by Kent, Alison
Cary was real. Cary was everything. She’d been... nothing.
Gah, what had she been thinking on their drive home earlier with the tree? That he was going to want to take on the role of father to her child? Seriously? She hadn’t consciously been wondering but obviously somewhere in the back of her mind—
“This is it.” Cary balanced the box he held on top of another and dusted his hands together. “Everything Christmas that’s up there along with half the cobwebs. I’m done.”
“Cobwebs, okay. Spiderwebs, not so much. “ The latest box had a string of colored bulbs hanging out, all but two broken. “I don’t remember your parents decorating.”
“I don’t think they did. My dad walked me across the street once to look back at the lights.” He dropped to sit on the edge of the couch. “But I’m pretty sure those were the neighbors’. So much for Christmas cheer, right?”
“But you put up a tree, yes? There are enough ornaments in here for two.”
“My mom did. She insisted. I don’t think my dad cared. But that was early on. By the time I was in high school, she’d given up even though I told her I’d help.”
“Because she didn’t want to celebrate? Or because he rained on her parade.”
“I don’t know, honestly.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his glasses sliding down his nose. “And feel free to trash anything broken or ruined or ugly.”
“Ugly is in the eye of the beholder, Cary.”
“Then that should make it easy because it’s all ugly to me.” He stood again. “I need to do a little work before turning in. You want something to eat?”
“You know what sounds good? A grilled tuna sandwich. But I can do that myself. As far as all of this...” She waved a hand encompassing the boxes. “I’ll finish going through everything tomorrow. Thank you for the tree.”
“You bought it,” he said with a shrug. “But you’re welcome.”
“It’s your house,” she countered. “You could’ve said no.”
He didn’t respond. He just looked at her.
“I’ll be in in a bit, okay?”
He nodded. He made no move to move.
She smiled to herself. “I could use a hand up. Since you’re still here and all.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He came close and held out a hand.
“Thank you, Cary. For today.” Hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, she leaned in to kiss his cheek much as she had yesterday. But this time he turned his head and his mouth met hers. She wasn’t sure which of them was the most startled.
They stood like that for an eternity of seconds, lips touching, her hands on his forearms, his hands on hers. Then a shift happened, a breath between them, his or hers, who knew? But she slid her hands up his arms to his neck. He moved his to her back as best he could with the shape of her body between them.
He angled his head. She parted her lips and breathed him in. Dust and Cary and spruce. His mouth was sweet when he opened it, warm and inviting, and she touched his tongue with hers. He groaned, the sound a big bad rumble tickling her spine, the soles of her feet, stirring the bits and pieces of her knowing of him to glorious life.
She thought of winter apples made into pies and the tang of Ruby Red grapefruit and the warmth of green chili tamales and it made her laugh, the food, but also the spirals of desire twirling like ballerinas on tiptoes, spinning and spinning, dizzy with the notes of their song, and she thought she might lose herself forever in Cary’s arms.
“Something funny?” He breathed the words against her cheek.
His was scruffy and the sensation tightened her breasts and it felt so unbelievably good to want him. “I was thinking about food.”
“Thanks,” he grumbled, nipping lightly at her ear.
She laughed again but this laughter came with an unmistakable growl. “You make me... hungry.”
“Oh.” He pulled far enough away to look into her eyes. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No. Oh no.” She smiled up at him, dazed. “It’s very, very good.”
Chapter Nine
FIVE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Cilla decorated—the tree, the house, for all Cary knew the porch and the yard—as cool winter air blew in through the open windows.
He hadn’t once left his studio—thank goodness he had a bathroom attached—but he could hear her puttering. Puttering and singing. And he could smell food. Something with garlic and tomatoes and cheese. What had he been thinking bringing her here?
Okay. He couldn’t have known where things would go. Or that he’d been on her radar the way she’d been on his. It wasn’t anything he’d dwelled on after leaving Hope Springs. She’d been a part of his past and he’d kept her there. Mostly. Or he’d tried.
But that kiss...
He stared at his monitor which might as well have been blank for all the sense his storyboard made. He’d moved the modules around, working for any sort of continuity and coming up with a big mess that even he couldn’t decipher, forget Tabby Danger following along. His mind was stuck on the feel of Cilla’s lips, her hands, her tongue.
After she’d stepped away, they’d grilled tuna sandwiches then he’d closed himself up in his studio, thinking he might sleep on the sofa there instead of joining her in bed. He had a beautiful woman who wanted him. She was living under the same roof. She was nine months pregnant. She was having a child by another man. That wasn’t an issue.
The issue was trying to understand what was happening.
Was it real? Or was it loneliness and memories and... hormones?
He wanted it to be real more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
They weren’t teenagers anymore. She wasn’t the cheerleader. He wasn’t the kid who lived his life through his pencils and sketchbooks... except he was, wasn’t he? Minus the kid part. He still worked out what he was feeling about life—society, relationships, shifts in cultural mores—through a cartoon cat set on saving the world.
That’s what artists did.
