Barefoot Beach (38 page)

Jack looked as scrubbed, peeled, and ruddy as a carrot in his chinos and Hawaiian shirt. Dirk was obviously freshly washed and combed, his platinum hair carved into trails revealing the pink of his scalp. Pale tracings of his sunglasses stood out against skin grilled to medium rare.

“You had fun?” I flicked the question at Dirk, but it was meant for Jack, who mattered more.

Jack said, “Fun doesn't describe it,” and proceeded to describe it. Dirk looked on, smiling throughout. Nodding when asked to confirm some detail. Laughing at Jack's funny remarks. Occasionally, he added a comment when called upon. He liked my son. That was obvious. As for me, I'd been worried at first about being taken in, but now I was, simply and surprisingly, taken.

I'd always been a sucker for Celtic charm, my dad's and Lon's, but there was something appealing about the sturdy Dutch personality. And I had to admit Dirk was good-looking. Tall, broad shouldered, and though not film-star handsome, he carried enough eye-stopping features to make him interesting looking. His expression gave off intelligence. There were the lupine irises and the eyebrows, dashes of gold. The hair on his arms, thick and pale, like the pelt of a rare blond monkey. Oddly, his legs below the retro madras Bermuda shorts were hairless, glossy, and knotted with muscle. I wondered if he shaved or waxed. Some surfers did.

Jack caught me staring and detoured his monologue to say, “Incredible legs, huh? He runs ten miles most days. Or swims laps. How many, Dirk?” Who didn't answer, just dispatched a mildly embarrassed smile to me. “Whatever. And that's after a full day at the hospital, where he's on his feet most of the time. Like in the OR. And teaching.” Jack shook his head in disbelieving admiration. “You should see him on the board. Perfect balance. It's in the quadriceps.”

It occurred to me then, as I studiously avoided looking at Dirk's thighs, that Jack was going on a little too long about legs. Was this some kind of limb-comparison game? Was I supposed to think, wow, this guy
has two really incredible legs and, hmmm, whom do I know who only has one? The owner of that techno leg had called late afternoon to say hi and wish me a good time that night even if it wasn't with him.

I attempted to cut Jack off by tapping my watch face. “Getting late. If we're going to make our reservation, we'd better hustle.”

Dirk laid a halting hand on Jack's shoulder. “Let's talk about dinner and see if your mom's on board with the new plans.”

Jack explained that indoors, with waiters and all, seemed so formal after a day on the waves. Plus, the Flying Jib specialized in seafood and they'd demolished two dozen crabs at lunch, so that was also a turnoff.

They'd stopped off on the way home and picked up some steaks (which, Dirk interjected, they'd stashed in the garage fridge on their way in and could be frozen for some other time if I preferred to stick with the original agenda). I, Jack resumed, wouldn't have to do a thing. The men would grill. They'd stopped at a roadside stand for local Sugar Queen corn, which he could throw on the grill. “And we have Coneheads ice cream in the freezer for dessert. All you have to do is take it easy. How does that sound?”

I said, “Like a good idea,” though the restaurant with its hustle and bustle might have filled any lulls in the conversation.

“Great. Okay, I'll fire up the grill and you two can have drinks in the living room and relax.”

Uneasiness clouded Dirk's eyes. Then the left lid twitched. He and I must have been thinking the same thing. That Jack was playing Noah again, matching us up as if we were a twosome made by biblical injunction.

“Scotch, gin, vodka,” I offered him. “Bourbon. Beer?”

Beer was his choice. I wanted something stronger. I splashed vodka over ice. Jack, refusing help with the grill, promised to call Dirk if he needed a consult. He grabbed a Coke and headed out to the deck with a full tray. A few seconds later, he discreetly closed the sliding glass door behind him.

Dirk and I carried our drinks into the great room. I sat on the chaise
end of the sofa, expecting him to plant himself in a far corner, but he put only about a foot between us on the cushion and then he leaned in.

