Renata and the Fall from Grace

by Becky Doughty

  "Tim, the boys still need you to be their friend, but I don't want them to count on you to be at their beck and call from now until eternity. That's not fair to either of you."

  Tim rose to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. "And what about you?"

  "What about me?" she asked. What was he getting at?

  "Do you still need me as a friend? Or are you tired of having me at your beck and call too?"

  "What? No. That's not what I said. I'm not tired of it, of you. But I can't bear the thought of counting on you, only to have you gone one day. Just like John." The truth flung itself out there, and in her dismay, she tried to stop the swing, but her foot bumped the ground oddly and spun her around in a slow circle.

  Before she'd made a complete revolution, Tim was beside her, one hand on the rope above her head, the other sliding around her waist and hauling her up off the plank seat. He set her on her feet and ground out, "Can't you just be still when you're talking to me?"

  And with that comment, she found her spine. "Okay. You don't have to manhandle me. All you had to do was ask, you know." She crossed her arms over her chest and stood facing him, the beginnings of a temper tantrum stroking her nerve endings.

  "Fine. Let me ask you this. Are you asking me to stop spending time with the boys? With you?" He was angry, too. Why? Hadn't she just helped him get past the worst of things? Or maybe he was one of those guys who did the leaving. Maybe that was why he didn't have a girlfriend, wasn't married after all these years.

  "Yes." She didn't say more, not trusting her voice. At least she wasn't crying.

  "Just like that, huh? Take them camping, show them a good time, thank you very much, now get the heck out of Dodge?" He waved a beefy arm toward the sliding glass door where she could see Levi and Judah lying side-by-side on the floor, the flickering action on the television screen reflecting off their faces. She thought Levi might be asleep.

  Turning back to him, she said, "Why are you acting like this? What did I say to make you so mad? It's time to move on, Tim, don't you think? John is dead. He's not coming back. You're free to go."

  He just stood there, staring at her. She opened her arms to her sides and thrust out her belly. "For Pete's sake, Tim. You're hanging out with a widow who has four kids and another on the way. Look at me! Don't you see anything wrong with this picture?"

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tim did look at her. He looked at her for so long that she finally dropped her arms, slipped on her shoes, and started to walk away, frustration and defeat in her voice. "Fine. Don't talk. What a surprise. I need to go check on the boys."

  In three long strides, Tim had stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her way. "Oh, no you don't. Is this where Reuben gets it? That boy is the king of walking away when the going gets uncomfortable."

  "Excuse me? Are you going to prevent me from going inside my house?" Renata took a step back and glared up at him, fists clenched at her sides.

  "Yes, Mrs. Dixon. If you think you're going to walk away from me before we resolve this, then I'm going to prevent you from doing so." He crossed his arms and thrust out his chest. "We've got a mess to clean up before you go anywhere."

  "I am not a child, Tim. Don't treat me like one." Renata was so angry now she could barely speak. How dare he! He'd used those exact same words with Reuben just a week ago.

  "Then don't act like one."

  "And what do you know about children, Bachelor Tim?" She lifted both hands and shoved hard against his crossed arms. "Out of my way."

  Tim didn't move. He didn't even rock backward from her effort. Towering a foot over her petite frame, he grinned down at her, taunting her. "Name calling now, huh? I told you, I'm not going anywhere, little girl."

  Something inside her snapped when he called her 'little girl’, Brad Haley's sneering voice reverberating in her head. That temper tantrum, that ugly little she-devil that hadn't made an appearance in months, rose up inside her, consuming her with frustration and bitterness toward this man who wouldn't just leave her to the misery of a future without him. As though watching from outside her body, she saw her hand come up, fingers open, then crack against Tim's cheek, the sound of her palm against his skin loud in the electric silence between them.

  Tim snatched her hand so quickly, she didn't even have time to feel the stinging of her palm before he'd spun her around like a choreographed dance move, effectively immobilizing her as he yanked her up against him, her back pressed to the solid wall of him, the back of her head thumping against his sternum. Her slender fingers clenched inside his big hand, her arm folded tight to her chest in front of her. His other arm circled her waist loosely, his free hand spread out over her abdomen in a gesture that could only be construed as protective.

  It reminded her so acutely of the dream she'd had, standing almost exactly the way they were now, but in her dream, she'd been there by choice, not held captive by him. She tried to pull free, clawing at him with her free hand.

  "Let me go," she hissed, angry tears spilling from her eyes. "I'm going to scream so loud your eardrums will bleed."

  "Stop, Renata,” he ground out, his mouth close to her ear as he bent his head to speak to her. "Stop it, okay? Just stop. I'm not going to hurt you, but I'm not going to let you haul off and hit me like that, either."

  He waited until she quit squirming, stopped straining to get free. "It's okay, it's okay.” He spoke gently near her ear, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine. “We'll get through this. Stop pushing me away." They stood like that for several minutes, Tim murmuring quietly to her, his hand holding hers loosening, lacing his fingers together with hers over her pounding heart. His arm encircling her belly was as gentle as a cradle, his cheek pressed to her hair.

