present.
It's under the tree."  Davis's face brightened.  "What is it?"

"You'll find out on Christmas morning."   He tweaked Davis's nose gently
between two knuckles.   "No peeking."   "I got a present for you, too," Davis
said.   Pushing back the covers, he went to the bookshelf and returned with a
clumsily wrapped parcel.   "I made it | myself."   He smiled wanly.   "No
peeking till Christmas ^ Spencer would be on a plane come Christmas j
morning.   | " Come here, you.   " Spencer grabbed him and tick- I led him
till he giggled.   Then he picked him up and wrestled him into bed, joking
and teasing till Davis shrieked with laughter.   Laughter, not tears, that
was how he wanted to exit.   From the living room, Meg heard the shrieks.
For crying out loud.   Was she dealing with two AD.H.D kids?   Dragging
herself off the couch, she stalked down the hall and pushed open Davis's
door.   Her frown turned to a resigned smile when she saw two faces
illuminated by lamplight, flushed with pleasure and so alike.   " What a
pair," she said.   " But now it's time for bed.   Not you," she added to
Spencer, who was gazing at her from under his lids.   She tucked Davis in
again, folding back his covers just so, arranging his toys just so and
smoothing his hair off his damp forehead.   " Good night, sweetheart.   " "
Good night.   Mom?   " " Tomorrow,"

she said firmly, and turned out the lamp.  In the dark she bumped into
Spencer.  She let him take her hand and lead the way toward the thin
rectangle of light coming from the hallway.  At the doorway he paused and
looked back.  "Bye, Dad," came a small voice from the darkness.

"Goodbye, Davis."  In spite of the warmth of Spencer's fingers wrapped around
hers, Meg felt a whisper of cold steal over her.  Those goodbyes sounded
final.  "Is Patrick still here?"  Spencer asked as they walked back to the
living room.

"He's gone out with Douglas.  Third time this week."

"Must be serious."   "I think it is and I'm glad.   Douglas is nice."   They
paused in the hall between the living room and the kitchen.   Spencer glanced
toward the front door.   "Would you like a glass of wine?"   she asked.

His face showed a brief struggle.  "Better make it coffee.  I can't stay
long."  Premonitions of grief clutched her heart.  "Going somewhere?"  He
held her gaze.  "I'm leaving for Norway as soon as I can get a flight."  She
would not cry.  "So you are going.  I thought you would have waited until
after Christmas.  Davis is going to be so disappointed."

 "You can usually get a cheap ticket on Christmas Eve."

Her fist clenched around the kettle as she filled it, anger chasing away
thoughts of tears.  "Cheap ticket.  Is that more important than seeing
Davis's face on Christmas morning?"

"You know I don't think like that."   She knew, all right.   She could read
him so well he never had to try very hard to communicate with words.   But
there was more in his gaze than he meant her to see.   She plugged in the
kettle and stalked back to him.   "You love me," she declared, "and you love
Davis.   You're just too scared to admit it.   The thing I'd like to know is,
do you admit to yourself that you care?   Or have you brainwashed yourself so
thoroughly that you believe your own lies?"

"This isn't easy for me, Meg.  I'm thinking of you and Davis."

"You're not thinking at all.  What are you going to do in Norway on Christmas
Day not knowing a soul?"  She pushed past him to the pantry for the coffee.
"Do you want to get married?"  he demanded.  "If that's what you want, okay."
He flopped down on one knee and spread his arms.

"Meg McKenzie, will you marry me?"  Tears started in her eyes.  "Don't be a
jerk."

"I'm serious."   "You're feeling guilty.   And you're proposing in such a
way I couldn't possibly accept even if I wanted to.   You don't want Davis
and me dragging after you around the world.   Or worse, dragging you to a
standstill in one small corner of the globe."   Spencer rose to his feet.
Her hands shaking, Meg scooped coffee into the plunger, and grounds spilled
over the counter.   Then she set the canister down and took a deep breath.
"You love me but not enough.   I don't like it, but I can accept it.   Just
don't pretend otherwise."   "I'm not pretending," he said.   "I would marry
you" -- "--if you had to marry someone."   He threw up his hands.   "What do
you want, my soul signed over in blood?"   "I don't want anything from you."
She turned away, knuckles pressed to her mouth.   Don't cry, don't cry,
don't cry.   "Now who's fudging the truth?"   Silence filled the kitchen.
Spencer came closer and put an arm around her.

"You're right, I was being a jerk.  I'm sorry.  Sometimes I say dumb things.
You've been very understanding.  Too understanding, according to Ray."  She
brought her head up and her forehead bumped into his chin.

"Do you talk about me with Ray?"

"Only when he's giving me hell for screwing up my life."   She sniffed.
"So why are you screwing up your life?"   "I'm trying to prevent your life
from being screwed up."

"There you go again with your ridiculous excuses."  She pulled away.

Reaching into the cupboard, she took down two coffee mugs.  "Have you eaten?"
"You don't have to feed me all the time.  You're not responsible for me."
Surprising how much the little things hurt.

She'd happily be responsible for him.  Now she wanted to hit back.  "I only
asked because I've got leftovers and I want to get rid of them."

He grinned, disarming her.  "You're all heart."  Would she ever get over that
smile?  She poured boiling water over the coffee and the aroma of cinnamon
and hazelnut rose on the steam.  With so little time left, she ought to be
practical.  " " Is there any medical history in your family I should know
about?  " " You mean, like diseases and stuff?  " He thought a moment.

"Not that I know of.  I could ask Ray and e-mail you at the university."
"Never mind.  I'll talk to him myself."  Spencer frowned, as though that
hadn't occurred to him.  "You surely don't think that just because you're
going away Davis won't see his grandfather, do you?"  Meg pushed the plunger
on the coffee, then poured out two cups and handed one to Spencer.  He was
feeling uncomfortable.  So he damn well should.  Spencer added cream.
"What's all this about Ray and his girlfriend going to your parents' for
Christmas?"