“I need your help,” he said.

Whoa. I tried to rein in what Josh called my tendency for catastrophic thinking. As in Dirk was having second thoughts about his connection with Jack. I couldn't hear Jack with the sliding glass door between us, but I saw him wrapping corn for the grill and his head rocking a rhythm, lips pursed. I'd have bet he was whistling, and put money on the song: Here comes the you-know-what. Maybe he'd overdone the son part today and spooked Dirk into retreat.

“I've got some news to deliver that Jack probably won't like. I hate to disappoint him.”

My heart lurched, but my brain, for once, didn't lose its balance. I made myself listen to Dirk saying, “He's a smart kid. He told me about dean's list. But as important, maybe more so, he's got an engaging personality. Very open. He's a natural storyteller. Over lunch, he shook the family tree. I heard all about his grandfather, his grandmother the Broadway dancer, and his uncle Mick. Jack London. Someone named Claire and another girl back at Duke.”

I'd love to know that story,
I thought. But for now, I said, “The gift of gab he gets from my dad.”

“And from his own dad, of course,” Dirk said kindly. “Certainly not from my gene pool. I was an introverted kid, then a geek before it became fashionable, and I'm a private man. To be honest, when the fertility clinic phoned, I was pleased at the prospect of meeting Jack. But also concerned about how I should deal with it. With him. And you. I didn't want to get it wrong.”

Here we go,
I thought.

“I knew what I could give. But I wasn't sure what he wanted. Or how you felt.” He shifted nervously on the cushion. “I think it's worked out well. What do you think?”

I nodded dumbly. Worked, he'd said. Past tense.

“I'm afraid, though, I haven't given him the complete picture. I didn't want to flood him with a lot of information at first. But now it's definitely time. It's become clear from some of his comments, and his actions . . . He wants to . . . He has this fantasy of . . . us. You and me, getting together in a romantic way.” He paused, licked his lips. “I can understand it. You're a very attractive woman, Nora. Your son says you're a great catch.”

I felt a blush surge. “Subtlety isn't Jack's strong suit,” I said. Was this a come-on? Now, that could complicate things, depending upon how it was handled. I reached for charming but, I hoped, not encouraging. “And you're a very nice man,” I responded. “Any woman would be lucky to . . . you know . . .”

“But.” We said it simultaneously. Mutually startled at our duet, and as if it had punctured a bubble of anxiety, we simultaneously expelled a gust of relieved laughter.

“I guess that's settled, then,” I said, thanking God that was all it was, and thinking it was just as well it was out in the open and Jack could stop with the matchmaking craziness.

“Not quite settled,” Dirk said, and I sucked in a fresh breath of disquiet.

He took a long draught of beer. “There's a wonderful woman in my life and has been for a while. I knew Victoria was special almost immediately, but the scientist in me—well, I tend to overdissect things. My ex-wife and I divorced four years ago. It wasn't a pleasant experience and I didn't want to repeat it. I wanted to be sure as I could be about Victoria and me.”

“And now you are.”

“The talks with Johns Hopkins gave me the push I needed. Victoria's an ophthalmologist with a well-established practice. She loves her work and her patients. She can't take a year off to move to Baltimore, and the thought of all that time away from her, of how much I'd miss her, made it clear to me. I want us together. Permanently. So”—he hoisted his bottle of Sam Adams in a toast—“as of last week, we're engaged. Ring and all.”

I lifted my glass. “Congratulations. That's wonderful news.” Better than what I'd anticipated.

“Hopkins suggested a compromise. I'll lecture four times a year at the medical school, but I'm staying out in California. And now it's past time to tell Jack. You'll help me if I get in trouble?”

“I have your back. But he'll be fine with it.”

“I hope so. He was looking forward to me being in Baltimore. In closer proximity to you. Preferably, side by side walking down the aisle.” We both laughed at that.

