“More than I can say for Dad,” Jack mutters under his breath.
This stabs at my heart. “Jack,” I chide, then soften my voice. “I’m sure he’s busy finishing up plans for the sports complex.” I glance down at his face. “Your dad’s been working so hard getting it together.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
Dr. Max straightens up and claps Jack on the shoulder. “Well, we’re done. No coming back here for at least a year. And make that a social visit.”
“I’ll try.” Jack jumps to the floor. “See, good as new!” He pretends to give Sam a high five. His brother claps in delight. “Dr. Max, can I play Friday? Last game of the season.”
“Bandage that chin up really well if you do,” Dr. Max says sternly. “There’s a chance you could rip the sutures. However, I’ll leave that decision up to Ava and your dad.”
“Thanks so much, Dr. Max.” I reach out to squeeze his huge, rough hand, then turn to buckle Sam into his car seat carrier.
“Anytime.” He rumples Jack’s hair. “Look after Ava here, and your brother.”
Jack grabs his backpack and throws it over one shoulder. “No problem. I will.” In an unprecedented public show of affection, he interlaces his fingers with mine.
The floor gleams as we walk out. In the tiles, I see our wavy reflection. Sam cradled in my arms, me in the middle, Jack at my side. Connected.
Outside I take a deep breath of the warm spring breeze. The air, thick with honeysuckle, seems to welcome us.
“Let’s see if we can grab a cab to the repair shop,” I suggest. “It’s not far.”
“Sure, but what’s Dad gonna say?” Jack frowns.
I pause. “About the Jeep or your chin?” I ask, readjusting Sam’s carrier in the crook of my arm.
“My chin,” he replies. “I’ll bet he’ll be pissed.”
Stiffening, I frown. “Jack, don’t say that word,” I say. “Upset, maybe. Annoyed, probably. He’s under a lot of pressure at work, but he loves you. He’ll get over it. He always does.”
“But why does he get so mad sometimes? It’s not like I’m trying to get in trouble.” Jack stares at his feet as we start to walk again.
My chest tightens. “You know, I guess your dad wants everything to be perfect.” I wrap an arm around Jack and give him a quick squeeze. “And that’s a tough assignment. Perfect.”
“He’s not,” Jack shoots back, his face dark.
I put a finger to my lips. “It’s true, but don’t tell him that,” I say. “It’ll be our little secret.”
Jack grimaces instead and kicks at the sidewalk. He stares into the cracks, traces the edge with the toe of his tennis shoe. In that moment, the frightened kid I met nearly three years ago reappears. Confused. Hurt. That Jack doesn’t come around often these days.
“Hey, think about this instead. That scar will make you look all grown up, actually. Tough. Clint Eastwood-y. Dirty Harry.”
“Um, Clint Eastwood’s old, Ava.” Jack untangles himself and tries to make a serious face but ends up laughing. “Maybe Robin or Nightwing.”
My shoulders relax. “Okay, okay.” I pretend to pull away from him. “Just trying to make you feel better.”
“Thanks.” He chuckles. “It’s kinda working.”
I stop walking and face him. “Jack Carson, I love you no matter what.”
His face softens. The words, somehow, are magic, a salve. “No matter what?”
“Absolutely.” I solemnly cross my heart. Corny, but I don’t care. “I promise.”
CHAPTER 5
AVA
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24
At exactly six o’clock, my husband walks in the door, smiling and apologetic. Somehow, after a full day at the office, Mitchell still manages to look close to perfect. Suit unwrinkled, every hair in place, devastatingly handsome.
“Sorry I missed your calls, sweetheart,” Mitchell says, arching his brow. He closes the door and loosens his tie. “Can you believe my cell was in my briefcase? The ER folks finally called the office.”
When Mitchell strides over and takes me in his arms, I melt. His hands find the small of my back and pull me close. My fingers trace his muscled back
“Hey, stranger,” I murmur and kiss his lips. He smells delicious and earthy. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Mitchell turns to examine Jack’s bandaged chin. “Hey, big guy, let me look at that war wound.” My husband draws his head back in mock horror. We all laugh.
