a-soft-place-to-fall - Rakhibul hasan (story books to read .TXT) 📗

who watched over her family as if he actually had the right.

"I'm talking about that man you installed in Ellie's old house."

"Watch that viper tongue of yours, Claudia. You almost drew blood that time."

She ignored him. "I hope you're not trying to push the two of them together because if you are – "

"Speak English!" he roared. "If you're going to wrap up your words in riddles, I'll finish my scotch and head for home."

She drew herself up to her full height – which wasn't quite as impressive as it used to be in her glory days – and snapped at him. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, Warren Bancroft, and tell me you're not up to your old tricks again."

He took a long slow sip of scotch and she all but flew across the room and pulled an answer out of his throat with her bare hands. "Sam is an old friend of mine," he said at last. "He needed a place to stop for a while and that's what I've given him."

"Why didn't you ask him to stay at the big house on the Point?"

He took another sip of scotch, savoring it in the way he knew irritated her almost senseless. "You know I like my space, Claudia."

"Make an exception. It isn't like your help has much to do."

He pulled one of those dreadful cigars from his breast pocket and patted himself down in search of his lighter. She refused to offer him a match.

"Next thing you'll be telling me how to run my businesses." "Business has never been a problem for you, Warren."

He retrieved his lighter from a back pocket with a flourish. "And speaking your mind has never been a problem for you."

The nerve of him, lighting up without even asking if she minded. "Leave Annie alone," she said in a fiercely protective tone of voice. "Bad enough you encouraged her to sell her house. Don't go playing matchmaker."

He touched the flame to the tip of his cigar. His cheeks sank in as he drew the rich smoke into his lungs. The old fool.

"Not everyone turns widowhood into a career. Annie's too young to take the veil."

His words hurt as they were meant to. Even after all these years, their history still loomed between them but the days of crying in front of Warren Bancroft were a thing of the past.

"Anne is a grown woman," she said. "She'll make her own decisions without any help from either one of us."

"Remember those words," Warren said, "because one day they'll come back to haunt you."

You don't know her the way I do, Warren. I know what's best for her. "Do you want your supper or are you just here to make my life difficult?"

"I never should have let you go, Claudia," he said as he followed her into the kitchen at the back of the house. "If I had my way, I'd marry you all over again."

#

In his senior year of high school, Warren Bancroft was voted by unanimous proclamation the most popular boy in the Class of 1950. He was also named the boy Least Likely to Succeed without a dissenting vote as well. Warren agreed with both assessments. He was the kind-hearted, fun-loving son of a lobsterman who was also the son of a lobsterman and it never occurred to anyone, including Warren, that he would spend his life doing anything beyond setting lobster traps and grousing about the weather.

Weather was important to the residents of Shelter Rock Cove. Weather determined if you could head out to sea in the morning. Weather determined what kind of catch you came back with. When you came down to it, weather determined if you came back at all.

On his third trip out after graduation, Warren Bancroft found himself in the middle of a nor'easter the likes of which even the old salts had never seen before. When they limped back to port four days later, Warren kissed the scarred wood of the dock and swore there had to be a better way to make a living. And then he set off to find it.

At the Class of 1950's ten-year reunion, Warren came home to Shelter Rock Cove, filled with talk of computers like the Univac on Art Linkletter's television show or Spencer Tracy's beloved Emerac from the movie Desk Set. Because he still looked and sounded like the Warren they had grown up with, they all just listened politely then forgot all about his crazy notions until their twenty-year reunion rolled around and he drove up from Boston in a big black Lincoln Continental with a chauffeur behind the wheel.

It seemed that Warren Bancroft, the boy least likely to succeed, had struck it rich and he didn't mind sharing what he had with the town where he grew up. But what the good people of Shelter Rock Cove didn't know was that for six short months in 1951 he and Claudia Perrine had been husband and wife. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the fact. Hell, he wanted to shout it from the rooftops. It was Claudia who was determined to keep her brief marriage a secret from one and all.

"The marriage was annulled," she told him the day they said goodbye, "and that means it never happened."

And because he loved her, he kept their secret.

Claudia had wanted a husband who came home every night at five- thirty and read the paper in his easy chair while she finished preparing dinner. She had wanted a family, a brood of children, who would grow up to be healthy and happy and have children of

their own. She didn't understand adventure. She didn't believe in taking risks. She couldn't imagine a life that didn't include all of the things her mother and grandmother had enjoyed over the years.