Over steak, corn, and Brownie Bash ice cream—the Dude was a chocolate kind of guy—Dirk talked about the Johns Hopkins compromise, about Victoria, and handed around her photo on his iPhone. Jack sat quietly taking it in, his face a kaleidoscope of emotions.

When Dirk had finished with the announcement of the engagement, my son, so much like his father—Lon's disappointment wouldn't have interfered with his natural graciousness—said, “Hey, congratulations. I'm happy for you. Really.” Then a pause before a question. “Does she know about me?”

“Of course. Victoria's looking forward to meeting you. You come with good references. The girls think you're very cool.”

“I think
they
are.” A pause. “You and Victoria going to have more kids?”

Dirk darted me an amused smile. “She's four years older than I am with a son at Cal Tech. She's finished. And I've done my part, don't you think?”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Jack said.

“Right,” I chimed in. “More than you know.”

Then Jack asked the question that I couldn't—wouldn't—allow myself to ask, though I was burning with curiosity. “Why did you do it? The donor thing. That's a big deal.”

“Well, son,” and I didn't flinch this time—Dirk knew who he was and we knew who he was—“I was up to my neck in medical school bills and I figured that money would help me pay them off. I'm a practical man.”

Jack's smile began to fade.

“But I'm also am idealist,” Dirk continued. “Those two motives sound mutually exclusive, but they're not. I guess the same thing that drove me toward being a doctor played the biggest part in this decision. I wanted to help people. I figured folks who went to a sperm bank really wanted a baby. They'd do what it took to have a child. If I could make that happen, it seemed the right thing to do. And I have no regrets, especially now that I know you, Jack. And your mom. And though he's not with us, I think I've come to know your dad as well, rest his soul.”

Which was a great exit line.

Dirk had originally planned on staying in Tuckahoe another night, having Sunday brunch with Jack, and heading back to San Francisco that afternoon. But tomorrow's forecast had been updated from cloudy to dicey. Thundershowers were predicted all along the East Coast starting midmorning, with high-wind warnings and heavy rain for the beach area on their tail. Dirk wanted to get out of town before the storm hit. He changed into slacks and a sport shirt in the downstairs bathroom and grabbed his suitcase from the back of Jack's car.

Jack had wanted to, but Dirk wouldn't hear of him driving the long trip to the airport. So this was good-bye, but just for now. He wasn't sure yet of his lecture schedule at Hopkins, but maybe when he knew, they could arrange a meet for dinner between Durham and Baltimore. The girls and Victoria agreed the Farrells had to come west for a visit. “And, of course, we'll stay in touch by email and Skype. Everyone will be busier than we were over the summer, so it might not be as often, but Jen is counting on you to help her get through statistics, and you and I need to talk about the Blue Devils versus the Denver Pioneers on defense.”

The limo driver honked from the curb. I got an arm around my shoulder with a final squeeze and then Jack and Dirk maneuvered a handshake that swiveled into one of those backslap hugs men choreographed.

Jack and I stood at the door and watched the Donor Dude walk down
the path and hand his bag to the driver. He got in and waved from the backseat. The wave was more a salute, as if we'd all fought a battle for the same cause—Jack's happiness—and we'd all won.

What welled up in me at that moment wasn't relief that the man I'd thought of as an intruder was on his way home, but gratitude, a flood of it that brought a surprising blink-back of tears. Gratitude to Lon, who'd gone with the donor-bank plan twenty years ago and had, from all the donor dudes, pushed for this particular one—my husband had always displayed impeccable taste and a novelist's eye for character. And back then, when I'd wondered aloud if in the future we should support Jack's meeting his sperm donor, Lon had let me know he'd have it no other way.
So thank you, my lost love, wherever you are.
And there was more than enough gratitude for Dirk, who turned out to be both more than I'd anticipated and less than I'd feared. And for Jack, who had done us all proud.

The visit could have gone so badly. It went so well.

“He's a good guy,” my son—Lon's son—said, as the cab pulled away. “We're really lucky.”

“We really are,” I said.