Sweet Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  Then she replaced her fingers with her mouth in a kiss that tasted of tears and sweetness.

  * * *

  NOW THE SILENCE was their ally, a veil to disguise all they feared, all they longed for…all they could not say. Dared not.

  Hands spoke for them, instead. Lips. Tongues murmured no words, yet were the tender translators of a new language of uncommon grace.

  By the glow of one fat candle, Gamble wooed her. Let desire flick over her skin and his like so many flames, yet each time the heat built to unbearable proportions, he smothered it, then rekindled, until their skins were slick with sweat, their fingers grasping for purchase. Their minds lost to this world and locked in their own.

  Jezebel threw her head back with a moan torn from her depths. “Gamble, please…”

  He denied the plea. “Not yet. Once more.” Arms shaking from the effort of holding himself apart from her, fiercely intent on giving her everything in his power, he patiently began again. Stirred the embers until the fire inside them whipped into ecstasy.

  Jezebel wept when at last he entered her, and moisture stung his own eyes. They clung together as though marooned from everything familiar, and the power of their joining shuddered down his spine.

  And when at last there was silence again, gratitude was woven into the spaces of it.

  For the first time in more years than he could count, Gamble felt warmth seep into the dead place that had been his heart.

  The future was clouded but no longer choked with despair. He still had no idea where his road would lead…but he did not tread it with leaden feet.

  Jezebel’s fingers danced lightly over his hair, smoothing it as if she could ease the tangles inside him. He lifted his head to tell her that she already had.

  Her smile was a pretty secret, the age-old mystery known only to women, the Mona Lisa smile, Rossetti’s Proserpine. Helen of Troy meets the Good Witch Glinda.

  As he studied her in bemusement, she lowered her lashes, and color stained her cheeks.

  He stroked that soft, creamy skin. “I admire you.” Her eyes flew open. “Why?”

  “A lot of reasons, but among them your courage.”

  Pleasure bloomed in her gaze. “I’m not so brave.”

  “You are. I can only imagine what it was like for you to make your way on your own. For someone like you to bare yourself before strange men.”

  Joy fled. She tensed and started to roll away.

  He trapped her. “No. Don’t run from this. It’s honest praise. Doing so must have torn pieces out of you.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I tried not to let it, but—” She shoved at him and scooted across the bed.

  He caught her. Brought her back. “You know why I understand?”

  “How could you?”

  “In New York, I had to stand there with bits of my soul exposed under gallery lights while self-important jerks tried to tell me what my paintings meant. Had the nerve to put prices on them when they had no clue how it ripped at me to create them, how my guts lay bleeding on each canvas. That I could hardly stand to pick up a brush, because every time I did, it meant I was taking a step into life and away from—” He broke off.

  “Charlotte?”

  He could deny it, but there she was, the ghost in the bed.

  He shoved to standing. “Yeah.” His hands raked through his hair, and he began to pace as the old restlessness gripped him. “Sorry.”

  “Gamble?”

  He paused.

  She sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, the spread drawn up to cover her, drifting around her like sea foam. “I’ve said you can talk about her to me. I don’t mind.”

  He was sure that she was sincere. “I’ve talked too much. Do you mind if I shower?”

  Her face fell, and he damned himself for ruining the evening. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  He took a step toward her. “Just let me be by myself for a minute, and I promise—”

  “I told you I don’t expect anything.”

  He stared at her. “But you should. You’re entitled.”

  She rose. “Maybe I’ll make a pot of tea.” She managed a smile. “The towels are beneath the sink, since there’s no linen closet. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be in the kitchen when you’re done.” She wrapped a sheet around herself and waited for him to give her privacy.

  He owed her a lot more, but this, at least, he could do for her and not screw up, so he found his way to the bathroom and left her alone.

  * * *

  THE CONTRAST BETWEEN the splendor of what they’d shared and his sudden distance rattled her. Jezebel dressed in a hurry in the most sexless garments she could find, an old pair of sweatpants and a paint-stained T-shirt. Over them, she donned a sweater. Though the night wasn’t chilly, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

  The kettle was on, the teabags waiting in mugs. Honey and sugar and cream stood ready. She actually hoped Gamble would refuse the offering and simply leave, but just in case, she hunted for a box of cookies she’d bought and stashed away.

  Stashed. Oh, dear God. He was in the bathroom with—

  She heard the bathroom door crash open. Through the bedroom, she saw him emerge, striding her way with a box in his hand.

  Her mind refused to accept what she already knew. “What is this?” he asked.

  His face had lost all color. His eyes were hollow, his voice a rasp.

  She couldn’t speak, only able to stare at him with her heart a sickening thump inside her chest.

  “We used a condom. Every…damn…time.” He bit out each word as if it held a bitter taste. “Please tell me this is because of someone else. Someone before.”

  The temptation to lie to him lay sweet on her tongue. How simple it would make everything. How easy for him to go.

  But after tonight, after what she’d felt with him…

  “The—” She had to clear her throat. Try again. “The condom broke. The first night.”

  Pain twisted his features. “Why haven’t you already performed the test?”