Too bad Warren hadn't wanted any of those things. He wasn't even twenty yet and he wanted to see the world. Make his mark on it. There would be time enough for picket fences and babies but not now. Not yet.

He could still see the tears in her eyes the night she told him she wanted an annulment. "I spoke to the priest at the parish house," she had said, her voice trembling slightly. "I told him that you refused to have children with me."

"Someday I will," he said, knowing that the battle he fought was already lost. "Just not now."

"He said that was grounds enough for us to end the marriage swiftly."

She went on to marry John Galloway and raise a half-dozen children plus Annie Lacy while he watched from a distance and wished they were his.

Because Warren had a kind heart and kind hearts required an outlet, his name had become synonymous in Shelter Rock Cove with quiet generosity. He paid off the mortgages for everyone in his family. He made sure his friends' medical bills were taken care of. If the town needed a new police car or funds to shore up the sagging pier, Warren Bancroft was the first in line with his checkbook. He established a scholarship for the children of fishermen lost at sea, donated a wing to the local hospital, and generally kept a sharp eye on who might be in need, even if the one in need wasn't from Shelter Rock Cove. It seemed somehow to him the least he could do for all he had been given.

But there had been two among the many who stood out. Two who had claimed the part of his heart that ached for children of his own.

Annie Lacy and Sam Butler.

Sam was fifteen years old when he met Warren. Sam was working at the marina near the World's Fair in Flushing, Queens, doing whatever small repairs the boat builders threw his way. He was smart, a hard worker who was good with his hands. He loved being around boats and his enthusiasm made him a favorite on the docks. That year Warren was sailing his favorite yacht up from the Bahamas to Shelter Rock Cove, trying to finish the trip before hurricane season broke for real. He ran into some trouble near the Battery and somehow managed to bring the boat into the marina for repairs. It was a hot July evening. Nobody was around except for a wiry kid with a thick shock of dark hair and enough energy to power the city across the river. By the time Sam had the yacht up and running, he and Warren Bancroft were fast friends.

They saw each other each year at the beginning of the summer when Warren sailed up the coast to Maine and again at the end of the season when he made the return trip to winter the yacht in the Bahamas. The summer before his mother Rosemary died, sixteen-year-old Sam and a group of inner city kids crewed for Warren then spent a few weeks learning about the fisherman's life at the hands of the men who knew it best. It was Sam's last great summer.

A year later they buried Sam's father Patrick next to Rosemary.

That was the summer Warren didn't make it back to Maine. He was living in Japan at the time, overseeing a huge project with one of the giant electronics firms that would translate one day into a lot of jobs back home. Warren's first wife had left him many years ago for a man whose greatest ambition was to get home from the office in time to

see the evening news. Warren told himself it was a good thing that he and Claudia hadn't stayed married long enough to have children – a split was never easy on children -- but in his heart he knew he was lying. He envied his ex-wife her big noisy family and he often thought that was why he took so many youngsters under his wing.

When he saw Sam again, he barely recognized the boy. Sam's natural enthusiasm had been replaced by an intensity Warren rarely saw in even the most driven businessman. Sam didn't tell him about his father's passing. Warren had to learn that from Bill, the owner of the marina.

"The kid's working himself to death trying to take care of that brood," Bill told him. "I've given him as many hours as I can but it's not enough." Sam was juggling his job there with selling sporting equipment at Macy's and working nights as a maintenance man at one of the office buildings along Queens Boulevard. He had dropped out of St. John's last semester and unless a miracle occurred, he wouldn't be going back any time soon.

Warren wanted to provide the miracle but he knew the boy's pride wouldn't allow it. Sam was quick and smart and good with people. He had a natural affinity with facts and figures that would put most other young men his age to sleep. It was the beginning of the roaring, good time 1980s when the stockbroker was king and how better to help Sam than to make him a young prince of the realm?

Sam was honest, and the business disturbed him, but he had to put aside his own discomfort in favor of his siblings and their future. There was no other way – at least, none that was legal – for a college dropout to make the kind of money Sam needed to keep his family safe and secure.

And now it was over. The kids were grown; the job was history. He was free to do anything he wanted to do, go anywhere, maybe even go back to school and get that degree he used to talk about.

You would think the boy would be happy. Hell, just being thirty-five again would be enough to put a smile on Warren's face.

But the feeling that he could have done more, been more, still lingered with Sam and, no matter how much it grieved Warren Bancroft, only