Like Father, Like Son Read online

  “My place is being remodeled so we’ll be staying in a hotel on Geary.”

  Kaitlin felt a flicker of interest. “When it’s finished will there be room for me?”

  “Renovations are going to take a while.” His voice sounded strained as he pulled into traffic.

  He hadn’t answered her question. Kaitlin leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes.

  “Tired, baby?”

  She didn’t answer. Strong fingers brushed back her bangs.

  “I thought maybe…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, how would you feel if I came to camp with you next week?”

  Kaitlin’s eyes snapped open; she bolted upright. “Promise?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JOE SAT ON THE sage-green couch with his gaze firmly fixed on a landscape print, trying not to look at the bed.

  It could have been a room in any good business hotel, right down to the big-screen TV, humming air-conditioning unit and token rubber plant to his left.

  It even had the same impersonality, despite the brochure claim of “home away from home.” Except this room was costing Joe thirty-five thousand dollars a month.

  A groan emanated from the bed. Instinctively, he looked toward it, then quickly away. But the pale, naked form of his father had already imprinted on his brain, along with the straw-colored urine in the catheter’s drainage bag as the nurse removed it.

  Abruptly, Joe stood and walked to the picture window. Today the large pond was a glassy mirror reflecting its surroundings—overhanging willows, the two-story stroke rehab unit, a girl on a bench reading. Sensing his scrutiny, Kaitlin lifted her head and waved. Her smile still radiated excitement, and some of Joe’s tension eased. He’d done the right thing in committing to go camping.

  “I’m ready to move him now,” said Nurse Elaine.

  His father kept his eyes resolutely closed as, with the ease of practice, Joe helped her shift Adam’s semiparalyzed body, then reposition the foam pad from midcalf to ankle and tent the bedsheet over the toes. Their patient grunted in protest.

  “We don’t want bedsores, do we?” Elaine chided him with the relentless cheerfulness of a professional caregiver.

  Adam opened his eyes. As always, Joe experienced a jolt of shock to see so much life in them. So much life despite that ruined body. His father’s once powerful chest heaved to expel the words, “Get…out.” The left side of his mouth remained immobile.

  Her plump face shiny from exertion, Elaine only laughed. “You’re always grumpy after occupational therapy, so I won’t take offense.” Picking up the detritus of her patient’s recent bed bath and change, she nodded pleasantly to Joe and departed, taking the faint smells of peppermint and human waste with her.

  They were left with the receding sound of rubber heels squeaking on the polished floor, the very hospital trademark that Joe was paying a fortune to eliminate.

  One side of his father’s face twisted. “Hate…hospit…” He stopped, exhausted.

  “I know, Adam,” Joe answered briskly. “That’s why you’re in a private rehab center, remember?” Mom had been in and out of hospitals all Joe’s early childhood. An aversion to them was the only bond father and son shared.

  But no matter how little he felt for Adam, the guy was still his father, and Joe, at least, understood loyalty. It amazed him that they’d been brought up by the same woman, yet Adam hadn’t picked up any of the values Josephine Fraser had drilled into her grandson. Though that implied some strength of character, Joe thought wryly.

  Adam seemed to be dozing, and Joe glanced at his watch. Lifting his head, his gaze collided with his father’s, and he felt his face flush. But his guilt quickly became annoyance. He was doing enough for this man. “I had a meeting with your case manager yesterday,” he commented. “He’s not happy with your attitude.”

  Adam shut his eyes again. Even bedridden, he found a way to run from his problems.

  “He says you’re not cooperating with your various therapists,” Joe persisted.

  One corner of Adam’s mouth twisted. Another agonized chest movement. “No…use.”

  God, he’d always hated his father’s defeatism. “The case manager says a key factor in improvement is the patient’s determination.”

  Another was strong family support. Joe could still remember the horror on the faces of his new relatives, the Carsons, when their mother Sarah’s will revealed how their dear old dad had not only fathered two bastards by another woman, but had secretly adopted one of them into his family, with the full knowledge of his wife. Aunt Jenny had been raised with Robert’s legitimate son, Sam, in ignorance of her true parentage.