  He still held her captive, but as the flame of fury fizzled under the onslaught of his tender rebuke, she realized she was right where she wanted to be.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, when she could find her voice. "I'm sorry, Tim."

  "I forgive you," he whispered back, his breath warm on her cheek. "But I'm not going anywhere."

  She stiffened again, but he didn't let go.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he repeated. "Got it?"

  "Stop. Stop saying that." She couldn't bear to hear those words, not when she was trying to send him away.

  "Now, you're going to listen to me because I have a few things I need to say to you."

  She couldn't stay like this, pressed tightly to him. She had to put some space between them lest she melt into him and do or say something she'd regret. But oh, how lovely it felt to be cradled against him. "Let me go." It came out a hoarse moan. "Please."

  "No. If I let you go, I'll chicken out again." She was sure he could feel her heart pounding beneath their clasped hands. "With you here, in my arms like this, in the dark, I can be brave enough to say what I need to say."

  Renata's blood raced through her veins. This couldn't be happening. This was all wrong. "Please, Tim. I can't do this. You don't know what you're saying."

  "Stay still, little girl." This time when he said it, the words were a caress, an endearment that made her go weak at the knees. "Instead of putting words in my mouth, ask me what I came to say."

  Was he serious?

  "Ask me." His fingers entwined with hers tightened.

  "What—what did you come to say?" she whispered, barely getting the question out.

  He smiled. She could feel the muscle of his jaw line move against her cheek. "I love you, Renata Dixon. I love Reuben, Simon, Levi, and Judah. And this little one, too." His fingers moved ever so slightly over her stomach where his hand still rested. "And I know exactly what I'm saying. I know you better than I know any other woman, besides my sister and my mother. I knew you first as the wife of my best friend, a woman he loved more than his own life. I would never, ever, ever have allowed myself to love you while he was still alive, Renata, but the night he passed away, you became mine to cover, to care fo
r, and to love."

  The words he spoke were like something out of one of her romance novels. Was this the same stoic Tim who barely strung two sentences together unless he was talking about a new gun or a freshly-sharpened planer?

  "He asked me to stay with you, Renata. Do you know that? John asked me to be here for you." She squirmed in his arms. She'd heard John say the words. Of course Tim would stay with her to the bitter end, because it was John's last dying wish, proclamations of love be hanged.

  As though reading her mind, he continued. "Know this. I would have stayed even if he hadn't. But he gave me his blessing to love you."

  Baby D chose that moment to begin praising the Lord. Tiny limbs flailed insider her womb, bumping against Tim's hand still spread over her abdomen, and the man at her back chuckled with deep satisfaction. They stood as still as statues, both of them connecting with the life growing inside her.

  "Renata?" Tim's voice rumbled softly in her ear.

  "Hm?"

  He loosened his grip on her and turned her so she was facing him. Then he slid his hands up her arms to cup her face, lifting it so he could see her eyes. The light from the patio made his glisten as he looked down at her. "Tell me you love me, too."

  "But—"

  "Please."

  "Tim, you don't understa—"

  He shook her ever so gently, his brow furrowed, but one side of his mouth hitched up in a wry grin. "Why do you always have to have a rebuttal, Renata? You're killing me."

  Even as she argued, she leaned into him. "But how will we—"

  This time, he cut her off with his mouth on hers, a kiss so sweet, so tender, she whimpered. She brought her hands up to his chest and clung to his shirt. "Tell me you love me," he whispered against her lips.

  She wanted to, but she was having a hard time catching her breath.

  "Say, "I love you, Tim Larsen,'" he prompted, sliding his arms around her, making her feel small and fragile against his large frame. He swayed slightly side-to-side, the motion soothing, calming. "I need to hear you say it, Renata."

  Finally, she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart thudding beneath her ear. And in a trembling voice, she spoke the words he asked of her. "I love you, Tim Larsen."

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Tim led her to the bench, moved his coffee cup to the ground, and sat beside her. Instead of wrapping an arm around her and drawing her close, though, he turned so he was half-facing her and took her hands in his.

  "Renata, there's more I need to tell you." He paused, and in the silence, she spoke first.

  "Why aren't you married, Tim?" It wasn't an illogical question. The guy was in his mid-thirties and she couldn't find anything wrong with him. Maybe he got a little tongue-tied now and then, or just opted to use fewer words than most, but other than that, he seemed like quite a catch. But in all the years she'd known him, she couldn't remember him having a serious relationship.

  "Well, that's part of the more." He turned his face away from her, his eyes on the sliding glass door but his thoughts clearly somewhere else. She waited, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles encouragingly.

  Then he chuckled, surprising her. "I don't know how to tell you this without it sounding like a pitiful war story."

  "I promise not to pity you." She smiled gently.

  "Okay. Here goes." He took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. "I was injured in Afghanistan. You knew that, right?"

  "Yes."

  "I was also engaged at the time."

  "Oh." This was the first time she'd ever heard that.

  "My injuries were pretty significant—I took a round to the gut—and it was touch-and-go for a while there. But several surgeries later, they told me I was good to go. My initial tour was up, so I planned to head home and get married. But I kept having these pains low in my gut and groin and thought they must have missed a piece of shrapnel or left a tool inside, or something crazy." He grinned. "You hear stories, you know?"