I gaze at the two of them. Jack is, without a doubt, Mitchell’s mirror image: coal-black hair, same strong jaw, eyes deep and dark as the night sky.
Mitchell crosses his arms. “No more superhero stuff, you hear me?” he says. “Save it for the game Friday. Gotta win, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Jack grins and grabs an oatmeal raisin cookie off the cooling rack.
Mitchell bends down and tugs a lock of Sam’s hair. The baby babbles in delight, then utters a confused cry as his father abruptly turns his back and walks away.
I grip the counter, blinking after my husband.
Next to my feet, Sam whimpers, a sure sign he’s about to launch into a full-out meltdown unless I intervene.
I squat down, pick up Sam, and smile brightly before I press him to my chest. “It’s okay, love,” I murmur as I nuzzle his soft skin. Sam settles down as I rock him back and forth.
When I look up, Mitchell is watching me, forehead creased. When our eyes meet, he grins and resumes a jovial tone. “So an exciting day all around,” he teases.
My stomach knots, but I fight the anxiety. We need a nice, quiet evening.
“A little too much excitement,” I say, adjusting Sam onto my hip so that I can pour the sweet tea. “Frantic phone calls and an ER visit aren’t my idea of fun.” I set the salad on the table and wink at Jack. “No more of those, young man.”
Jack smiles through a mouthful of cookie.
“This kid’s been full speed since the day he could walk,” Mitchell says. “We’ve always been rough and tumble, haven’t we, son?” He grins at Jack. “When I helped coach peewee soccer, you were a terror on the field. Those were some good times!”
I lift Sam into his high chair, then glance at Jack, who’s not saying a word. He’s staring off into space, chewing the last bite.
“Jack?” I prompt.
“Good times,” he echoes, slides into his seat, and gives me a tired smile. Jack provides instant replay to Mitchell on Emma’s big rescue from the oak tree, and his second trip to the ER this year. He downplays the chin gash and rattles off a dozen reasons why he should be allowed to play goalie in his last soccer game.
Before I get a chance to motion for him to stop, Jack tells his father the story about my flat tire and Officer Mike helping us out.
Mitchell’s face darkens.
A chill snakes up my back. “It was nothing,” I say lightly. “Let’s eat.”
We dig into dinner, and for the first time today, everyone around me is completely quiet, save for the clinking of silverware. In a matter of minutes, the tender pork chops, fluffy corn bread, and bowl of buttery black-eyed peas have all but disappeared. Jack pushes back from the table, stands up, and stretches.
“Homework?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jack starts heading for the bedroom. “And I need to find some pictures for a school project,” he calls from down the hall. “Could you help me later?”
“Sure,” I reply. “It’s not for tomorrow, is it?” I hold my breath and smile at Mitchell.
“No, ma’am,” he yells back. “Next week.” Jack closes his bedroom door.
“Whew!” I press my hand to my forehead.
As I get up from the table, Mitchell stands and pulls me close. He presses his lips to my forehead, murmurs into my hair, and slides a hand down my back. “My sweet Ava. Poor thing.”
“Wish you could have been there today.”
“I know,” Mitchell answers, his voice gruff. “But, see, it’s better that you stay
at home. One of us is always available.”
“I know. I’m thankful.” I untangle myself and pick up Sam to wipe his face. “But I do miss the kids at the school. The day-to-day. The adult conversation. You know they said I could come back whenever I wanted.”
Mitchell frowns and leans into the doorframe. “It’s not really a good time, Ava.”
“I know.” I purse my lips and carry Sam to the bathtub, start running the water.
When we first began dating, Mitchell spent every spare moment with me. We’d drive to Dauphin Island and walk on the beach, spend an afternoon poking around in shops downtown, or spend a Friday evening visiting art galleries in Fairhope. We talked about children and the future. We discussed politics and religion, the state of education in Alabama. Where we saw ourselves, personally and professionally, in five and ten years.
Mitchell wanted to know everything about me. My hopes, fears, and dreams. What frightened me, what I loved. The attention was overwhelming and wonderful; his concern for me was mesmerizing. Mitchell wanted nothing more than to take care of me.