"Why not?   It solves the problem of dividing time between grandparents.
Davis is very excited about it."   She glanced at him over his cup.   "You
were invited, too, you know."   "Maybe next year."   "Sure."   She sipped her
coffee.   "Ray told me he got Davis a guitar for Christmas.   He thinks Davis
has real potential."   Spencer frowned.   "I don't know that I want to
encourage a musical career for him.   I mean, look at my father."

Meg smiled.  "Ray's all right.  He just had some things to work through."
Spencer took Meg's cup and placed it on the counter next to his.  He took her
hands.  "I want to stay in touch this time.  I want to know how you and Davis
are doing.  Can we do that?"

 "Yes," she whispered, clenching her jaw to stop her mouth from trembling.

Whatever it cost her, for Davis's sake she would do it.  His arms went around
her, holding her tightly.  "No matter where I am, I'll think of you," he
murmured into her ear.  "I'm going to miss you.  Like I always do."  Then why
don't you stay?  her heart cried.  But pride sealed her lips.  In the circle
of his arms she vacillated between wanting him and wanting to hate him.  She
could push him away or she could hold him one more time.  She wound her arms
around his neck, pulling his head down.  "Make love to me,"

she whispered against his lips.  "It's not what I came for," he protested,
his eyes searching hers.  But his hands slipped beneath her sweater and her
skin rippled in response to his touch.  His gaze turned dark and hungry.  "I
want tonight with you.  Spencer," she said, abandoning pride along with hope.
"Give me one more night of memories, and I'll never ask for anything else."
He pulled her hips in tight to his and his body hardened against her as he
pressed kisses over her face.  "Forgive me, Meg, I can't say no.  I've wanted
you so badly for so long."  They stumbled to her bedroom, loosening buttons
and pulling down zippers.  Half-clothed, breathing hard, they fell across the
bed.

Still kissing her.  Spencer rolled her onto her back, his leg between her
thighs.  Her muscles tightened against him.  It wasn't enough.

Nothing would ever be enough.  But she wanted him.  Oh, how she wanted him.
"Up," he panted, helping her to a half-sitting position to tug her sweater
over her raised arms.  Her long blond hair fell in a silky curtain around her
bare shoulders and down the swell of her breasts above the lacy top of her
black bra.  He unclasped the bra and tossed it aside.  Then plunged his hands
into her hair, sifting it through his fingers, glorying in it, spreading it
across the curves of her breasts.

"You're so beautiful, Meg."  His burning gaze made her throb and tingle.  She
wanted to feel his hands on her.  To see them move over her body.

Reaching back, she lifted her hair away, raising herself toward him.

"Touch me.  Spencer."  With a groan he took her breasts in his hands.

His palms, his fingers, felt wonderful, warm and rough against her tender
skin.  And when he dipped his head and sucked one tingling nipple into the
hot wetness of his mouth, she thought she was going to die of pleasure.
"Spencer."  The years and the months of wanting him burst forth, making her
hot and wet and aching to feel him inside her.

She pushed his open shirt off his shoulders, running her hands over his hard
muscles and smooth skin.  So hot, his skin, almost burning.  When her bare
breasts grazed his chest, she gasped.  He pushed her back onto the pillows
and she pulled him with her, unwilling to let him go.  Her jeans were already
unzipped and his tongue laid a swath of moisture across her lower belly from
hip to hip above the bikini line.  Then his hands were tugging her jeans off
and she was lifting her hips and feeling frantic and urgent because nothing
was happening quickly enough.  Spencer stood and dropped his own jeans while
she flicked hers away from her ankles.  She lay there, flushed with desire,
her gaze riveted to his naked body.  The killer whale tattoo on his biceps
gleamed in the light of the table lamp as he sheathed himself.  And then he
was on her again, pushing her legs wide and sliding between them.  Her eyes
closed as sensation took over.  Hot.  Hard.  Sliding into her wetness.
Filling her.  Giving her what she craved.  Deep thrusts that stoked her body
into a sexual firestorm.

"I need you, Meg."  His kisses claimed her mouth, her neck, her breasts.  "I
need you, baby.  I need you, need you..."  meg stared at the ceiling in the
dim glow of the streetlight outside her window.  It was very early, maybe
five or six in the morning.  Spencer lay asleep beside her.  He needed her.
He hadn't ever said he loved her.  But he cared about her.  And their son.
She turned on her side and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the
movement of his eyes beneath the lids, the twitch of a brow, the flash of a
smile.  A deep sigh.

His hair lay tousled on the pillow.  Her pillow.  She loved him.  She would
always love him.  He was hers.  And he was not.  Hers to love forever, but
she couldn't hold him.  Nor should she try.  If she tried to bind him with
duty or even love for his son, he'd chafe at the bonds and eventually grow to
resent her, then maybe even hate her.  She couldn't bear that.  She sighed,
not wanting to think of the future.

All she had was this moment, replete with the contented aftermath of loving,
of happiness hard-won and treasured all the more because it was fleeting.
Meg breathed lightly, careful not to disturb the silent space where love had
blossomed in the night.  Beneath her sheets.  Spencer's warmth mingled with
hers.  His scent marked his place in her bed; his smile, a place in her
heart.  After the wild abandon of the first lovemaking, his touch had turned
tender.  Without words he'd told her how much she meant to him.  It was
enough.  It had to be.

 Dreamily, Meg yawned and shut her eyes.  And slept.  When she opened them
again, Spencer was lying on his side and watching her.  The light had changed
subtly as darkness melted away.  He gazed at her in silence, his eyes full of
the feelings she longed to hear from his lips but never had and never would.
Wordless and breathless lest the slightest movement break the connection, she
held his gaze.  Memories, thoughts and feelings drifted between them, full of
silent laughter and unspoken sorrow.

Into this deep dear silence came the first faint twitter of bird song.

Dawn had arrived.  And with it, Christmas Eve.  Spencer pulled a hand from
beneath the quilt and touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips.  Meg
stayed frozen in place, unwilling to move past this moment into the
inevitable future.  But it was already too late.  It had been too late before
they'd even started.  She knew the look that came into his eyes--she'd seen
it before--the distant gaze of a man who in his mind was already halfway to
where he was going.  Where neither she nor Davis could reach him.  He pushed
back the quilt.  "I've got to go."  Not trusting her voice, she nodded.  Then
shut her eyes as he rose from bed, shedding the covers like the past,
stepping into the future.

