Across the street Reid was sitting on the stoop of the rickety house next to the bar, his back braced against one post, his feet resting on the other. A white pad was balanced on his knees, and his head was bent over it. A sketch pad? Jamey wondered, suddenly curious about the kid’s talent. It was wrong that a son should display as much drawing talent as Shawntae said Reid did and that his father had never seen so much as a line of it. Of course, this father and son’s entire relationship was about as wrong as could be. It had gone wrong from the very start... but that didn’t mean it could never be righted. Karen was convinced that there was hope for them yet, if they both wanted it. If they both tried.
Lately, he’d found himself wanting to try, but so damned unsure how to go about it. A friendly gesture might be a good start. “Hey, Reid, want a Coke?”
Even with two yards and a street between them, Jamey could see the surprise and wariness in the kid’s expression before he slowly closed the pad, got to his feet and started toward the street. Jamey went in to get the drink, returning just as Reid reached the top of the steps.
“How’s Karen?”
“She’s sleeping. She was pretty sore last night.” He sat down in the rocker and stretched his feet out. Reid chose to sit on the bench, his back against the wall, his gaze directed toward the street. Whatever he was staring at, he wasn’t seeing it too clearly, not with his right eye swollen even worse than Karen’s. His right hand was swollen, too, and the knuckles scraped. It looked like Morgan had gotten the better of him, even though they were pretty equal in size and strength. Maybe Reid just hadn’t been able to compete against Morgan’s rage, or maybe—hopefully—he lacked Morgan’s killer instinct.
“About last night...”
Reid looked at him, and Jamey looked away. Gratitude was a new feeling for him—there wasn’t much to feel grateful for on Serenity—but he owed it to Reid. The difference in time between his arrival in the alley and Jamey’s could have been the difference between Karen being bruised and sore or dead. Most people in the neighborhood would have ignored impending trouble, and not one of them would have stepped between an angry Ryan Morgan and his victim. It had taken courage for Reid to intervene. As Karen had pointed out before, Morgan and his pals were Reid’s only friends. Protecting Karen had done nothing for their friendship, and while Jamey didn’t want the kid to have friends like that, he sure as hell didn’t want them for Reid’s enemies. If they perceived that his loyalties now lay elsewhere, they wouldn’t hesitate to turn on him.
They wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.
“Thanks for helping her out,” he said in a rush, uncomfortable with the words but a hundred percent sincere in the sentiment.
Reid was uncomfortable, too. With little more than a grunt of acknowledgment, he looked away.
“Have you given any thought to Karen’s mural?”
After one still moment, Reid picked up the pad he’d laid on the bench, flipped it to the middle and offered it to him. On the open page was an unfinished sketch of Serenity Street, three blocks of storefronts, apartment buildings and houses, along with a rendition of the park. With its grass, trees, benches and playground equipment, the place would be barely recognizable to the younger people on the street, but it was uncannily familiar to Jamey. He remembered the time when the park had looked almost exactly like that, the neatest, cleanest, prettiest little piece of property anywhere around.
“Karen will be impressed.” Inwardly Jamey winced at the words. Why hadn’t he said that he was impressed? Shawntae hadn’t exaggerated. The kid had talent. Why was it so hard to say so?
Jamey started to flip to the front of the pad, then hesitated. “Do you mind?”
He would bet that Reid wanted to say yes, to take the pad back and protect its contents. Instead he shrugged as if he didn’t care, as if whatever Jamey or anyone else thought of his work on these pages meant nothing to him.
Some of the drawings were done in watercolor, some pastels, some pen and ink. Most of the scenes were familiar—Serenity, the Quarter, the river—and all of them were harsh. Soft colors did nothing to lessen the bleakness that pervaded the drawings. Hopelessness, despair, desolation—that was the world Reid sketched. It was the world he lived in. In large part he had Jamey to thank for that. He and Meghan had owed their son so incredibly much more than they’d given him.