Looking back, I realize that I was the one doing most of the talking and sharing. If I asked a tough question, Mitchell would change the subject. If I pressed him about his mother or father, he’d pretend he hadn’t heard me.
After the wedding, I was certain he’d relax and settle into our relationship. I just knew that Mitchell would open up and share his secrets. But fast-forward, and nothing’s changed. Two years later, there’s so little I really know about my husband.
Mitchell follows me to the bathroom, taps his fingers on the wooden doorframe. “What happened with the contractor?”
I feel the heat of my husband’s stare but concentrate on lowering Sam into the bathwater. “I couldn’t meet him. There wasn’t time,” I add. “With Jack, and the tire on the Jeep . . .”
My husband exhales. There’s a beat of silence. And another.
“You need to sell the Jeep. It’s ten years old. Get something practical. An SUV. A minivan. A Mercedes.”
“I like my Jeep,” I protest.
Mitchell exhales. “Mike Kennedy had to give you a ride to the hospital.”
I lather Sam’s slippery body and swallow. “Mitchell, he was just helping out.”
“Oh, right. Officer Mike, always to the rescue.” He rolls his eyes.
“Please, don’t be like that,” I whisper and glance down at Sam, who’s splashing happily. “He helped your family today. Give him a chance. We’ve turned down, what, three dinner invitations from Mike and Marley?”
My husband’s shoulders relax and his frown disappears. “I just love you so much, Ava. I want you all to myself, sweetheart.”
I can’t help but smile. “I love you too. And you have me all to yourself. See? Wish fulfilled.”
Mitchell lowers his voice. “I don’t trust many people,” he reminds me. “It’s just my nature to look out for you and protect my family. You’re so important to me. You’re my everything. Just remember that, okay?”
“Okay,” I echo and smile brightly to reassure him.
Mitchell softens at my affirmation. He nods and steps out. “I’ll be in the library.”
I wrap Sam in a towel and dry him off. Mitchell’s just stressed. The more pressure he’s under, the more quickly he flashes to anger. It’s been worse lately because of the sports complex project. But the capital campaign is almost finished. One more donor to go.
Sam yawns. I slip him into his fuzzy pajamas in his bedroom and cuddle him on my lap. After Goodnight Moon, then Runaway Bunny, he drifts off to sleep. Gently, carefully, I lay him on his back in his crib. Good night, sweet baby.
Jack tiptoes in, throws his arms around my waist. “G’night.” He yawns and turns to leave, then trips over something hard.
“Whoa!” I catch him midfall.
He leans over, picks up a book, and screws up his face. Jack holds it out and stares intently, like it’s a book on Jack the Ripper. Not even close. The story is about a mouse.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Jack shakes his head, his eyes tearing. “Nothing.” He sticks the book under his arm, leaves without a backward look, closing his bedroom door behind him.
In Sam’s room, I stand still, completely bewildered. When Jack doesn’t reappear, I steal into the library, grab a pillow, and hug it to my chest before sinking into the love seat next to Mitchell. “They’re finally in bed.”
For a moment, I let my eyes wander along the wall. My collection of pregnancy books, baby manuals, and volumes of child-rearing advice take up two shelves. There are photos of Sam, Jack, Mitchell, and me. Candid shots, Christmas morning, the beach, soccer games.
My husband looks up. “Something the matter?”
“It’s just strange.” I sigh. “Jack stopped by Sam’s room. This book I bought was lying on the floor. When he saw it, he got really upset, took it, and shut himself in his room.”
Mitchell raises an eyebrow. “What book?”
“Just something I picked up the other day. Great illustrations. Beach Mouse Magic, I think it’s called. Not like it was Goosebumps or pop-up vampires.”
Mitchell readjusts on the seat to look at me squarely. “Do you remember me telling you his mother was an artist?”
A bitter taste fills my mouth, the sting of grapefruit. “Of course.”
His gaze drops. “Well . . . if it’s the same series I’m thinking of, Karen did the illustrations.”
“Oh no.” I bite my lip and want to cry. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.
“Karen used to read those books to Jack every night. Before she left.”