Without her.  She waited till he'd dressed, then rose and put on her dressing
gown.  "Do you want some coffee?"  Shaking his head, he pulled her into his
embrace.  Buried his face in her hair.  She felt him breathe in, knew he was
memorizing the scent of her just as she was him.  Say it.

Spencer.  Just once, say you love me.  Wordlessly he pulled away again.

Reached around his neck for the thin leather thong that held the killer whale
tooth.  He took it off and hung it around her neck, pulling out thick swathes
of blond hair till it settled against her skin.  "It's been my good luck
charm.  I'd like it to be yours."  He was severing the last tie.  She touched
the ridged cone of ivory and willed the tears to stay behind her eyes.  There
must be an ocean of them back there by now, enough to flood the world if she
let go.  They went down the hall, stepping quietly so as not to wake Davis.
Spencer paused outside his son's room.  Meg stopped and glanced back.  His
hand was on the knob as if to open the door for one last look.  But he
didn't, and then he moved on.  At the front door he put on his jacket.  She
stroked the soft leather, savoring the feel.  His eyes met hers, then darted
away.  From an inside pocket he pulled a thick envelope stuffed with badly
folded papers.  "I've opened a bank account for Davis," he said, handing it
to her.  She started to say no, but he stopped her.  "I'm not asking.  It's
done.  I'll make regular payments into it.  If it's not enough, or if you
need extra for something, just let me know.  I've filled out the forms to
make it a joint account.  All you have to do is sign the papers and return
them to the bank and you'll be able to make withdrawals."  Numbly she nodded.
It was too hard to do anything else.

He wrapped his fingers around a thick lock of her hair and held on.  "Meg, I
hate the thought of you struggling.  If you need something for yourself, just
tell me."  / need you.  She nodded, knowing she would never ask him for
anything.  He glanced at the door.

His fingers slipped away from her hair.  "Wait!"  she cried.  And hurried
into the living room to the Christmas tree.  She found the small parcel she'd
wrapped for him and brought it back to the front door.  She handed it to him,
worrying he would see the photo as an attempt to remind him of his ties to
her and Davis, yet silently daring him to deny those ties existed.  "Be
careful.  It's glass."  He felt the outer edge of the thin flat package
through the red and green paper and his lips flattened as he guessed what it
was.  Meg felt her heart constrict as he tucked it in his inner pocket
without opening it.  When he stepped outside, snowflakes blew inside.  The
snow was coming down in dense flurries from an opaque white sky.  Overnight
the air had cooled and now a thick layer of snow blanketed the yard and
street.  "I bet you don't have snow tires," she said.  He grinned.  "I bet I
do."

"Spencer..."  His expectant gaze rested softly on her face.  She took a huge
breath.  "I--I want you to know I'm glad about last night.  It's what I
wanted and I'll always treasure the memory of being with you.

But next time you're passing through.  well, you can see Davis.  You can see
Davis anytime you want.  He's your son.  You have the right to know him.  But
as for me " she paused and met Spencer's now-troubled gaze full-on " I don't
want to see you again.  No more than necessary, at least.  Certainly not like
last night.  I love you.  I'll always love you.  But I just can't.  " She bit
her lip hard, unable to go on.  Spencer reached for her.  Took her into his
arms and held her close till she heard the beating of his heart, felt his
warm breath on her temple.  Her own breath was tight in her chest.  He was
holding her for the last time.

The final embrace.  If this felt so right, why was he leaving?  When he
pulled away at last, she let him go.  She'd promised herself she wouldn't
cling.  "Goodbye, Spencer."  He nodded, his eyes infinitely sad.  With one
last touch of her cheek, he turned.  She watched him go down the path, get
into his car and drive away.  Meg closed the door, went back to her bed.  And
wept.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

spencer was able to buy a ticket to Norway, but he was ten hours early for
his flight.  After he checked in, there was nothing to do but wait.

God, he hated airports.  The framed photo burned next to his heart, but he
didn't have the nerve to open it.  He was still too close and it would be too
easy to turn back.  He wandered around.  He browsed the bookshop, fingered
the souvenirs and checked out the duty free.  He stood and gazed at a row of
phone booths for minutes on end, Davis's image before his mind's eye.  He
shook his head clear and forced himself to walk away.  His course of action
was set.  He couldn't afford doubts at this stage.  This evening he would
board a plane that would take him half a world away.  In Bergen an office and
lab space awaited him.  In his briefcase was his research proposal to study
the killer whales of the fjords.  Yippee.  He found a coffee shop and had a
late breakfast, lingering over three cups of coffee and two newspapers.

Restless and bored and sick at heart, he went and sat in the waiting lounge
in one of a row of plastic seats facing the runway and stared out the window.
Lousy weather, but not bad enough to cancel flights.

For a while he slept, sitting up.  When he awoke he remembered Davis's
present to him.  And found he didn't want to wait till Christmas to open it.
He pulled it out of his briefcase and tore off the wrapping.  Inside was an
envelope, which he opened.  What met his eyes almost made him cry.

It was a huge cardboard card, hand-printed and colored, that read, ' "Merry
Christmas to the World's Best Dad!"  Spencer pictured Davis silting at the
dining room table laboriously printing the letters in his childish uneven
hand, waiting for Meg to say each letter in turn so he could write it down.
Underneath the lettering were crude branches of holly hung with gold bells
that looked like dirigibles.  Below that Davis had drawn a picture of himself
and Spencer in a surprisingly accurate kayak.  They were crude block figures,
one small, one tall.

The tall one's paddle looked about to take off the small one's head.

Spencer chuckled quietly to himself.  A chuckle that turned into a sob.

Tears escaped and wet his cheeks.  He started to his feet.  He would call
Davis, after all.  Thank him for his gift, tell him-- He stopped.