  An absurd impulse to laugh burgeoned. There was nothing funny about any of this. “I was going to. I couldn’t at first because—” She hesitated. “You have to wait until you’ve missed…you know.”

  Hope flickered. “So you’re not late?”

  How she wished she could give that hope breath. For both their sakes. “Not yet, but I could have done it this morning.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  Because you came to me last night, and you let me tickle you?You giggled?You had a water fight with me?

  You said you’d let me rent your cottage?

  He didn’t look like a man who wanted to be reminded of the fun they’d had together. The person in front of her was the angry stranger who’d ordered her off his property and told her she wasn’t fit to wipe her shoes on Charlotte’s mat.

  She settled for another truth. “I was afraid.”

  A mixture of emotions skipped over his face. He scrubbed them away with one hand.

  Then tossed the box at her. “Do it now.” Not a suggestion.

  The kit fell to the floor at her feet. “Now?” she repeated like a half-wit. Fear grabbed her in a merciless fist.

  “Now.”

  “But what—I don’t know what to do if—” She stumbled over the words.

  “Neither do I.” His jaw flexed. “Go on, Jezebel. Get it over with.”

  The man who’d made such tender, sweet love to her had disappeared as completely as if he’d never existed.

  She could refuse, but she had a sense that he’d stand over her and make sure if that was required.

  But it was a quiet, haunted ripple through his expression that altered the balance.

  Reminded her that he had as much to lose as she did.

  Sour sickness rose in her throat for all that she’d forfeited, for no matter the test results, Gamble would never trust her again, wouldn’t play with her or woo her as he had only moments before.

  Sh
e would like to blame Charlotte, but the truth was that he’d never been hers to keep anyway. She’d been a realist all her life until she’d met Gamble Smith; then his pain had spoken to her, and she’d faltered. Had begun wishing only to help a lonely man and wound up falling in love with him, even though he had been clear from the first that his heart was not available.

  Some people just aren’t meant for those ivy-covered cottages, Jez. You ignored that at your peril.

  She hadn’t been sure how she’d react to whatever the test kit told her, but she’d expected to be able to deal with it alone, at least.

  It seemed that even privacy was too much to ask of the hateful creature called Fate.

  She bent and picked up the box just as the teakettle whistled.

  “I’ll shut it off,” Gamble said.

  And walked a wide arc to keep from coming near her.

  * * *

  SHE FUMBLED THE BOX and spilled its contents to the floor. She wanted to scream or throw something, to melt away into a place where she didn’t have to feel this nasty mix of humiliation and sick nerves.

  The situation should have been different. If she’d imagined this moment, she would have cast it as one of ceremony and reverence, of the heart-stopping, life-changing instant when she would greet the knowledge of her child’s existence…or grieve alone for what would not be.

  Instead, this was to be a duel, a confrontation. No span of seconds to let her heart soar or her tears flow, to spin fantasies of the life she and her baby would share or mourn for the one that had slipped away.

  In that instant, Jezebel got mad. She wrenched open the bathroom door and stalked toward the kitchen, primed to tell Gamble that she would do this on her own time and tell him when she was ready, but—

  His head rose, and his face was ravaged.

  Before her was a man with an enormous capacity for love. Just because he didn’t choose to share it with her did not mean he would not care deeply for his child.

  As he began to stand, she held up a hand. “I haven’t begun yet.” She filled her lungs with air that seemed too thin. “It just feels wrong to do it this way.” She twisted her fingers together. “Is it possible you would—” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll only be a minute.”

  She prayed he’d stop her. Tell her she could call him later.

  A glance back showed him still staring at her, his eyes dark holes in his face.

  She marched off as if to a guillotine. With hands steady enough to mock her, she performed all the steps.

  While she waited, she thought she heard his footfalls and pictured him outside the bathroom door. Can’t you leave me a little space? she longed to ask. Just a tiny gap so I can breathe while I wait to see—

  The second pink line appeared, and despite all her sense, Jezebel uttered a small cry of excitement, quickly smothered by her hand.

  But she couldn’t restrain her heart, which was about to pound out of her chest. Her head felt dizzy, and her eyes swam with tears. A baby. My baby.

  She heard a noise from the kitchen, and her throat tightened with dread.

  Could she manage to lie to him convincingly? The temptation was there, certainly. His ashen face had told her all she needed to know about his reaction.

  There was, of course, the obvious problem: that he would find out, whether he stayed or left.

  But not if she left. She could start over somewhere new. Use her nest egg not for the cottage but to create a future for her baby. She would make it a bright one—work as hard as necessary, fill her days and nights with the baby’s welfare, guard it and keep it safe—

  An ache spread beneath her breastbone. She would miss this place, these people so much. The sense of belonging.

  Then terror hit.

  If she left and anything happened to her, her child would be as helpless as she’d been when she was orphaned.

  No. That would not happen. Gamble could leave, and she’d give him the freedom to do so without penalty; she could take care of her child.

  But she would stay. Even with no father in its life, her baby would have family beyond Jezebel herself—two uncles, an aunt and a grandmother. Whether or not they approved of Jezebel, the family Smith understood how to love; they would treasure Gamble’s child. It would also be protected by a community of dear friends like Louie and Chappy and Skeeter and Darrell.