  Given that Uncle Sam had provoked Adam’s second stroke, and Joe and his father were emotionally estranged, Joe saw no point in mentioning “family support.”

  Which was why he’d concentrated his energies on the one variable he could influence—the quality of rehab.

  Adam still hadn’t responded, and Joe clenched his hands in frustration. For this apathy he’d sublet his apartment and moved into a hotel to minimize expenses? For this, he’d undertaken a crippling bank loan?

  Even the unexpected legacy of one-third share in the Carson family home when it sold would disappear to a long-standing debt on some rusty old tub of a crab boat that had sunk thirteen years earlier—uninsured. Some men, Joe thought sourly, would have learned the importance of insurance from that. Not Adam.

  The silence lengthened, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint sound of voices at Reception.

  “He’s depressed,” the case manager had confided. “Talk to him.”

  But what did you say to a near stranger?

  Where the hell were you when I was growing up?

  Why didn’t you send money to Nana Jo more often?

  Did you ever give a damn about anybody but yourself?

  All the old questions smoldered, ready to ignite. With an effort, Joe unclenched his fists. Why give Adam power to hurt him now? Even anger was a concession that the past mattered. And it didn’t. He no longer loved his father, but as he looked at the immobile body under the pale blue sheet, he could muster pity.

  Joe sighed. “Listen, I’ve got to go early today.” Kaitlin was waiting. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” At the door he lifted his hand in a perfunctory wave, then froze.

  Tears seeped out from under Adam’s lids. For a moment, Joe stood helplessly, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Returning to the bed, he wiped them away with a rough gentleness. “It’s okay, Adam. The antidepressants will work soon.”

  “Hate…drugs.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want…die.”

  Panic gripped him, then anger. Joe said it before he could stop himself. “This time there’s no easy way out.”

  Adam’s eyes opened. His chest heaved. “Know…nothing…you!”

  “I know I’m almost bankrupting myself trying to return you to some sort of independence, you ungrateful son of a bitch.” Joe was suddenly shaking with rage.

  His father blinked, then one corner of his mouth lifted. He expelled a choking bark that could have been a laugh. “Stop!”

  “No!”

  His father’s mouth set in a straight line. So did Joe’s.

  For a moment the two men glared at each other, then Adam closed his eyes. Joe found a chair before his legs collapsed.

  Okay, maybe he did care. Or was this revenge? You wouldn’t hang around then, but I’ll damn well make you hang around now? Neither of those. Or maybe both. And his misguided daughter loved the old bastard. He was doing this for Kaitlin. And for his late grandmother.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I’m sorry.” Nothing. Joe tried again. “I’m under a lot of pressure, but that’s no excuse.”

  Still nothing. He needed to go, but Joe couldn’t leave it like this.

  Talk to him, the doctor had said.

  “I spoke to Daniel this morning.” Twenty years younger than his half brother, Adam,
Daniel Kane was the offspring of Josephine Fraser’s brief second marriage and, as it turned out, her only legitimate child. “One of his financiers pulled out of the El Granada housing project, so he’s covering the shortfall with his own money.”

  Which was unfortunate, as his young uncle was the only person Joe would have asked for financial help. “He sends his regards.”

  Adam didn’t respond; there was no love lost between the two men.

  When four-year-old Joe had been dumped with his grandmother, Daniel had been thirteen. He’d seen Joe’s pain and shared the economic hardship when Adam’s promised checks failed to arrive. Yet he’d never complained, never once made Joe feel unwanted. Men now, they were closer than brothers, their loyalty to each other no less fierce for being unspoken.

  But then a lot went unspoken in the Fraser family, including how they felt about their late mother and grandmother’s exposure as a married man’s mistress.

  “I can’t stay long, because Kaitlin’s waiting outside,” Joe admitted. “She got into some trouble at school and I had to pick her up. Nothing serious.”