Tell him what, exactly?  That he'd see him soon?  Spencer wasn't the world's
best dad.  He wasn't any kind of dad at all.  Sadly he put the card back into
the envelope, being very careful not to bend the corners.  Then he sank back
into the chair, blanking his mind.  He fixed his gaze on the world outside
and watched the sky go from white to gray to black as darkness descended.
He'd send a postcard from Norway.  Yeah, that was it.  Finally he boarded his
plane, an old DC-9 that inspired no confidence, and they made the short hop
to Calgary.

There Spencer spent the hour-and a-half stopover pacing the transit lounge
in front of the floor- to-ceiling windows, glancing worriedly at the thickly
falling snow.  Now that he was irrevocably on his way, he wanted nothing to
detain him.  At last the flight attendant made the boarding call and Spencer
headed back to the jetway behind a thickset middle-aged woman burdened with
several plastic duty-free bags.  Her wrinkled cotton slacks looked as if
she'd slept in them, and her hair was flattened at the back from too long
against the headrest.  A smiling flight attendant in a brown-and-orange
uniform checked his boarding pass, and Spencer returned her smile
automatically.  As he stepped on board, he glanced down through a gap between
the jetway and the plane.  Snowflakes whirled in the frigid air and gave him
a momentary feeling of vertigo.  He quickly brought his foot inside and,
shaking off a sense of unease, moved down the aisle, glancing overhead for
his seat number.  On the first leg of the journey he'd had all three seats to
himself.  Now the woman with the wrinkled pants and plastic bags was settling
into the aisle seat in his row.

"Excuse me," he said, and stepped past her to the window seat.  He tucked his
briefcase under the seat in front and avoided eye contact.

He'd traveled enough to recognize a talker.  Eye contact or not, she started
right in.  "My word, quite a blizzard out there," she said in a strong
Australian accent, and leaned over the empty seat between them to peer
through the tiny window.  "M'name's Joyce.  What's yours?"

"Spencer."  He didn't want to be rude, but lack of sleep was catching up
with him and he couldn't contain a yawn.  "Pardon me," he said, and closed
his eyes.  "I'm visiting my son in Montreal for Christmas," she confided
relentlessly.  "He and his wife just had a baby.  Nine pounds, five ounces.
A whopper for a first child, don cher think?"  Spencer nodded and said
something vague about it being nice she could visit at Christmas.  "Never
been this far north before," Joyce rambled on.  "Is it always this cold?"
"Only in winter," he murmured.  The thrum of the engines lulled his fatigued
brain.  In the middle of last night he'd woken to the feel and scent of Meg
lying next to him, and they'd made sweet sleepy love.  Thinking about it made
him hard.  And sad.  He missed her already.  The erection faded but the
sadness lingered as he dropped into the hazy zone between consciousness and
sleep.  He should have told her how he felt.  Spencer heard the clatter of
the dinner cart moving down the aisle and opened his eyes.  Turbulence slowed
the attendant's progress and his stomach was rumbling by the time the cart
stopped at his row.  The attendant passed over a tray just as the plane
lurched.  He grabbed it in midair and brought it to his table.  He glanced
sideways.  Joyce was looking pale.  "I'm not a great one for flying," she
said apologetically, opening the foil cover on her dinner.

Spencer gave her an encouraging smile and hoped for the best.  Braised beef
undoubtedly looked even worse when recycled.  Dinner came and went,
thankfully without incident.  He sipped a brandy, hoping it would help him
sleep again, and thought ahead to his arrival in Norway.

He'd been to Bergen for a conference once and had always wanted to go back.
But so far he was hating this journey.  It had none of the excitement, none
of the anticipation he usually experienced when moving to a new place.  He
dozed again in spite of the erratic lurching motions of the plane.  And
again, he awoke, this time to a pinging sound and the flash of the seat-belt
light coming on.  An attendant's calm voice came over the loudspeaker
explaining that more turbulence was expected and all passengers were
requested to please remain seated and to have their seat belts securely
fastened.  Spencer checked his belt and glanced at the woman next to him.
Her garrulousness had vanished behind tightly compressed lips and her eyes
were squeezed shut.  She clutched the arms of her seat with white- knuckled
hands.

"Are you all right?"  he asked.  The bumpy, jarring ride seemed rough even to
him, a seasoned traveler.  "Fine," she said flatly.  "Couldn't be better."
He nodded and glanced at his watch.  Still an hour to go till Montreal.
There was nothing any of them could do but endure.

davis carried the plate of cookies to the coffee table along with a carrot
for the reindeer.  "Can you pour a glass of milk.  Mom?"

"Coming right up."  Meg brought the milk into the living room and placed it
next to the cookies they'd made that afternoon.  Davis, fresh from his bath
and dressed in his new Christmas pajamas, knelt beside the coffee table.  His
cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright with excitement.  Meg forced
herself to put on a bright smile.  She was tired from lack of sleep, and her
limbs still ached from last night's lovemaking.  But it was the sense of loss
and hopelessness that sucked the energy out of her.  If it wasn't for Davis,
she would have curled up in a ball and put herself to bed till New Year.  How
many more Christmases would he believe in Santa?  Meg wondered.  She wished
Spencer could seen his son now.  She wished he could be here, holding her in
his arms.  She wished-- "I wish Dad was here," Davis said wistfully.  "Where
do you think he is right now?"  Her heart ached for her son.  Davis hadn't
stopped talking about Spencer all day.  He hadn't yet taken it in that
Spencer was really gone, if not forever, then for a very long time.  Longer
than a small boy could comprehend, at any rate.  "Well, most nights to Europe
go the polar route."  Davis turned anxious.  "You mean, the north pole?  What
if his plane crashes into Santa's sleigh?"

"Your father's plane is not going to crash," Meg said reassuringly.   But a
shiver crossed the back of her neck.   She was so tired.   Hugging her
sweater closer, she rose.   "Bedtime, honey.   The sooner you get to sleep,
the sooner it will be Christmas."   This was the one night of the year Davis
went willingly to bed.   She tucked him in and together they sang, '"Silent
night.   Holy night.   All is calm.