“The cops didn’t find Ryan last night,” Reid announced, staring at the street once more. “They wanted to know every place we’ve ever been, every friend he’s ever had.”
“Do you think he’ll come back any time soon?”
“I don’t know. Alicia’s due sometime in the next couple of weeks. He’ll probably come looking for her before then.”
“Funny. He doesn’t strike me as being much concerned about her or the baby.” Karen had told him on the way back from the hospital last night that Morgan had hit Alicia, that he routinely did so. Just the way Karen’s brother-in-law had beaten her twin. It was no wonder she felt compelled to put herself between the two, to try any way she could—physically, intellectually, emotionally—to reach Alicia.
“Of course he’s concerned. He owns them. They’re his property, just like his clothes, his stereo, his TV.”
“Does he own you?”
He expected anger, hostility, an outright denial or a challenging admission. Instead, he got another shrug. “In a sense. I live at his place. If I don’t do what he says, I’m out on the street.” His expression turned cynical. “I’ve been there before. I’d rather not go back.”
Before he had a chance to consider the suggestion he was about to make and deem it a bad idea, Jamey said, “The other apartment over the bar is empty. If you want to use it, I’ll give you a key.” The place was nothing fancy—one decent-sized bedroom and a large living room, with a shared bathroom in the hall and the kitchen downstairs—but it was clean and private. It couldn’t be any worse than where he lived now.
Reid gave him an odd look—as if he didn’t trust Jamey’s offer, his motives or anything else—but neither accepted nor rejected it. Instead he nodded toward the street. “Looks like Karen’s got company.”
Jamey looked and saw a young woman coming down the street. Her name was Marina, and she had come to the cookout last weekend, with two little boys who were thrilled by the prospect of a party, by having a yard to play in and J.T. and Jethro to play with, by simply being outside without worry for a time. She walked swiftly, her head down, her arms wrapped protectively around something wrapped in foil. She turned in the gate and was halfway up the sidewalk before she realized that they were sitting on the veranda. Abruptly she stopped, looked as if she wanted to duck her head and take off again, but with a deep breath, she came to the top of the steps and settled her gaze on Jamey. “I heard about what happened to Karen. Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s resting now.”
“Have they arrested Ryan yet?”
“Not that I know of. Not unless it was just recently.”
“She’s not going to leave, is she? She won’t let them chase her away, will she?” There was more than a hint of panic to the woman’s voice. Why did it matter to her? What had she seen in those few hours she’d spent here Saturday evening that made her care?
He didn’t blurt out that he wanted Karen to leave. No matter how much he would miss her, no matter how bleak his life would be without her, no matter that she would take his heart with her when she left, he wanted her gone. He would rather live the rest of his life missing her than risk a replay of last night, possibly with a more bitter ending. “I don’t know, Marina,” he hedged. “She needs to recover before she thinks about staying or going.”
She didn’t look satisfied with his answer, but on Serenity, people didn’t often expect satisfaction. “I made this for her.” She thrust a foil-covered pie plate into his hands. “It’s apple. She said she likes apple pie.”
“I’ll give her a piece when she wakes up. Thanks.”
She smiled
tautly, then turned and left in the same manner—head down, shoulders rounded, stride rushed. She probably thought that if she looked small and insignificant, no one would bother her, and she might be right. Karen had never appeared small or insignificant in her life, and look what it had gotten her.
“Is she going to leave?”
He looked at Reid. “If I can talk her into it.”
“Do you plan on going with her?”
He had never considered it. He’d assumed that when Karen did leave here, she would return home to Landry, to her parents and Evan’s, and that was sure as hell no place for him. His place was across the street—O’Shea’s. He couldn’t sell it—only a fool would buy it—and he couldn’t just walk away from it. Besides, what could he do off Serenity? He had no job skills, not much of an education and no ambition at all. He belonged on Serenity Street. He’d been born here, and he would die here. If he was successful in persuading Karen to leave, he would die alone here.
