LITMIR.BIZ

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“I hope so.”

      

      DON’S MOROSE TONE haunted Meredith all day. As she packed her new clothes that evening in Mr. Smith’s borrowed secondhand suitcase, Blake sprawled on her queen-sized bed in their Lincoln Park home, frowning.

      “Why do you have to go away?” he muttered, his little face dark and sullen. “You’re always going away. You’re never here.”

      She felt a twinge of guilt. Her son was right. But she couldn’t afford to give in to that stubborn determination of his. Blake was as formidable in his young way as she was.

      “Business, my darling,” she replied, smiling. She stared at him lovingly. He looked nothing like her. He was his father, from his dark hair to his deep-set brown eyes and olive complexion. He was going to be tall like Cy, too, she guessed.

      Cy. Meredith sighed heavily and turned away. She’d loved him so much, with all the passion of her young life. He’d taken her chastity and her heart, and in return he’d given her grief and shame. His mother had done her part to break up what might have been an honest love affair. God knew, he’d always felt guilty about her. Probably he’d have felt even more guilt if he’d known that she was only eighteen to his twenty-eight. She’d lied and told him she was twenty. He’d said even then that it was like robbing the cradle. But his passion for her had been a helpless, deeply resented one that had cost him his stoic self-control time and time again. She often thought that he’d hated her for that, for making him vulnerable.

      His mother had hated her, certainly. The fact that Meredith had been living with her great-aunt and uncle on the Crow reservation—and the fact that her great-uncle was a respected elder at that—had been a scandalous shock to Mrs. Myrna Granger Harden. Myrna belonged to the social set and made no secret of her snobbery. That her son had dared to embarrass her by dating the niece of one of his employees had haunted her, especially when she’d already hand-picked a wife for him—one Lois Newly, a local debutante whose people had property in Alberta, Canada, and could trace their ancestry back to royal England. Myrna had never even bothered to ask Meredith if she was Indian. She’d taken it for granted, when actually Meredith was only related to Uncle Raven-Walking by marriage.

      There were dark-skinned people in Cy’s background. Myrna swore they were French, but Meredith had once heard someone mention that Cy’s ancestors contained a full-blooded Sioux on his father’s side. Many Plains people had mixed ancestry, but most of them weren’t as prejudiced and snobbish as Myrna Harden.

      Blake Garrett Tennison would someday have to be told the truth about his parentage, Meredith thought worriedly. She didn’t relish that at all. For now, he accepted that the tall, fair man who used to laugh and bring him things was his real father. In most senses, he was. Henry had spoiled Meredith shamefully, attended LaMaze classes with her, treated her pregnancy as if he’d been responsible for it, and showered her with luxuries when little Blake was born. He stayed with her through the delivery, and he cried when the child was placed in his arms. Oh, yes, Henry really was Blake’s father in so many ways. He’d earned the right.

      She often wondered why Cy had apparently never considered the possibility of Meredith becoming pregnant during their brief affair. Presumably his women were usually on the Pill, because he’d never even asked if she was. Not that he’d been in any condition to ask, the first time or the others. She dreamed about him sometimes, about the fierce pleasure he’d taught her to share with him. But she never told Henry about the dreams or compared him with Cy. It wouldn’t have been fair. Henry was a gentle, skillful lover, but she’d never attained the heights with him that Cy had taken her to so effortlessly.

      Blake cuddled his plush toy alligator. “Isn’t Barry the Alligator nice?” he asked. “Mr. Smith let me pet Tiny. He says you should let me have an iguana, too, Mommy. They make very nice pets.”

      She laughed gently at Blake’s adult-sounding speech. He was almost six, and he already had a tremendous grasp of language. He would be ready to start first grade next year. This year he attended private kindergarten until one each afternoon, and he was learning fast. Meredith knew that Cy had never married. She allowed herself to wonder for one long instant what Myrna Harden would think of her grandson. It was unlikely that the elderly woman would covet him, of course, since he was Meredith’s. And a grandchild would tarnish the youthful image she tried so hard to project.

      “Can’t I have an iguana?” Blake persisted.

      “You can pet Tiny, when Mr. Smith lets you.”

      “Doesn’t Mr. Smith have a first name?” he asked, frowning.

      She laughed. “Nobody has the nerve to ask,” she whispered.

      He laughed, too, his young voice delightfully carefree. Had she ever been that happy, she wondered, even as a child? The premature death of her parents had left scars. Thank God there had been Aunt Mary and Uncle Raven-Walking to look after her. They’d loved her, even if nobody else ever had.

      Blake sighed. “I wish I could go with you.”

      “One day soon,” she promised. “Then I’ll take you to the Crow reservation and you can meet some of your Indian cousins.”

      “Real Indians?” he asked.

      “Real Indians. I want you to be proud of your ancestry, Blake,” she said seriously, smiling at him. “One of your distant relatives actually scouted for General Custer before the battle of the Little Bighorn.”

      “Wow!” he said, all eyes. He frowned. “Who was General Custer, Mommy?”

      “Never mind.” She shook her head. “Time enough for that when you’re older. Now, I have to pack.”

      “Blake!”

      The thunderous voice echoed along the upstairs landing.

      “In here, Mr. Smith!” Blake called.

      Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, and a tall, balding hulk of a man walked into the room. Mr. Smith had a Marine Corps tattoo on one brawny arm, and he wore khaki slacks with an olive drab T-shirt. He was the ugliest, and the kindest, man Meredith had ever known. He had to be in his middle or late forties, but nobody knew just how old he was. He had a spotless service record and had come from a successful career in the CIA to work for Henry Tennison. After Henry’s death, Meredith had inherited him, so to speak. From his big nose to his green eyes and square face, he was a treasure. He’d aborted the kidnapping attempt on Blake. And nobody bothered Meredith when he was with her. She raised his salary every year without his having to ask. Next to Blake, he was the most treasured person in her private life.

      “Bedtime for you, mister,” Mr. Smith told Blake without cracking a smile. “Front and center.”

      “Yes, sir!” Blake saluted, laughing, and ran to the big man, to be swung up on his shoulders.

      “I’ll settle him for the night, Kip,” he told Meredith. His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t go. You need another week in bed.”

      “Don’t fuss,” she said gently, and smiled at him. “I’m all right. I have to do something with Aunt Mary’s things you know. And it’s a dandy opportunity to reconnoiter the opposition.”

      “Recon what?” Blake asked.

      “Never mind,” she told him. She leaned forward and kissed his rosy cheek. “Sleep tight, my lad. I’ll be along to tuck you in.”

      “Mr. Smith is going to tell me about Vietnam!” Blake told her excitedly.

      Meredith grimaced. Vietnam War stories hardly seemed the proper bedtime tales for a young boy, but she didn’t have the heart to argue.

      “I want to hear about the snake again.”

      She frowned at Blake. “The what?”

      “The snake. Mr. Smith is teaching me about all the animals and stuff in Vietnam,” he continued.

      She flushed. She’d thought the stories were about

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