All is bright.  "" Outside the window, snow continued to fall.  And the wind
began to howl.  spencer checked his watch.  They should be landing in
Montreal shortly.  There he would change planes for London and Oslo.  The
cabin lights had been dimmed, and most of the other passengers, including
Joyce, were asleep.  He was wakeful, thinking of Meg.  He wished he had told
her how he felt.  He'd thought it would make it harder to leave, and probably
it would have.

But still, some words were meant to be spoken.  He didn't blame her for not
wanting to see him again, but it hurt.  Badly.  His heart was so swollen with
pain and love and guilt it felt as though his whole body ached with it.  He'd
spent his life avoiding emotional ties and he didn't know how to deal with
being separated from Meg and Davis.  He had done the right thing by leaving,
hadn't he?  Spencer held his watch up to the dim light and frowned.  They
should have landed half an hour ago.  He glanced around for a flight
attendant to ask how late they'd be.  A group of them were conferring near
the galley.  Before he could press the call button, the cabin lights came
back on.  A bell sounded, alerting passengers to an announcement from the
captain.  At last, he thought, settling back in his seat.  They were going to
land.  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.  This is your captain.  Tony
Melville, speaking."  Beside Spencer, Joyce awoke with a grunt.  "What's
going on?"

"Preparation for landing," Spencer said.   But the captain's words proved
him wrong.   "We're experiencing some difficulties with the landing gear,"
Captain Melville said in a bored, relaxed tone of voice.

"For the past thirty minutes we've been circling Montreal International
Airport while attempting to engage the landing-gear locking mechanism--thus
far, unsuccessfully.

Despite blizzard conditions, the control tower was able to inform us that the
landing gear has extended.  However, our instrument panel here in the cockpit
indicates the wheels are ^lot locking into place.  This could be due to
failure of the locking mechanism or simply that a warning light is out in the
instrument panel.  Rather than risk a belly landing on an icy runway, I've
decided to go on to Halifax, where current weather conditions are clear.  En
route, we hope to ascertain the extent of the malfunction.  On behalf of the
airline I would like to apologize for the inconvenience.  " The captain
paused briefly and began again in French.  " Mesdames et messieurs.  " "
Halifax!  " Joyce turned indignantly to Spencer.  " My son's waiting at the
airport in Montreal!  " Her hair stuck out in all directions, and her mascara
was smudged where one eye had pressed against the pillow.  " The airline will
fly you back, I'm sure," he said calmly.  The word malfunction buzzed around
in his brain.  " They'd dam well better.  " A few minutes later she'd woken
fully.  " How can we land if the locking whatchcallit is broken?  " she
demanded in an alarmed whisper.  " We're going to crash!  " " No, we aren't.
" Spencer refused to even consider the possibility the situation wouldn't be
fixed before Halifax.  Joyce gave him a skeptical glance and ordered a gin
and tonic.  " Make it a double, darl'," she said to the flight attendant.  "
Don't you want one, Spencer?  " He shook his head.  Joyce wasn't the only
passenger availing themselves of false courage, but his stomach was churned
up enough without adding alcohol.  For a long time there was no sound but the
steady drone of the DC-9's engines as it pushed on through the night to the
east coast and Halifax.  Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought
the engines sounded overworked.  He tried listening instead to the
headphones, but the music was elevator fare and the comedy channels
irrelevant and irritating.

He tried to doze, but was too tense to relax.  Everything was going to be all
right, he told himself.  It had to be.  An hour out of Montreal the captain
came back on the loudspeaker and this time he sounded neither bored nor
relaxed.  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

This is Captain Melville again.  We've been battling a head wind on our
eastward flight and the plane has used more fuel than expected.  We don't
have enough fuel to reach Halifax, so I've made the decision to turn back to
Montreal.  The light on the instrument panel still indicates a malfunction in
the landing gear.  Chances are there's nothing to be concerned about.
However, flight attendants will now instruct you in emergency landing
procedures.  " " Oh, my God!  We are going to crash," Joyce wailed.  A jerky
movement of her hand sent the little plastic gin bottles on her tabletop
scattering.  She began to weep, causing what was left of her mascara to smear
along the tops of her puffy cheeks.  " We're not going to crash.  " Spencer
didn't much care for touching strangers, but he reached out and patted her
arm.  It felt soft, almost squishy.  Panic fluttered deep in his stomach.
His thoughts, never far from Meg and Davis, turned to the framed photo she'd
given him.  He pulled it out of his briefcase and ripped off the foil
wrapping paper.  The five-by-seven-inch photo was an enlargement of one Ray
had taken that day on the beach out at Sooke.  Spencer was holding Meg in one
arm and Da- vis in the other, their laughing faces turned into the sun.  The
dp of a furry tail could just be seen curling up to Davis's waist.  Spencer
dropped the photo on his lap.  He fought back the choking sensation of too
much emotion.

Emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel.  It surged forth, drowning him in
love and regret.  If only he could see Meg one more time.  And his son.  Oh,
Da- vis.  Oh, Meg.  He shut his eyes and let his mind go, running over all
the times they'd shared.  He felt automatically for the killer whale tooth
and found it missing.  Panicky loss crashed down on him.  Then he remembered
he'd given it to Meg.  His luck had run out.  At least if anything should
happen to him, she would have it to remember him by.  Angry at himself, he
blinked away tears of self pity.  Jerk.  The killer whale tooth was all he'd
given her to remember him by.  Whether he lived or died.  She deserved
better.  So did Davis.

"Is that a photo of your family?"  Joyce asked, her words slightly slurred.
"Can I see?"  Reluctantly he showed her.  "Aren't they gorgeous?  Your wife's
a real looker, and what a beaut boy.  You must be proud."

His fears tightly held in check, he nodded.  "Are you traveling to meet
them?"

"I just left them."   He turned to the window.   There was nothing there but
blackness.   Meg was right; he wasn't doing this for her and Davis, only for
himself.   Because he was a coward.   Who was he kidding?   Da- vis would be
far better off with a filll-time father, no matter how flawed, than with some
jerk who sent postcards from Norway.

