A Little Bit of Déjà Vu (44 page)

She’d wanted a man like her dad, who’d been dependable, caring, and willing to give up his life to save a child. It had been Matt’s gentleness and the way he’d always put her first that’d made her so sure he was that kind of guy.

He’d been so excited about becoming a father. If nothing else, his death had spared her the agony of telling him their dreams of a big family had been shattered.

Abby finished stitching the seam on Mrs. Dalton’s gown and choked back a sob. “Oh, Matt,” she whispered, “please forgive me. I’m so lonely. I had to say yes to him.”

Even though Robert wasn’t nuts about children, he’d always been nice to the boys. How much more could she expect from someone who had no desire for kids? He was her best choice, considering her situation.

She watched out the window while Mac steered the lawnmower into the backyard, and a warm flush crept up her neck. It didn’t make sense to be so attracted to him. The man had at least ten or twelve years on her—maybe more.

He picked up the toys scattered over the grass and stacked them neatly on the patio. The meticulous attention Mac gave the menial job said a lot about his integrity. The fellow she usually paid to cut her lawn would’ve kicked the kids’ things aside.

Instead of shooing the boys inside so he could finish, Mac spent time teaching them how to travel hand-over-hand across the laddered top of the swing set.

When Royce had invited Mac into the backyard, her maternal radar had initially gone haywire. But the indulgent way he listened to the boys and his sincere concern for their safety were compelling evidence that Mac genuinely liked children.

Wasn’t this typical of her luck? She’s just become engaged to
Mr. Almost Right,
and she finally meets a guy who makes her pulse do the mambo—and who, unfortunately, was also looking forward to having kids of his own.

Chapter 3

Matt finished sweeping the clippings off the patio and driveway, then wheeled the lawnmower back into the garage. He reached up to close the overhead door and noticed an old sheet draped over a set of motorcycle wheels. He lifted the tattered cloth and breathed out a long sigh of appreciation for the classic cycle.
What an incredible bike
.

The strange affinity he felt to the machine suggested it might have belonged to him. If so, he had great taste in cycles. Somehow he knew he’d ridden a hog. It mystified him that the heady feeling of whizzing along the open highway with the wind in his face managed to filter through his subconscious even though he couldn’t recall a freaking thing about his life or family.

Since he had no memory of his parents, he hadn’t felt up to talking to them yet. But in good conscience, he also hadn’t been able to allow the people who had raised and undoubtedly loved him to continue believing he’d died.

After arriving at the Philly VA hospital with Dr. Grant yesterday morning, he’d called directory assistance to make sure his parents still lived at the address in the personal information file he’d been given with a copy of his birth certificate. He’d spent the previous evening writing a long letter to them, explaining his situation, and asking them to be patient while he worked some things out for himself. He’d promised to get in touch in a week or two and begged them not to contact Abby.

By the time he’d finished his letter, his roommate was ready for lights out, so Matt hadn’t had an opportunity to read much of the information in the his paperwork. He needed to study his personal file before he could fill out a job application.

The moment he knocked on the back door, Abby swung it open. “Come on in. Dinner will be ready any minute now.”

“You really shouldn’t invite me into your home. For all you know, I could be a serial killer. It’s no problem for me to eat out here at the picnic table.”

“Don’t be silly. You saved my son’s life. Besides, if you were a member of the Manson family, I’m sure you’d find a way to hurt us, regardless of whether I invite you in or not.”

“The Manson family?”

“You know, Charles Manson. Helter Skelter, August of ‘69.”

He stared at her in complete ignorance.

“The Tate/LaBianca murders. Everyone has heard of Charles Manson. It happened with everything else that summer.”

He shrugged. “I have no idea what else happened.”

Abby looked at him as if he had three heads. “We landed on the moon. Ted Kennedy’s car went off the bridge on Chappaquiddick Island. Woodstock.”

Major news stories had filtered into the POW camp through recently captured prisoners, but he was totally in the dark about more minor events. “I heard we landed on the moon, but what’s Woodstock?”

