Free Twilight Child by Warren Adler Page A

Meridian,” Charlie heard himself say. “Not too wide in the beam, but a
good cruiser.” He swallowed, remembering Chuck hanging out on a low heel,
scaring them white and climbing the mast like a squirrel.
    Â â€œWhen the
kids get bigger, we’ll trade up. Something to be said for growing your own
crew.”
    Â â€œSold mine a
couple of years ago. Was beginning to look around for another for when my
grandson got older. . . .” He checked himself, looked swiftly at
Molly, who turned away.
    Â The coffee
came in china cups on a silver tray carried by a tall secretary who set it down
and left the room. Molly lifted hers daintily and sipped. Charlie held back,
his hands pressed under his thighs, fearful that they would shake.
    Â Forte talked
some more about sailboats in general, and Charlie waited for the inevitable
cliché, which came on schedule.
    Â â€œThe happiest
two days of a boating man’s life are the day he buys his first boat and the day
he sells it.”
    Â Charlie
forced a smile, a little less intimidated now that he had heard Forte’s broad
Baltimore O . Boat was “boot,” which brought him down a peg or two from
his Harvard diploma and the oak panels in the reception room and the Columbia
32 and the gold bracelet.
    Â Forte leaned
back in his chair, playing with a black pen. Behind him, Charlie could see the
Baltimore harbor in all its resurrected glory.
    Â â€œYou say your
daughter-in-law refuses to allow you to see your grandchild,” Forte said, his
eyes roaming to take in both their faces.
    Â Charlie
nodded. Saying it so bluntly was like blowing on live ashes.
    Â â€œThat, more
or less, is the problem,” Charlie said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his
voice. He looked toward Molly, who nodded approval, perhaps of his calm, which
encouraged him to go further. “The question is, can she do that to us?”
    Â â€œDepends,”
Forte said. “There are now new ways of looking at the situation.”
    Â â€œThat’s what
the story talked about,” Charlie said. “And why we’re here.”
    Â â€œHow long has
it been since you’ve seen your grandson?”
    Â â€œTwo years,”
Charlie said, swallowing a ball of phlegm that had jumped into his throat. “Not
since she got married again and moved to Columbia. Guess we’re not good enough
for them anymore.” Molly snapped him a look of disapproval. “My wife thought
she would come around.”
    Â â€œYou’ve
talked to her about this?” Forte asked.
    Â â€œYou might
call it that.” Charlie shrugged toward Molly, who acknowledged that fact with a
nod and a pursing of her lips. Forte looked toward her, provoking an
explanation.
    Â â€œI’ve had
two—no, three conversations with her,” Molly said. For some reason, Charlie
held back mentioning his own confrontation on that last day and the later one
at school. Nor how awful they had felt on the last two Christmases. On the
first one, Frances had actually sent back their gifts to Tray. On the second
one, they had not exposed themselves to the humiliation. He wasn’t ready to relive
that, not yet.
    Â â€œCounting
when she left,” Charlie interrupted. That was the crucial conversation, he
thought, after which Molly had said that Frances would come around, that it was
only a condition of the moment to impress her new husband, to make him more
secure by ignoring the past.
    Â â€œLeft?”
    Â â€œWhen she
married her new husband and took Tray.”
    Â â€œWhat reasons
did she give?” Forte asked, turning to Molly. Somehow Charlie felt that he
hadn’t quite finished, that it was too early to throw Molly the ball. At first
she looked at him, perhaps to show him her reluctance. It did not prevent her
from answering.
    Â â€œShe said
that she wanted to get on with her life, that the most important consideration
was