“Ryan’s not going to be around forever. He’ll be dead or in prison before long. Maybe when he’s gone, she can do what she wants. Maybe she can help.”
“Maybe,” Jamey conceded. “But at the risk of losing her life?”
“She could fall off the roof when she’s cleaning the gutters and break her neck. She could be driving down Decatur when the next drunk driver comes through. This place could get swept away by a hurricane, or she could just not wake up one morning due to a heart attack.” Reid set down his empty soda can, picked up his sketch pad and rose from the bench. At the top of the steps, he looked back. “There are plenty of ways to die, O’Shea. Serenity’s not the only one.”
Chapter 9
Karen sat at the breakfast booth in the kitchen, a salami sandwich with potato chips on one plate and a big slice of warm apple pie on another. While Jamey fixed glasses of ice for their soda, she debated, then pushed the sandwich aside and reached for the fork with the pie. The dish was sinfully delicious, the apple slices tender, the spices rich, the flavor sweet with just the right hint of tartness.
Jamey grinned when he sat down across from her and saw that half the slice was already gone. “What’s the saying? ‘Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first’?”
She licked the thick gooey filling from the back of the fork. “Life is uncertain. Look at us. Did you ever think the day you came over and helped me hang the sign out front that a mere few weeks later we would be where we are now?”
“In your kitchen eating lunch?” he asked dryly.
With all the bruises and swelling, she figured her scowl should be extra fierce, but it made him look regretful, not chastened. “For all intents and purposes, living together. Sleeping together. Making wicked love together.”
“No,” he acknowledged. “Though I do admit to a thought or two of a sexual nature when you came into the bar that night in tight jeans with your hair all wild.”
“You hid it well. Until last Saturday night, when you kissed my socks off, I was convinced that the only thoughts you had of me were of my departure.”
“You weren’t wearing socks that night...or much of anything else. Besides, wanting you and wanting you to leave aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She left the rest of the pie for dessert and reached for the sandwich instead. After swallowing one spicy bite, she asked, “How long do I have to live here before we quit having this conversation? Six months? A year? Ten years?”
He avoided answering and instead sent the discussion on a slightly different tangent. “Marina doesn’t want you to leave.”
“Marina is thirty-one years old. She’s got those two little boys and two older kids who live with their grandmother. Her first husband went out with his buddies one night and never came back. He was found a few days later, dead from a drug overdose. Her second husband works, pays the bills, puts food on the table and believes in swift and harsh discipline for her and their children. Marina is exactly the sort of woman Kathy’s House is intended for. Of course she doesn’t want me to leave.”
“You learned a lot in one short evening.”
Karen shrugged. Part of her information had come from Marina herself, desperate for female adult conversation. The rest had been filled in by the gossipy neighbor who had accompanied them on the short walk over from Divinity.
“Reid doesn’t want you to leave, either.”
She would have smiled smugly—heavens, she would have grinned ear to ear—if her mouth weren’t too sore to allow more than a slight lift of her lips. As it was, she settled for that small upturn and the delectable feeling of satisfaction spreading through her. “Reid’s a smart young man.”
“And talented, too. He’s going to do your mural in the park. I saw a sketch.”
“I knew he would. I’ve just been waiting for him to realize it.”
Her brash boast made Jamey laugh. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
She finished the last bite of her sandwich, then called Jethro over and fed the leftover crusts of bread to him before shifting carefully on the bench. “I know what I like,” she said quietly. “I know what I want, and I know what I need.”
His amusement faded, leaving him serious, grim and just the slightest bit uncertain. He started to speak but closed his mouth, tried to look away but was drawn back again. “And what do you want, Karen? What do you need?”
