Banish Misfortune Read Free

And too many people had broken their promises to her—he wasn't going to be another one, even if it killed him.
    And it wouldn't. He'd seen his father too many times in the past twenty years; he knew full well he could deal with it, even managing to be pleasant if the situation called for it. But Hamilton MacDowell wasn't fooled. He knew his son hated him, he knew why, and there was absolutely nothing he could or would do about it. Except stumble through Elyssa's periodic attempts at reconciliation with the same miserable grace that Springer mustered. And doubtless breathe the same sigh of relief that Springer did when they finally were released from each other's onerous presence.
    Releasing some of the pressure from the accelerator, Springer stretched the long legs that had given him the nickname that still clung to him. John Springer MacDowell, king of the Princeton basketball court, second only to Bill Bradley in the college's history, Springer MacDowell of the mile-long arms and legs and the devastating hook shot that had made more than one professional recruiter drool and then weep, as Springer calmly and resolutely turned his back on their lucrative offers. Hamilton had been too proud of his son, too eager for Springer to succeed. Once aware of his father's belated paternal pride, Springer had done the only thing he could think of to punish the old man. He'd enlisted in the marines with the express purpose of going to Vietnam and rubbing the liberal old man's nose in it.
    But that, too, had backfired. It wasn't Hamilton MacDowell who suffered from the deprivation, the soulless, violent agony that was war. It was Springer, who since his father's betrayal had done everything he could to squash down any signs of sensitivity, Springer who had to deal with the soul-destroying despair warfare brings. And still had to deal with it.
    Reaching up one large, well-shaped hand, he pushed the mirrored sunglasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. It was a definitive nose, not quite Hamilton's imposing beak, but a determined, hawklike blade nonetheless, giving his face a brutal look not tempered by the high cheekbones, deep-brown—almost black-eyes and thick straight, silky black hair. His mother had likened him to an Indian, knowing full well he got his spectacular looks from her, not the father who had bequeathed him the bladelike nose and a legacy of pain and hatred.
    Women had always responded to those looks, to Springer's immensely tall, wiry body, the distant, beautiful face and those dark, unfathomable, lost eyes. And Springer had always taken advantage of that response, taking what was offered with pleasure and irresponsibility and a complete disregard for commitment. Even his brief marriage hadn't curtailed his amatory activities.
    Only a reluctant maturity had done that, so that now, at age thirty-five, he'd gone for the longest period of celibacy since the discovery of his father's betrayal. It had been five months since he'd slept with a woman, and he was in no mood to remedy that situation. He was mortally tired of faceless bodies, of casual sex, of the ritual mating dance that ended before it even began, ended in a tangle of sheets and limbs and performances. Maybe he was more like his father than he wanted to believe.
    He'd promised Elyssa he'd stay for a month. Already the time loomed ahead like a prison sentence. He wouldn't get in till well past midnight—that would kill one day. Only twenty-nine after that. His strong, tanned hands clenched around the leather-covered steering wheel, and once more the large foot in the well-worn Nikes pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could be gone. And the Lotus sped along the Pennsylvania highway like an arrow, straight and true to the heart.
    Only a trace of redness marred the cool blue beauty of Jessica's eyes as she slid once more behind the empty desk and waited, waited for God knows what. It must simply be stress, she told herself