Dying Flames by Robert Barnard

particularly my dramatic friends as I may call them.” A special glance was shot at Michael and Vesta. “But the early heartbreak was that I had to give up the baby that I bore—such a love! So small and helpless! Things were different then, you know, and there were pressures…”
    â€œThere were no pressures from us,” muttered Ted Somers.
    â€œI’m not accusing anyone, Dad…. So all my life I’ve carried around in me this heartbreak, this something that I’ve had and then lost and thought I could never find again. Perhaps this heartbreak has added something to my performances onstage—it’s not for me to say…. Anyway, it just shows how one has to have faith. Because one day, three weeks ago—September the tenth it was, and I’ll never forget the date—I had a phone call, and there was something in the voice, and I knew from the moment I heard it that this was one of the most important phone calls of my life. He asked me if I had been Peggy Somers, and”—she smiled roguishly—“to cut a long story not very short, he announced that he was the child I’d given up for adoption all those weary years ago, when I was eighteen. Christa and Adam have met him, we all love him already, and I wanted to introduce him to all my family and friends, so we can all be open about it, all welcome him.”
    She stood up, looked around at them all, and raised her glass.
    â€œTo Terry Telford, my son.”
    Not just an echoing of the sentiments but applause seemed to be called for, and that presented problems. Who was to be applauded, and what for? Graham tried to solve the matter when he put down his glass, having sipped, and extended his hand over the table, saying, “Welcome.” Michael and Vesta followed his example, and so, after a moment’s hesitation, did Ted Somers.
    â€œI suppose I’m your grandfather,” he said. “Welcome.”
    Graham was beginning to wonder, with dread, when all this loving was going to lead to the inevitable revelation. He looked at Peggy, but all she did was respond with an enigmatic smile. He felt he was only ministering to her self-absorption, and he looked away in disgust. As he did so, his eye rested on the other end of the table. Adam was sitting there, his face twisting with real fury—genuine feeling, as opposed to all the actressy falseness emanating from Peggy and from her newfound son, who was again caressing her hand on the table and looking into her eyes, while both were masticating their main courses. Graham felt the intensity of Adam’s feelings was a relief, but he had to recognize that it was a threat as well. He had helped to initiate a train of events that could end in catastrophe for Peggy and her fragile family.
    â€œSo that,” came Peggy’s voice, resuming the play, “is how I came to know my firstborn, the son I’d had and never had. And what it proves to me is that happy endings do happen. ‘Sometimes—there’s God—so quickly!’ as Blanche DuBois says.” If Graham had not noticed the rotten Southern accent, Christa’s nudge would have told him. “And from now on, Terry and I are going to make up for all that wasted time. I’ll never be alone again.”
    â€œAlone?” Adam’s voice came from the end of the table, breaking in anger or contempt. “You’ll never be alone again? Haven’t Christa and I been anyone? Have we just been inconvenient nothings who should never have intruded into your life?”
    Peggy’s hand went to her mouth. “Adam! Darling, you’re misunderstanding. I never meant—”
    â€œOh, you meant what you said, Mother ! All we’ve been to you is walking maintenance payments. I’m sick of you. I’m sick of living with you, having you near me. I’d rather sleep on the streets and beg. I’d rather sell myself. I’d rather be