She drew a deep breath that made her ribs throb. “You. Even if I lost my commitment to Kathy’s House, even if I didn’t feel compelled to be here for Reid, Alicia, Shawntae, J.T., Marina and the others, I couldn’t leave, because of you. I need to be close to you. I want to be a part of your life. I love you, Jamey, and that’s not going to change whether I live here or in Landry, whether I die tomorrow or fifty years from tomorrow. How long will it take to convince you of that?”
Moment after moment passed in silence. Maybe that hadn’t been the best way to break the news to him. Declarations of love should be more romantic, offered under intimate circumstances, soft whispers in moonlit rooms punctuated by kisses. She didn’t regret the words, though. Under intimate circumstances in moonlit rooms, a person could be seduced into making such a confession even though it wasn’t true, because the words sounded right, because the partner expected them, because she—or he—got carried away by the moment.
That wasn’t the case here. The words did sound right, but Jamey obviously hadn’t expected them, and she just as obviously hadn’t been swept up in the moment. She was thinking clearly, feeling clearly, her mind not clouded by anything—not passion, not the pain medication he’d given her before dawn or the long hours of daytime sleep the pills had induced. She knew exactly what she was saying, and she meant it with every breath in her body.
After a time, he blew out his breath. The exhalation sounded loud in the room where only the hum of the refrigerator disturbed the silence. Finally he answered her question: How long would it take to convince him that she loved him? “I don’t know.” Then, before she had even a moment to mourn his lack of faith, he went on. “Stick around. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
Her mood lightened. Her eyes widened. Her smile darn near split her lip open again. “Stick around?” she echoed. “Did those words come from the mouth of Jamey O’Shea, who usually sounds like a broken record saying, ‘Go away. Leave. That’s your only option’?”
He scowled at her. “Don’t press your luck, darlin’. You can stay—but on my terms.”
Straightening on the bench, she folded her hands on the tabletop and put on her most obedient expression. “And what are those terms?”
“I’ll spare you the arguments about leaving, about being in danger, about going back where you belong. I won’t try to convince you that the people down here don’t need you.” He allowed a faint grin. “I won’t try to convince you that I don’t need you. I won’t even call you a do-gooder anymore. But it comes with strings attached. I hope you enjoyed those hours in bed, because that’s the last time in a long time that you’re go
ing to be alone. When I’m working, if someone can’t stay with you, you have to come to O’Shea’s. You don’t go anywhere by yourself, not for any reason. I don’t care if Alicia gives birth in the middle of the street in front of this house, you don’t set foot outside without me.”
Although her instinct was to protest, she nodded instead. He was talking about temporary measures. Once Ryan Morgan and his fellow thugs had been arrested, his restrictions would no longer apply. Her enemies—the most dangerous ones, at least—would be locked up somewhere, and she would be free to go where she wanted.
But Jamey wasn’t done. “There won’t be any more work done on the park without me or Reid—not even with Shawntae. And before you do any more work on this house, I want you to get new doors, new locks and security grates on the windows. I also want the gates kept shut, chained and padlocked at night. If those little bastards—or any other little bastards—come around again, I don’t want them getting any thoughts of coming inside.”
Her momentarily hopeful mood faded into dismay. “But if I lock the gates, no one else can come over, either. Jamey, I can’t turn Kathy’s House into a fortress. To do any good, it’s got to be a place where women feel welcome, an inviting, open, friendly place.”
His scowl returned. “Maybe inviting, open and friendly works up in Landry, but not here. You want to help women whose husbands or boyfriends or pimps are beating them. They don’t need an open, friendly place. They need a place where they can feel safe, where nobody can kick down a door or break out a window and walk right in. They need a fortress.”
“I’ll feel like a prisoner in my own house.”
“It’ll give me peace of mind.” He shook his head bleakly. “My parents are dead. My friends have either moved on or gone to jail, or they’re dead, too. I can’t lose anyone else, Karen. I can’t lose you. So if you want to stay, if you want to be close to me, if you want to be a part of my life, you have to do it my way.”
Convincing Jamey Page 22