  Adam opened his eyes. “See Kait…”

  Not like this. Joe couldn’t subject his baby girl to this. All her life he’d protected her from gritty reality. He remained bitter that Nadia had gone against his wishes and let their daughter spend time with the old scoundrel. “Kaitlin wants to see you, but I don’t think she should right now. Let’s get you stabilized first.”

  “Black…mail.”

  It had never crossed his mind; now Joe steeled himself to be cruel to be kind. “It’s up to you, Adam. Make some improvement and I’ll bring her in, but she’s not seeing you like this.”

  “What…if…can’t?”

  But he couldn’t allow either of them to think like that.

  “Studies show that starting rehabilitation early correlates with a better outcome,” he said, and saw a flicker of interest in his father’s eyes.

  Joe fished for other optimistic statistics from among the mass of reading he’d done on strokes, bypassing the two keeping him awake at night.

  Stroke survivors who don’t undergo rehabilitation are more likely to be institutionalized.

  The longer there’s no movement, the poorer the prognosis.

  “The majority of those affected by hemiparesis—one-sided paralysis—make a full recovery.” It was actually fifty percent, but he wasn’t going to say that to a man who always saw a glass as half-empty.

  The speech therapist came in, a young redhead. Joe remembered something else. “A significant number of those suffering aphasia recover completely.” The speech therapist opened her mouth to say it was only eighteen percent, glanced at Adam and shut it.

  “And Frasers aren’t quitters. Think of Cousin Joe.”

  It was another of his grandmother’s sayings. “No matter what happens to us, we brush ourselves off and get up again,” she’d say. “Think of Cousin Joe.”

  Except for the little matter of the boxer’s name being spelled Frazier and Smokin’ Joe being black. A reference to Cousin Joe in the bad times always elicited a smile.

  “Bull…shit.” But the corner of Adam’s mouth twitched.

  “That’s better.” Joe patted his father’s arm, surprising them both, then covered his confusion by digging in his jacket pocket for Kaitlin’s homemade greeting card.

  “Your granddaughter sends her love,” he said gruffly, placing it on the side table where Adam could see it. He hadn’t intended giving it to him because it was a picture of a gamboling bear with the message “You’ll soon be up and dancing.”

  Adam stared at it and Joe knew he’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry, it’s inappropriate.”

  He was reaching for the card when Adam grunted. “I…try.”

  Joe nodded in acknowledgment, his relief too great to articulate. Finally, the universe was giving him a break.

  “GOD KNOWS THE OFFICE complex is cheap, Joe, but I’m wondering if it’ll get cheaper.”

  Vaughan Martin was a slow-speaking, fast-thinking septuagenarian who’d made his fortune in winemaking and, upon his retirement, reinvested in office space. “I want a better return on my life’s work than the bank can give me,” he’d said five years earlier when he’d engaged Fraser & Dunn’s services.

  Sitting behind his desk, Joe tried to hide his disquiet.

  “You’re taking me by surprise here, Vaughan. You dismissed that recommendation a couple of weeks ago and told me you were committed to signing the contract today. In fact, I’ve got it here now.” He held up the document.

  Vaughan shifted uncomfortably in his leather chair, giving Joe a view of Kaitlin through the glass wall separating his office from his secretary’s. His daughter was using a corner of Thea’s desk to finish another get well card for Adam. Joe glimpsed a misshapen kangaroo bumping his head on a speech bubble. That likely read: “You’ll soon have a spring in your step!”

  Head bent over her colored pencils, Kaitlin couldn’t stop smiling.

  Joe refocused on Vaughan’s weather-beaten face. Don’t do this to me, he pleaded silently. A delay in this major deal would make it impossible to take four days off from work to attend camp. Forget camp, he wouldn’t see Kaitlin for weeks because he’d be slaving seven days to meet his financial commitments. Adam’s open-ended rehab care, alimony and child support, his own living expenses. This deal would have carried him for six months. “Why second thoughts now?”

  Vaughan finally got his bulk comfortable in the chair. “My wife reminded me that you’re the expert,” he admitted sheepishly.

  “You could lose the property by waiting, Vaughan,” Joe warned. “Wasn’t that why you insisted we close the deal?”