Wiping at my cheeks, I hesitate for a moment, then tuck myself close to my husband. We sit, breathing in sync, lost in our thoughts.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I finally say. My mind tumbles end over end. First Mitchell and his jealousy about Mike. Now Jack is upset too.
“I know.”
“I never would have—”
“Shh.” Mitchell stops me. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
I put my head on his chest. “I’d never hurt him like that,” I murmur. “Never.”
CHAPTER 6
MITCHELL
THURSDAY, MARCH 25
I click through the Seaside, Florida, website, bookmarking idyllic beachside properties and scanning reviews of best places to dine and shop in the quaint Gulf Coast community. The postcard-perfect photos of azure sky and powder-white sand make my heart pang for Ava.
I miss my wife. The house, our children, my position at the college—everything competes for our time together. We have a few stolen moments, usually at midnight, in bed. Even then it’s not unusual to be awakened by our one-year-old, Sam.
A long weekend away from everyone and everything is exactly what we need. Our own little cottage in paradise, where we’ll recharge and reconnect. It’s been forever since we’ve been really alone—two years—and that was for our honeymoon in Baja. I close my eyes and picture jagged sandstone rising from an ocean of indigo blue. Ava’s tanned shoulders aglow under the sun’s heat. We’re surrounded by golden sand and can taste salty air on our lips.
We made love. Passionate, intense, and fierce at times. My fingers tangled in her red-blonde hair, pulling at the strands. Her soft skin, scented with cinnamon, was euphoric. My mouth sought her full lips hungrily, my hands tore at her cotton sundress. The gold clasps of her tiny bikini broke apart, clinking as the pieces hit the floor.
As I pressed my weight onto her, my mouth traveled down her shoulder, finding her perfect breast, and the curve of her hip. I took her with such intensity that the world fell away. I could no longer hear the chirp of birds, the crash of waves, the breeze rustling palm trees outside our window. We were one.
We’ve talked a dozen times about going back. To be fair, she knows a multitude of important issues are stopping me. With the new position at the college, there’s always one more hurdle to jump, another fire to put out.
Tonight, however, I can breathe and plan out details for a weekend away while she’s off with Sam at a neighbor’s baby shower. Narrowing my eyes, I glance at my watch. It’s about time she should be getting home.
My neck prickles when my cell begins ringing. One glance tells me it’s the school.
“Dr. Carson,” I answer, striding over to the window, pulling the thick, silk draperies back to peer out into the darkness. The street’s quiet, save for a lone neighbor walking his English bulldog. Streetlights pool silver on the newly-poured sidewalk, illuminating my edged yard, the slope of just-cut green grass.
“How could they? Where is it?” I demand. The curtains fall from my hand, and I turn away from the street.
The college mascot for Springport College has disappeared. The Spartan statue is a landmark, a glorious monument rising from the center of a marble pedestal. With his sword and a shield, the statue must weigh a quarter ton. It would take a legion of men and a massive truck to carry it off.
“Dammit.” My footsteps pound back and forth, shaking the house. “It had better be back on campus in the next hour. I’ll find out who did this and have them arrested. When I’m done, they’ll wish they were never born.”
When I hang up, I yank on my sport coat, readjust my tie, and call for Jack. When he doesn’t answer, I throw open his door, startling my son, who’s deep into a Batman comic book, and wearing headphones. I reach in, grab him by the sleeve, and pluck the Beats off his head.
“We’re going into the office. Now.”
My son blinks up at me, clutching his comic book. “But I’m old enough to stay home by myself,” Jack sputters.
I shake my head and let go, not giving the ridiculous declaration the courtesy of an answer. When I turn on my heel, he follows.
Downstairs I grab my gun from the safe and slip it into my briefcase. Springport campus safety officers don’t carry weapons, and although it’s unlikely, the last thing I want to do is come up against some meth addict who someone has mistaken for a student. Being an army brat has taught me to always err on the side of caution.
I slide into the Range Rover and grip the steering wheel, waiting for Jack to climb inside. When the door closes behind him, I crank the engine, flick on the high beams, and we take off, wheels kicking up stones as we turn out of the driveway.
Center of Gravity Page 3