  Renata nodded, but her heart was racing. She didn't know what was coming, but she thought it might not be easy to hear. Or for him to tell.

  "So I went back to my doc, demanding they check things over again." Tim straightened and turned away from her, releasing one of her hands and running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back away from his face. Even through his short beard, she could see the muscles of his jaw working.

  "What'd they find?" she asked, not wanting to hurry him, but worried he might lose heart and change his mind about telling her.

  "Testicular cancer," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "So I went back under the knife. Came out the other side with one less body part.” He made a low sound that might have been a chuckle, except it sounded sad to Renata’s ears. “And after we found out the life-saving surgery came with the gift of infertility and possible recurrence, one less fiancée, too."

  Renata held her breath, for once at a complete loss for words. She squeezed his hand, letting him know she was still there.

  "So, once oncology gave me a clean bill of health, I signed up for another tour, then another. I figured if I was going to die, I'd rather go down fighting. But I couldn't get hit again, no matter how hard I tried. So when my dad got sick and my mom needed help, I hung up my gun and came home."

  She still said nothing. Platitudes seemed insensitive.

  "Dad got well, and there was no reason for me to stay. My brother hooked me up to apprentice with a guy in Orange County, so I moved out here." He sighed and turned to look at her finally.

  She met his gaze, even in the dark, wanting to be brave for him, even though her heart raced at the implication of his what he was saying.

  "You asked why I never married? Well, any offer of marriage from me would come with the promise of no children and the possibility of more cancer."

  "I see," she said, nodding slowly in direct opposition to the speed in which her thoughts were whirling around inside her head. She pulled her hand from his grip and turned in the bench so she was looking out over the yard, toward her house, toward the boys, her other hand still resting on her belly where Baby D was doing a soft shoe. She didn't care about the infertility—she came with a wealth of children already, including another on the way—but the cancer? What if it came back? Could the boys handle losing another man in their lives to death? She knew all too well what losing parents did to a kid. What about this little girl? If Tim stepped in and became a daddy to her, what would happen to her tender heart if the cancer came back? And what about me, Renata's heart whimpered. Could she bear it?

  After a long silence, Tim murmured, "Come here." He slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his side, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "While you were sitting here at home plotting what you would say to me to send me away, I was spending time with your boys trying to figure out what to say to make you change your mind." He brought his free hand up and cupped her cheek. She rested her head into the crook of his shoulder. "You clearly misunderstood what I was saying about moving on, Renata. I meant, maybe it's time to move to the next level. To make it official. To turn what we were playing at into the real thing."

  She frowned but didn’t lift her head. "Um, moving on usually means, you know, moving on. As in, away from each other."

  He chuckled, the sound a percussive rumble under her ear. "Guess I'd better brush up on my relationship terminology, hm?"

  "That might be good. Spare us a few fights in the future." She relaxed into him, scooting closer to him on the seat, tucking her legs up beside her.

  "Look, Renata. I still can't have children."

  "Not a problem for me," she snorted. "I've got a few to spare."

  "I've been cancer-free for ten years come November, and that's really good, as far as the statistics go. But I can't promise you it won't come back."

  "I know. You can't promise me you won't fall off a ladder tomorrow, either," she said, not joking at all. Because suddenly, it was all ve
ry clear to her, the beautiful life the two of them—the seven of them—could share. What a waste it would be for them to walk away from today because of fear of tomorrow.

  "I know things aren't going to be easy for us. I know people will talk, especially with this new baby. And as much as those guys in there may like me, I'm not John, and I know there will be a few battles waged over that."

  "They love you, Tim," she whispered. "They don't need you to be John.” She rubbed her cheek against the curve of his collarbone. “And neither do I. Just be you."

  Tim grunted in acknowledgment, his hand still on her face, his arm tight around her. His fingers drifted into the hair at the nape of her neck, toying with the short ends. It had grown out significantly, what with all the pregnancy hormones and prenatal vitamins coursing through her system, but still…

  Renata lifted her head, flinching away from his touch.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, leaning back a little to look at her.

  "Nothing." She shook her head and rested it against his shoulder again, not wanting to talk about her hair.

  "Renata. I've been pretty up front with you tonight. Don't you think you owe me the same courtesy?" Once again, his rebuke was gentle, but a rebuke nonetheless.

  "Fine. I hate my haircut. Just don't touch it, okay? Then I don't have to think about it." She hid her face against his chest, praying he wouldn't laugh at her. As silly as it sounded, it really bothered her.

  Tim didn't laugh. Instead, he disentangled his arm from around her and stood, pulling her up to stand in front of him, holding both her hands in his. Ever so slowly, he lowered himself to one knee in front of her.

  Gently, carefully, he turned her hands so that her palms were resting against either side of her protruding stomach, then he covered them with his own.

  "Renata Charise Dixon, I want to be the father of your children. All five of them. What do you say to that?"

  "But—but your hair is longer than mine." Oh, she wanted it more than anything, but did he really know what he was asking? What he was getting himself into?