But this wasn’t any of that. This was here and now, and his life and her life, and why was he holed up pretending to work when all he was doing was hiding out? When all he wanted to do was be with her and talk to her and—screw it.
He pushed out of his chair and slid open his studio’s doors and froze, his heart hammering his ribs. “Wow,” he said once he’d found his voice. “Cilla. Just wow.”
Smiling, she turned from where she stood in front of the fireplace wedging one more Santa figurine onto the mantel. “You like?”
“It doesn’t even look like the same room.” And that was weird because he actually recognized a lot of the pieces. They just hadn’t been displayed so artfully before. With such care. As if they were more than bits of colorful glass but had meaning.
Candles glowed around the living room, votives and tapers and stubby colored pillars on mason jar lids. Tiny white icicle lights dangled in front of the narrow windows on either side of the front door. Ribbon-wrapped garland with frosted glass balls tucked into the greenery hugged the banister and hung over the archway into the kitchen.
He gestured toward it. “How did you get that—”
“Don’t ask,” she said with a laugh. “I was careful. And I know you told me to throw away anything not worth keeping but I didn’t feel right deciding that. So I just moved a few items to the sunroom. I can move them back—”
“No. I’ll put them in the trash.” What Cilla had done...
Cary wasn’t sure he could speak. His heart pounded, robbing him of breath. He saw possibilities, what this house—his home—could be today, tomorrow. Not what it had been, the place he’d wandered through trying to find himself. Looking for anything to explain his sense of being lost. He hadn’t known what to do, where to turn.
He’d had no example, no guidance.
No parenting.
“Sorry,” she said when he went silent. “Just... nesting, I guess. Didn’t mean to do it in your house.”
He was so very glad she was doing
it in his house and he went to her then because he couldn’t stay away. The distance between them, the few feet keeping them apart was killing him. He pulled her against him, rested his chin on her head. “Thank you.”
Her arms came around him and she sighed. “Oh, Cary. You’re so very welcome.”
They stood like that for several minutes, then she pulled away, leaning back far enough to look into his eyes. When she blew out a deep shuddering breath, her belly snugged to his, the baby kicked fiercely, and Cary smiled.
“Sorry about that,” Cilla said awkwardly.
“Don’t be,” he said because he loved it.
Her smile softened. She reached up to tame his too-long hair where it fell over his forehead. Her touch was sweet, tender. Caring. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want her to stop. He thought about her being a mother. He thought about her being his—
“There are so many things I want to ask you,” she said interrupting his musings. “Almost as many as I want to tell you. I’m just afraid starting will take us places we don’t want to go.”
He felt the same. Feared the same. “Maybe that means it’s time.”
After a moment, she nodded, taking him by the hand and leading him to the couch. She sat first. He took the cushion beside hers. Her expression had grown heavy and tense and the uncertainty he saw nearly did him in.
“You go first,” she said. “Tell me something good. Something meaningful.”
“Okay,” he said and told her about the first time he’d seen The Adventures of Tabby Danger in a comic book store. How he’d been standing in front of the display, unable to look away, unable to believe what he was seeing, what he’d accomplished.
How a little Hispanic girl, probably Addy Drake’s age, had spoiled the entire episode for him so he didn’t have to read it for himself.
Cilla laughed. “Did you tell her who you were?”
“No way,” he said, laughing, too. “I didn’t want to make her self-conscious. I had enough of that going on for both of us. Her mother finally came up and asked if I was buying a copy for my daughter. I told her no and I think she thought I was a pervert or something. So I stumbled over telling her my name, letting her know who I was while keeping if from the girl.”
“What did she say?” Cilla asked, rapt.
It was all Cary could do not to cringe. “Will you think I’m weird if I can quote her verbatim?”
“Why would I think that?”
He shook his head, looking down, and wiping his palms on his jeans. “She started to cry almost before she got out the first word. She told me about her daughter being bullied in school. First grade, mind you. Such a tiny little thing. So well-spoken and incredibly smart. I guess that’s what got her labeled as teacher’s pet... and worse.
“Then the mom said, ‘There hasn’t been a single book Carlita has read that has meant so much to her. She can’t stop talking about Tabby’s bravery. She asked if I would buy her a hat, a fedora, like Tabby’s, to help her be brave, too. As soon as I can afford it, I will.’“
Cilla reached for his hand and squeezed. “You sent her one, didn’t you?”
He turned his palm up and laced their fingers. “It seemed such a small thing.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t small to Carlita.”
The memory made him smile. “She sent me a picture wearing it. It’s on my desk. I’ll have to show it to you.”
“I’ll bet she’s adorable,” she said, pulling her hand away
“That girl is going to be an amazing woman.” But it was the amazing woman beside him who obviously had something on her mind, so he said, “Your turn.”
Cilla nodded, blowing out a deep breath, and while he looked on, she lifted her top, reached for the waistband of her pants, and leaned to the side to work them down.
“I want you to see my scars. They’re mostly faded,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the lines of tissue whiter than her hip’s surrounding skin. “But they’re still there.”