The bell sounded again and the flight attendants moved into position, going
through procedures Spencer had witnessed during countless plane rides but
never encountered in a real emergency.  New instructions were added to the
familiar repertoire.  Hands over the head.  Head down between the knees.  And
kiss your ass goodbye.  Spencer watched the demonstration as though his life
depended on it.  His palms began to sweat.  Beside him, Joyce was going
quietly hysterical, whimpering and moaning.  When the attendants had
finished, the captain came on again.

In clipped, anxious tones he informed the passengers they were beginning
their descent into Montreal.  Emergency vehicles were standing by.  Spencer
took a last look at the photo of Meg and Davis and placed it in his
briefcase.  He knew what was wrong with him now.

It wasn't about mortgages or picket fences or the fear of routine.  The
terrified five-year-old inside his brain screamed out the truth.  He always
left first so no one could ever leave him again.  Yet Meg had loved him all
these years even though he'd left her.  Even though when he'd come back he'd
given her no real encouragement.  How could he not believe she would
continue to love him?  She would.  He knew she would.  She'd said so.  Oh,
why hadn't he trusted in her love?  He would make it up to her.  He would
make her so happy.  If it wasn't too late.  Spencer bent over.  He crossed
his hands behind his head.

Beside him Joyce whimpered.  A few rows up, a baby was crying.  One more
chance.  That was all he wanted, one more chance.  He would never deny Meg
and Davis their place in his life again.  He wouldn't deny himself their
love.  He'd already missed too much.  He wanted to see Davis grow up.  He
wanted to make love to Meg.  Over and over.  To make her pregnant with
another child.  To care for her, to share sunsets and sunrises, and killer
whales and laughter and.  Tears ran freely down his cheeks.  His ears popped
as the plane lost altitude.  His stomach was free- floating.  Stop the cycle
of connecting, then running.

Against the burning blackness of his dghtly squeezed eyelids he saw a
grown-up Davis walking away from a woman he loved.  He saw another small
child crying for his dad.  Meg was the key, the link between himself and his
son.  Meg was the link between himself and humanity, himself and love.  She
was the key to his becoming a whole person.  He had to get over his fear of
commitment.  Stop the cycle before he infected Davis.  Stop the plane, I want
to get off.  Just before the DC-9 hit the ground, his entire being was
flooded with love--bright, blinding love,  pure and unselfish.  For Meg, for
Davis, for the husband and father he could have been.  meg awoke in the
middle of the night with a jolt.

Chill air poured over her exposed shoulders where the quilt had slipped off.
With icy fingers she tugged it up around her neck.  Then she lay in the dark,
eyes wide open, filled with an inexplicable sense of foreboding.  Had she
heard a noise outside?  She listened hard.  Nothing but silence.  But the
silence was thick with dread.  Finally she pushed back the covers and went to
the window.  With the palm of her hand she wiped the condensation off the
glass and peered up into the blackness of the midnight sky.  There was
nothing out there but a billion tiny snowflakes.  Falling.  Falling.
Falling.  the plane hit the ground with a bone-shuddering thump.  Joyce
screamed.  Spencer's head knocked hard against the seat-back in front of him.
With a screeching of tires the plane skidded down the icy runway, bounced
back in the air and landed with a second spine-jarring jolt.  Then the plane
evened out and began to slow.  They were back on terra firma.  Seconds passed
with no more bumps.  No tearing of metal.  Cautiously Spencer raised his
bruised and aching head.  They hadn't crashed.  The plane wasn't on fire.
The wheels had locked.  And the DC-9 was slowly taxiing toward the terminal,
where lights could be seen dimly through the blizzard.

They were safe.  He was alive.  There was a moment of stunned silence in the
cabin.  Then a great roar of relief went up from the rows of passengers.
People were laughing, crying, embracing each other.  The breath Spencer had
been holding rushed out with a whoop of joy.  He turned to Joyce.  He grabbed
her and hugged her, loving her squishiness and her smeared makeup and her
faint odor of sweat and gin.  Someone shouted,

"Three cheers for Captain Melville," and the roar echoed again and again,

"Hip, hip, hooray!"  The flight attendants appeared, smiling, the naked
relief shining from their faces belying the false calm they'd earlier
projected to the passengers.  Captain Melville came on the loudspeaker, his
casual drawl back in place, if a little shaky.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've just arrived at Montreal International Airport
where local time is five minutes past 4:00 a.m.  on December twenty-fifth.
Merry Christmas."  He paused.  "God blessed us, every one."  free drinks were
flowing in the special transit lounge set aside for passengers on Spencer's
flight.  The disparate crowd, silent and alone with their private fears such
a short time ago, let loose with a vengeance.  Spencer edged to the bar.
"I'll have a Wild Turkey, please.  Double.  No, make that a triple."
"Spencer!"  Joyce flung herself at him with drunken abandon.  "Isn't it
wonderful to be alive!"

He grinned and held up his drink to avoid sloshing it over her head.

"Can't think of anything better.  Is your son here"

"I called.  He went back home when he found out the plane was delayed.

He's on his way again, but I reckon I've got time for another drink.

One humdinger of a hangover coming right up," she added happily.

"Didn't you say they had a new baby?  Those things can howl."  He felt like
howling himself.  With joy.  "Ooh, ha, ha.  You're right.  Who cares?"  She
lifted her drink.  "Say, where'd you find the phone?"

"Over there," she said, pointing.  "By the washrooms."  Briefcase in one
hand, drink in the other.  Spencer pushed through the crowd to the
telephones.  He had to wait a few minutes till the woman with the crying
baby, who was now sleeping peacefully on her shoulder, hung up.

Spencer dialed Meg's number, calculating too late, what time it would be on
the West Coast.  It rang and rang, and the pressure built in his chest.  His
words were all in his heart.  Could he get them to come out?

"Hello, Meg?"  he said when she finally answered.  "Did I wake you?"
"Spencer?  Where are you?"