“I thought you said you were in Vietnam. You sound more like you were on Mars. Woodstock was a three-day rock concert in Bethel, New York. All the biggest artists performed.”

“It sounds great.”

“It was hippie heaven. Thirty thousand people were expected, and they ended up with nearly half a million. They had to shut down the New York Thruway. How could you have
not
heard about it?”

“I guess I had a little trouble with my paperboy that summer.”

She released a light snort. “Sure, blame it on the poor paperboy. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never heard of Watergate.”

“No,
that
I’ve heard about.” Tricky Dick Nixon was all they were talking about on the news.

She motioned him inside. “As long as you promise not to commit any heinous acts while you’re here, you can eat with us.”

He left his duffle bag next to the back door and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad for my sake you’re so trusting, but you really should be more careful.”

“You sound just like my brother. There’s a fine line between caution and paranoia. I suppose I’m one of those people who believe in the innate goodness of man.”

“You’re lucky no one’s ever taken advantage of you. Take it from a guy who’s seen a whole lot of bad, if you’re not careful, one day someone will exploit your faith in mankind.”

She stepped aside for him to enter the large sunny kitchen filled with a mouthwatering aroma. The room was decorated in varying shades of gold and green, and a good portion of the spacious dining area was taken up by shelves and a built-in work station holding a couple of expensive-looking sewing machines.

While he leaned on the counter and watched Abby mash the potatoes, her cheeks flushed to a deep pink.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom to wash up?” he asked, acutely aware that his presence unsettled her.

“No, not at all. Down the hall, first door on the left.”

He took his time using the facilities, and when he returned, she was stirring fresh mushrooms into a pan of rich homemade gravy. His mouth flooded in anticipation.

She pointed to one end of the small table. “Take that seat. The boys always sit on either side. If anyone takes their chair, they throw a conniption.”

“I imagine that’s a major calamity to a six-year-old.” Matt noticed the bowl of potatoes and another filled with peas on the counter and carried them to the table. “Can I pour the kids’ drinks?”

“Thanks. They get milk. Help yourself to whatever you prefer.”

He pulled open the gold refrigerator’s door. “How about you, Abby? What would you like?”

Her spine stiffened as if rigor mortis had set into it. “How’d you know my name?”

He froze, holding the milk carton poised over a glass. Great. She had him on that one. “
Umm
—I saw some magazines in the bathroom with your name on the mailing label,” he ad-libbed, praying she had a subscription.

“Oh, right. I’ll just have ice water, please.”

“You don’t mind if I call you Abby, do you?”

“No, of course not. I just realized I’d been rude and hadn’t introduced myself.”

If he could get her talking, maybe he could learn something about himself. “So, are you widowed or divorced?”

“My husband Matt was killed in Vietnam right before Tommy was born.”

He shot a glance at the kids as they slipped into their seats at the table. “Tommy?” Matt frowned. “What about Royce? Aren’t they twins?”

The two boys giggled hysterically.

He peered at them sideways. “What’s so funny, guys?”

Abby chuckled. “What they find so hilarious is you think they’re brothers. They’re not even distantly related.”

Not related? A wave of disappointment surged through Matt. He wanted Royce to be his son, too. “But you act as if they’re both yours.”

She placed a helping of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and peas onto the boys’ plates before adding a squirt of ketchup. “Well, I’ve taken care of Royce since he was born, so I pretty much feel like he’s mine. His mother Lucy and I were roommates in the hospital when we had the boys. The house next door went up for sale around the same time, and it was exactly what she and her husband were looking to buy.”

“Ahh.” He nodded. “You’re just babysitting.”

“Sort of.” She cast a reassuring smile at Royce. “I’ll explain later.” Her rose-garden scent stirred something deep inside Matt—not a memory, but rather a comforting sense of familiarity.

He pulled out her chair and sat across from her. “So—was the Harley I saw in the garage your husband’s?”

“Yes.” She looked down at her plate. “It hasn’t been ridden since he left. I was always terrified he’d kill himself on it. Matt was a real adrenaline junkie.”

“You wouldn’t be interested in selling it, would you?”