  So how to make the man in the kitchen understand that she would ask nothing of him? Squaring her shoulders, she could only hope to find the words.

  She opened the door to the kitchen. He was regarding it like a man facing execution.

  “I thought about lying to you,” she said.

  “You’re pregnant.” His tone gave away nothing.

  She couldn’t quite stem the hitch in her breath. “Yes, but it’s not your problem.”

  He blinked. “You’re going to—” He cleared his throat. “Get…rid of it?”

  She started to bark out Of course not. Instead, she coolly asked, “Do you want me to?”

  He turned away, and it was all she could do not to cross the floor and force him back around so she would be able to tell what was going through his mind.

  “What I do is none of your business.”

  “No?” He spun to face her.

  “It’s not your burden. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

  “My baby is in there.” He pointed to her belly, and something in his voice had her wondering if there might be hope that he cared for the child.

  “I can’t do this again. God—” He scrubbed at his face. Pivoted. “I need time to think.” He made for the door.

  “Gamble, I meant it. I’m fine on my own. I know you aren’t happy about this, and I don’t blame you—but I’m not Charlotte.” She saw him stiffen but persevered. “I would never have tricked you.”

  He paused, one hand gripping the knob. “You’ve lied by your silence every day we’ve been together.”

  Her shoulders sank. “I could have been wrong. There was no reason to worry you.”

  “But you had sex with me again.”

  “Not sex,” she whispered.

  A fleeting pain crossed his features. “Just fun, you said. No strings.”

  You told me tonight was different. She looked at her feet. Bit her lip against the tears that threatened.

  “I’m sorry—I have to go, Jezebel. I can’t—”

  “Fine,” she answered.

  “We’ll talk…later. After I—”

  “Get out of here, Gamble. I have thinking of my own to do.”

  She heard the screen door squeak.

  “Don’t do anything rash. Please. Just let me—”

  “It’s not your problem,” she repeated.

  And didn’t look up until she heard his truck depart.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT’S NOT YOUR PROBLEM.

  Gamble drove without seeing, mentally staggering through a minefield of conflicting images. He couldn’t sort out what had happened from the moment he’d grabbed for a towel while chastising himself for wrecking what had been an extraordinary night.

  Until he’d opened the cabinet door and found the test kit.

  People always said my heart stopped to convey a sense of drama.

  He would swear his literally had. For untold seconds, he had been unable to process what his eyes registered.

  Then an astonishing wave of betrayal had knocked him flat.

  Still grasping for a foothold, he’d wanted her to reassure him, even as his stunned mind had recalled her admission of how long it had been since she’d last made love.

  Had sex, he corrected.

  There’s been enough lying. You made love with her, whatever else is going on.

  I was afraid. Into his memory speared her expression as she’d admitted that, pale and trembling. Transformed from the creature of light and fascination, of heart and hope, into a closed-down, wrapped-up-tight shadow of the earthy, generous woman who had opened her arms to him tonight.


  And what had he said to her?

  Get it over with.

  Because he was shaky himself, a man who had discovered an appetite for life, at long last, but still felt a sinner for it. Wasn’t it wrong to yearn for Jezebel and all she symbolized? To crave her warmth, her cheer, her indomitable strength? God help him, how different she was from Charlotte.

  But it was Charlotte he loved, wasn’t it? He was a one-woman man, always had been.

  So now he paid. Betrayed once by fate, by the woman who was supposed to care—

  He jammed on the brakes.

  Echoes from past to present. Faced with a similar situation, he was behaving like some broken record.

  When had he become so brittle? Such a coward?

  He thought about Charlotte’s stunned and grieving face when he’d turned on her after she made her joyous announcement.

  Tonight, Jezebel’s vulnerability was a scrim overlaying it.

  Are you going to—

  Do you want me to?

  He couldn’t say that; out of the span of those instants of stupefied disbelief, one, quicksilver and shining, had been a pure note of fierce joy.

  He’d longed to be a father before, but not at the risk of losing his wife. Fear had made him cruel.

  The condom broke. Not Jezebel’s fault. Not intentional.

  You’ve lied by your silence.

  But he thought he understood. She was, at heart, a nurturer and guardian. Hadn’t he experienced those qualities firsthand?

  I was afraid. But still she protected him. It’s not your problem.

  He blinked to attention and realized that he was near the hospital. An impulse to seek out his mother almost had him veering into the parking lot. She was the wisest person he knew, and she would give him good counsel.

  But the mere thought of a grandchild would be too sweet to her. She’d never chastised him for his attitude, but he recalled how eagerly she’d anticipated that first baby, how she had been Charlotte’s chief ally and ecstatic cohort as they gathered the layette he’d refused to view. Later, he’d been too absorbed in his own grief to properly comfort her when that baby was lost.

  No, he would not torture his mother with the knowledge. Nor could he talk to his brothers or Lily.

  He had to clear his own mind, too cluttered by reverberations of the past. That meant he would have to face the one hurdle he had approached a hundred times but balked at each occasion.