"Montreal."   Now that he had her on the phone he couldn't seem to speak.
"I, uh, I forgot something.   I'm coming back."   "You are?"   The noise of
the partying passengers almost overwhelmed her soft voice.   He cupped a hand
over his free ear, listening hard and hearing her hesitation, her wondering.
This was not the time or the place to explain.   "There's a plane leaving
for Vancouver in twenty minutes.   I'll be there first thing in the
morning."   "We're having a white Christmas," she said.   "I'll see you
soon."   meg glanced at the digital bedside clock.   It was only a little
after one in the morning, but there was no way she'd get back to sleep.
Shivering, she flung off her nightgown and pulled on a long burgundy velvet
skirt, thick wool socks and her black cashmere sweater.   She made herself a
cup of tea, built up the fire in the living room and settled down in an
armchair to wait for Spencer.   Why was he coming back?   He said he'd
forgotten something.   It must be really important to fly all the way back
from Montreal.   Surely he could have just asked her or Ray to mail whatever
it was.   The whole thing was so unlike Spencer.   He'd sounded different on
the phone.   And what was all that noise in the background?

It sounded almost like a party.  Should she have said,

"No, don't come here" She hadn't been quite awake, certainly not enough to
think clearly.  Although she had to admit that hearing Spencer say he was
coming back had given her a surge of hope.  But coming back wasn't the same
as coming home.  And what would Davis think when he saw him?

Worry warred with hope, anger with love, sorrow with anticipation.  All
through the long hours of Christmas morning Meg paced and fretted, attempted
to read and failed to concentrate, and ended up staring glassy-eyed into the
flickering red and gold flames.  Eventually her eyes became heavy.  When she
opened them again, the fire had died to glowing embers and Davis was shaking
her shoulder.  "Mom, Mom.  Can I open my presents?

Please, can I?  " Meg blinked and shook the hair out of her eyes.  " Good
morning, Davis," she said, pulling him into a hug.  " Merry Christmas.  "

"Can I open them?  Plee-ase, Mom?"  Davis left her side and went to kneel on
the floor beside the Christmas tree where presents were piled in colorful
confusion.  She glanced at her watch--seven-thirty.  Davis picked up a box
and shook it.  "This is from Dad.  I wonder what it is?"  Meg rubbed her
bleary eyes.  Spencer was coming home.  She didn't want to believe anything
less, but she couldn't tell Davis that in case it wasn't true.  Still, she
ought to prepare him.  "Davis, come here, please."  She waited while he
dragged himself away from the tree, then pulled him onto her lap.  "Your
father called last night long after you were asleep.  He's coming back this
morning."  Davis bounded off her lap and raced around the room.  "Yippee!
Daddy's coming home."

"Whoa!"  She snagged him by his pajama top as he went by.  "Don't get too
excited.  I don't know how long he'll be here.  He said he forgot something.
He'll probably just pick it up and be on his way again."

It would always be this way, she realized, and almost wished she'd told
Spencer not to come back.  Davis would know enough disappointment in his life
without the roller-coaster ride that would come from being Spencer's son.

"I wonder if he opened my present to him yet?"  Davis said.  "I don't know.
But shall we wait till he gets here to open yours?  I'm sure he'd like to be
part of your Christmas morn" -- There was a knock at the door.  Meg froze,
her heart pounding with sudden urgency.  Davis's face lit up.  He charged
toward the door.  "It's him!  It's him!"  Meg rose slowly, her limbs numb.
In slow motion she turned and watched as Davis flung open the door.  Spencer
stood on the doorstep, his tousled hair frosted with snow, his face tired but
jubilant.  With an inarticulate groan of joy, he scooped Davis into his arms,
his eyes falling shut as he held his son.  Meg took a tentative step forward.
Spencer's eyes opened and they locked with hers.  She knew in that second he
had come home.  Tears welled in her eyes.  Spencer swung Davis to the floor
and stepped toward her.  He swallowed, as though he had something important
to say.  Meg could hardly breathe.  "Wh-what did you forget?"  she whispered.
And then she was in his arms and his face was buried in her hair.  "I forgot
to tell you I love you."

"Oh, Spencer."   Now she was the one who couldn't articulate her feelings.
All she could do was hold on to his jacket and blink back the tears that were
preventing her from seeing into his dear, dear face.   "I love you," he
repeated, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her nose.   "Don't say that unless"
"I mean it.   I really do."   His voice was low and rough.   "I want to
marry you.   Please say you'll marry me, Meg."   She smiled at him and
blinked away her tears.   "Well... okay."   Then she threw herself into his
arms again until Davis clamored to be let into the magic circle of love.
"Group hug," Spencer announced, and picked him up.   Davis's thin arms
wrapped around their necks, pulling them even closer.   "Why are you crying.
Mom?   This is happy."   "I know," Meg bawled.   "I'm so happy I could die."
Spencer shuddered.   "Don't say that, please."

"Can we open the presents now?"  Davis demanded, already squirming to be let
down.

"Sure thing, son."  Spencer smiled fondly after Da- vis as he ran to the
tree.  "Son," he repeated softly, then sought Meg's eyes.

There were tears in his.  She couldn't believe it was true except the
evidence was right here in front of her.  Later, she'd demand an explanation
for his change of heart.  But for now, she just wanted to bask in his love.
Davis ripped the paper off a box, uncovering a bright red remote-controlled
sports car.  "Wow!  Thanks, Dad."  He came over and gave Spencer a big hug.
Meg's heart filled to the brim with happiness at seeing the man she loved,
laughing and holding their son.

"Thank you for the photo," Spencer said when Davis had run back to the tree.
"It reminded me of what was important in my life at a moment when I  His
smile faded a little as his intense gaze met hers.  " I don't blame you for
wondering or being skeptical.  But I promise you, Meg, I'm here to stay.  For
as long as you'll have me.  " He kissed her then.

And when his lips found hers, Meg finally felt free to pour the love and
yearning she'd had for him all these years into her response.