There were dozens of them, maybe more. He wondered if she knew how many. If she’d ever taken the time to count. “Cilla—”
“No. Let me finish. I need to finish. I’ve never told anyone before, but I used to sit in my bedroom closet. My room was directly over my parents’. I could hear them fighting. Hear them having sex. My father was always drunk. My mother usually was. They said things that, well, that hurt. Things about me. About never wanting me. I thought I could get rid of that pain by creating another.”
“Cilla,” he said again, though his voice snapped in the middle.
“It didn’t work.” She gave a sharp, brittle laugh. “Obviously. But something about it made me feel... Better isn’t the right word. I can’t explain it. I felt like I deserved the physical pain because, well, who knows why. Because I had hurt my parents by being born? Because I was the cause of their unhappy marriage?”
He shook his head vehemently. “You weren’t.”
“I know that now. But as a kid...” She shook her head, too, then shrugged as if having said that much she was now at a loss for words.
He picked up where she’d left off. “It’s why I started drawing. Not because my parents fought but because they didn’t do anything. It was how I dealt with what I didn’t understand. It was all I had. The only way I knew.” He took a deep breath. “The things that came out back then... If anyone had seen that stuff...”
“Do you still have them? Those drawings?”
“I wasn’t psychotic,” he said, needing to get it out. “I wasn’t going to start torturing animals. I knew what I was doing. I knew why.”
“Do you still have them?” she asked again.
It took a long moment for him to nod.
“Can I see them?”
Ah, this one was tough. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not because I don’t want you to see them.” Yeah. This was embarrassing. “It’s just that frustration and hatred weren’t the only things I put on the page. I drew all my emotions. And some, well, I’d rather you not see. Not now.”
After several seconds, she said, “I guess you don’t mean things like the Halloween Homecoming posters you drew. The football-shaped pumpkins wearing certain numbered jerseys. Sitting on tees and about to have their heads kicked in.”
He laughed. “I’d totally forgotten about those. But yeah. Kicking the crap out of those guys with ink wouldn’t get me into the same sort of trouble as using my fists.”
“Trouble like you got in helping me.” She buried her face in her hands and pulled in a shuddering breath.
He reached for her wrist and squeezed. “I would’ve done it again, Cilla. In a heartbeat. Yeah, I regretted it later. Called you a few names for screwing me over though I did that to myself. And once I sorted out my life, it didn’t matter anymore.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said and looked over, her eyes wide and red and damp. “So very sorry. I felt as if I’d ruined your life. It made everything so much worse.”
He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. All he could do was pull her to his chest, hold her, love her. Love her...
“I never did it again,” she said, raising a hand to dry her eyes. “That razor blade you took from me was the last one I ever picked up.”
“Except to shave your legs, I hope,” he said, and she laughed.
“There’s a reason I wear long pajama pants to bed, you know,” she said teasingly. “And it’s not just because it’s cold.”
This girl. This woman. He didn’t think he could love her more.
Chapter Ten
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, the Caffey-Gatlin Academy’s auditorium was filled to capacity. Wade Parker, the captain of the Hope Springs Volunteer Fire Department, had been counting heads as attendees filed in. Wade was all business. Cilla doubted there would be much in the way of standing-room-only admittance.
Since Cary had been mentoring Grady, he’d scored two tickets early. She settled into her seat—Cary’s were in
a prime spot in the center of the room—and smiled as parents and teachers stopped him from settling into his. An unexpected pride swept through her. To think how far he’d come, how much he’d been through to get here.
Her chest grew tight as she pushed back against the emotion throbbing there. She’d come just as far; she knew that. Knew, as well, that her hormones weren’t playing fair. On one hand, she felt invincible: cooking, cleaning, decorating for the holidays.
It was the other hand giving her trouble. She was running out of time. Yes, Cary had offered his house for as long as she needed a place to stay but having her own place lined up before her daughter was born would go a long way to easing her mind.
She could give birth, stay with Cary for a week or two while arranging for furniture, linens, kitchen necessities, baby things... though no doubt dear Susan would send all the gifts from the shower she’d thrown two days before Cilla had skipped town. Then once she was settled, she’d get back to her plans for Reddy’s Threads.
Watching the expressions of delight sparkle on the faces of grandparents, a pang of guilt tugged at her heart. She had no intention of cutting Susan or John out of her child’s life. It wasn’t their fault that their son was not the man he’d promised to be.
She would call them tomorrow and wish them a Merry Christmas—
“You’re lost in thought,” Cary said, finally taking his seat beside her.
His shoulders were wide and his arm pressed into hers; her skin tingled from his warmth and the contact. “More reflecting than thinking.”
“About?”
She gave him part of the truth. “How popular you are. How it’s so easy for you.”
“It looks a lot easier than it is, trust me.” He crossed his legs, pressing the top of his foot to her calf. “I’m still not great being the center of attention. Especially when this is Grady’s night as much as anyone’s.”