  The old man shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

  Not for me, Joe wanted to yell. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had doubts before I made a promise to my daughter? Factored the commission into my budget? With an immense effort he kept his face impassive, his tone neutral. “What do you want to do?”

  “Whatever you think best.” Vaughan gestured to the numerous framed awards on Joe’s wall. Top Producer eight years running. Number-One Commercial Real Estate Branch, San Francisco six years running. “Like I said, you’re the expert.”

  Behind Vaughan’s back, Kaitlin dug in her schoolbag, then held up a brochure. Camp Redwood. Where Nature meets Nurture.

  Joe shoved the contract across the desk. “Sign.” Vaughan patted his breast pocket for a pen. “Here.” He slid over his Montblanc.

  The older man signed with a flourish, then returned the pen and contract. “I trust your judgment, Joe. You’ve never steered me wrong.”

  Joe stared at the densely typed document and the zeros standing out like salvation. Deal honestly with people and people will deal honestly with you. Except his grandmother’s code of honor had been discredited by her disreputable past, he thought bitterly.

  For another few seconds he wrestled with his conscience. Then, grasping the corners of the contract, Joe ripped it in half and dropped the remains in the trash. “We’ll sit out another couple of months and see what interest rates do.”

  Nana Jo hadn’t lived up to her values, but he could.

  “Sure, Joe. Say, I’ve got some early bottles of this year’s zinfandel from my old vineyard. Drop by for a tasting. I’d like your opinion.” Oblivious of his broker’s sacrifice, Vaughan stood up to leave.

  Joe forced a smile. “I’ll do that.”

  Picking up his coat, the older man caught sight of Kaitlin. “That your little girl? She’s a real cutie.”

  A cutie about to get her heart broken unless Joe came up with a plan B. As Vaughan left his office, Joe even contemplated telling his ex-wife his dilemma. He’d insisted on giving her nearly everything after the divorce. But keeping his difficulties from Nadia was so engrained he instantly dismissed the thought. Daniel had no spare cash; the only person who did was Uncle Sam Carson, and Joe would crawl over broken glass before giving that SOB the pleasure
of turning him down.

  He was on his own.

  Kaitlin flew into his office the moment the elevator doors closed on Vaughan. “Do you have a sleeping bag, Dad? Because I have a spare as long as you don’t mind pink…. Look, I’ll write you a list and you tell me what you have. I’ll organize the rest.”

  His daughter plunked herself on his lap and started to write, brow furrowed in concentration. She was left-handed, like him…. His throat was tight, Joe couldn’t trust himself to speak, to confess, “Baby, I can’t come.”

  Her teacher had made it plain that this was his chance to make things right with his daughter. Oddly, he wished Miss Browne was here to advise him.

  Yeah, you just want another look at those legs.

  He’d told her that his daughter might be better off without him, but on the verge of losing Kaitlin, Joe knew he could never give her up. Which meant he couldn’t quit.

  Something might happen between now and camp—an idea, a deal, a lottery win. A miracle. Think of Cousin Joe, he told himself, though this time the corny family joke couldn’t raise a smile. Still, he wouldn’t cancel until he absolutely had to.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PIP’S FELLOW TEACHER Anita tapped her on the shoulder as she mustered her high-spirited class. “Joe Fraser called the school office to say he’s been delayed. He’ll meet us there.”

  Across the heads of chattering ten-year-olds, Pip met Nadia Fraser’s I-told-you-so glance. “Not to worry,” Pip said briskly, then clapped her hands. “Okay, kids, everyone on the bus, it’s time to roll. Chop-chop, Kaitlin.” The girl stood frozen in the midst of seething children. “We want to beat your dad there, don’t we?”

  Kaitlin’s expression was tragic. “You think he’s even coming?”

  “Sure, he is. Now give your mom a hug goodbye.”

  She watched Nadia enfold her daughter in a fierce embrace and whisper something in her ear. Then Pip was caught up in the flurry of trying to get seventy-five kids and their luggage on two coaches.

  Fortunately, she had the help of several other dads, none of whom had trouble making the rendezvous.