Spencer, I love you.  After a minute Spencer pulled back a little.  He fished
inside his jacket for a small box.  "I got this at the airport in Vancouver,
but even if I'd gone to the finest jeweller I don't think I could have found
anything more fitting."  A ring.  She bit her lip in expectation and opened
the lid.  A thick circle of carved gold lay nestled in black velvet.  With
trembling fingers Meg removed it and held the piece of Haida artistry up to
the light.  Two leaping killer whales rising from the waves, by their side a
smaller whale.  "Oh, Spencer.  It's perfect!"  He slipped it onto her finger
and raised her hand to his lips to kiss the backs of her fingers.  Meg
thought she would burst with love and happiness.  Then Spencer's expression
turned sheepish.  "Would you mind very much if I took back the killer whale
tooth?  I really missed it."

"Of course."   Meg reached under her sweater to lift the leather thong over
her head and put it around his.

Spencer rubbed the ivory with his thumb before kissing it, too.  She laughed.
"It looks better on you, anyway."  At the tree Davis shouted with delight.
Meg and Spencer turned to watch as he pulled the paper off a snare drum.
"Oh, no!"  Meg cried.  "Andrew.  I'll kill him."

"Your brother?   The one who freaked when you gave his three-year-old
daughter two allegedly male white mice that later had babies?   Looks like
payback time."   Meg glanced up at Spencer from beneath a curtain of blond
hair.   "By the way, we are going to my parents' for Christmas dinner."
"Oh, are we?

I suppose you expect me to sip Roger's Scotch and make small talk about the
price of IBM shares.  " " If you give me a ring and ask me to marry you, you
accept the whole package, buster.  All or nothing.  " She punched him
jokingly in the shoulder, but a thin thread of fear ran through her.  Maybe
it was too much to ask right away.  Spencer tenderly brushed the hair from
her forehead.  " For you, Meg, I'll make any sacrifice.  I'll work for
Ashton-Wbyte.  I'll even be nice to your father.  " And then she knew for
certain that he loved her.

EPILOGUE

meg's gaze drifted away from the computer screen where she was typing up the
last of her thesis.  It was April and the university year was almost over.
She glanced out the window to the beach below.  Spencer and Davis had just
dragged the two-person kayak onto the pebbles and were climbing the wooden
staircase to their house of timber and glass.

Meg loved their waterfront home on the outskirts of Victoria.  She'd worried
a little that Spencer would balk at a mortgage, but he'd been the one to
suggest buying rather than renting and he'd signed the deed without batting
an eyelid.  A few minutes after they left the beach he and Da- vis came
through the door, carrying the scent of the ocean with them.  Meg got up to
kiss her husband and wrap an arm around her son's shoulders.  "There's a
postcard from Lee," she said, handing Spencer a card picturing the houseboats
of Hong Kong.  She turned to Davis.  "Go get out of your wet clothes, honey."
Spencer read aloud.  '"Father and I have made up now that I have returned to
Hong Kong and finished my business degree.  He tried hard to entice me to
join the family company but he keeps to the bargain.  This fall I will enroll
one hundred percent in biology.  See you in September, Dr. Spencer.  And Mrs.
Spencer."

Signed,

"Lee.  P.S.  Maybe you need experienced research assistant?"

" Spencer chuckled.   " Yes, Lee.   " Meg searched his face.   " Are you
going to accept Ashton-Whyte's offer of a renewed contract?   " Spencer
tossed the card back on the desk and pulled her into his arms.   " Unless you
have something better in mind.   " " Well," she said, planting kisses along
his jaw,

"I hear Norway is a great place to do a master's degree on killer whales.
They might even take you back if you ask real nice."

"Dr.  Jorgensen was very understanding when I explained the situation.

And he did say I could defer the grant for a year.  " Spencer pulled back to
look at her.  " Is that what you want to do?  " " I'm easy.  " He grinned.  "
I know that.  " Then he stroked her hair back from her temples and planted a
kiss on her forehead.  " What about Davis?  Going to Norway would really
disrupt his life.  Do you think he could handle it?  " " There's only one way
to find out.  Besides, I think as long as he has the two of us, he'd be just
fine.  " Davis appeared in the doorway, still in his wet pants.  " Are you
guys talking about me again?  " Meg caught Spencer's eye and they both
laughed.  Then she leveled a look at her son.  " Change.  Now.  " Spencer
shook his head as Davis trundled off.

"Is that stare of yours an approved child-rearing technique?"

 "Hey, you don't mess with what works.   It took me years to perfect it."

Spencer traced a finger over her lips.  Meg shut her eyes.  She never tired
of his touch.  Never took for granted his presence even though she was
finally convinced he was committed to her and Davis, one thousand percent.
Their wedding, and the sincerity with which Spencer promised to love and
cherish, had removed all doubt.  Ray had done them proud by playing one of
his new songs, a romantic ballad, and Da- vis, as ring bearer, marched up the
aisle on his best behavior.  Even her mother and father were pleased with the
way things turned out, although Helen complained at the whale recordings as
they'd exited the church.

"You could do a master's degree here," he suggested.  "I mean, we've got this
great house.  Lee's coming back, Ray's staying put ... I like it here."  She
studied his face.  He really seemed to mean it.  "I'd like to stay, too," she
agreed softly.  "The real question is," he said, planting a kiss on the tip
of her nose, "when are we going to produce a brother or sister for Davis?"
She smiled.  "I think we ought to make up for lost time so the sooner, the
better."

 "Sounds good to me,"

Spencer said, and pulled her into his arms.  They were still kissing when
Davis returned, dressed in clean dry clothes, and declared he was "starving."
"In that case, you can lend a hand making spaghetti while your mom finishes
her work," Spencer said, reaching out to straighten his son's collar with a
tender smile.  A while later Davis glanced across the table at his mother and
father.  It was kind of yucky how they got  so mushy sometimes.  But having
his dad around was a dream come true.

He'd even framed Davis's Christmas picture and hung it on the wall.

That made Davis feel like the world's best son.  Best of all, Davis knew his
dad would always be there.  He'd promised.  And Mom.  Dad was always teasing
her about something.  Like now.  Her cheeks were pink, she was laughing, and
she couldn't seem to decide who she wanted to look at more, him or his dad.
There was no doubt about it.  He'd never seen his mom so happy.