“
Uh
—gee, I don’t know. I guess it’s a little silly not to, huh? I just haven’t been able to make myself get rid of any of his things. It was already really old when Matt rode it, so I can’t imagine why you’d want it.”

Obviously, she had no idea it was nearly old enough to be classified as an antique or how much a cycle enthusiast would pay for it.

Abby glanced at the kids. “Okay, whose turn is it to say grace?”

The boys argued for several moments until Matt held up his hand. “Hey, fellows, I’m hungry. How about I do it?” He bowed his head, said a short blessing, and then looked up at Abby. “I need a set of wheels, and a bike is about all I can afford.”

He should feel lousy not disclosing the motorcycle’s potential value, but what the hell, it was his, right? He felt ridiculous buying something he already owned regardless of the price, but he had no choice if he was going to continue the charade. “So how much do you want for it?”

“I don’t know. It hasn’t been run in over six years.”

Taking a bite of the meat loaf drenched in  mushroom gravy, he rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “Man, this is good.” He sipped his ice-cold milk. “If your husband knew anything about mechanics, he would’ve known what to do to protect the engine. It looks like he took good care of it.”

“I’m sure he did. Matt always did his own tune-ups and oil changes. He carried a double major in electrical and mechanical engineering and took a bundle of science courses, so he was a stickler about maintaining equipment.”

Lifting his eyebrows, he swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. “Really? Small world. I majored in engineering, too. Where’d he go to school?”

“Princeton.”

He blew out a long, low whistle. “He must’ve had some pretty good grades to get in there.”

“He did. But not quite good enough to go without accepting an ROTC scholarship. Once he was there, though, Matt buckled down and graduated summa cum laude. He was interested in designing medical equipment. He believed that sector of technology would skyrocket in the next thirty years.”

From the advances he’d seen in diagnostic equipment at the VA hospital, it looked as if his prediction was on target.

“In fact, before Matt even finished college, he had a patent on some new component for a cardiopulmonary bypass machine. Before going overseas, he sold the rights for enough to buy me the GTO in driveway.”

Hot spit. Those brains hadn’t kept his life from getting totally fucked up. She talked as if he were a superhuman combo of Thomas Edison and The Lone Ranger.

“So what do you say? Will you let me buy it?”

“Umm....I can’t explain why, but it would bother me to sell it. I know he’s dead, but....” She shrugged. “I’d feel better just
giving
it to you.”

That would be great, except he didn’t want Abby to think he was some low-life who would mooch off a widow. It was bad enough he was keeping her in the dark about the Harley’s worth.

“No. I’d feel like a sleaze, taking it for nothing. How about I do some work for you in exchange. The house could use some paint.”

She wiped a milk mustache off Tommy’s lip with her napkin. “My brother Peter was planning to paint while he’s on leave. But I’d be just as happy if he doesn’t have to. He recently moved in with his girlfriend, and he’s already given up one evening to sit with the boys.”

Matt scooped a forkful of peas into his mouth and grimaced at the flavor and texture. He should’ve trusted his instincts and gone light on them.

As he shoveled them in to rid his plate of the vegetable, Abby pointed at his dish. “I see you really like peas. My husband despised them.” His stomach sunk when she handed him the bowl. “Here, why don’t you finish them off?”

Talk about killing a guy with kindness.

Rather than give Abby one more coincidence to question, Matt dumped the unappealing contents onto his plate. “So how about it? I’ll paint the house in exchange for the Harley. ”

“Mmm....I don’t know. That’s a lot to do for just a broken-down motorcycle.”

“Throw in three squares a day, and it’ll be more than a fair deal. I need to eat a lot to put some weight back on.” And spending mealtimes with Abby and the kids would give him a chance to get to know them.

“Okay. But it still doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Don’t worry, it will be.” He shuddered, choking down another mouthful of the peas. “To do the job right, a lot of scraping, caulking, and priming needs to be done. So you’ll be feeding me for well over a week.” He placed another helping of meatloaf on his plate. “And I’ll also have to take time off to look for a permanent job.”