“Where is she?” he demanded by way of greeting.
Angela shut the door behind him and tried to keep it together despite her exhaustion. She’d survived Justus’s sympathetic concern when he should have been furious that Angela had almost killed Maya, but she didn’t know if she could also survive an interrogation from Vincent.
“Please keep your voice down,” she told him. “I just put her in bed. She’s wiped out.”
Nostrils flaring, Vincent snatched off his coat and scarf and thrust them at her. “What happened?”
Angela told him as calmly as she could.
“How could you feed her peanut butter?” Vincent asked incredulously, making it sound like she’d force-fed the child a plate of scrambled dragon’s eggs. “How could you not know she was allergic to peanut butter?”
“Did you know?” Angela asked.
That shut him up. All the air whooshed out of him as he turned to go sit on one of the barstools. He collapsed his head in his hands and sat quietly for several minutes, looking like the tired old man he was rather than a formidable opponent.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Angela said quickly, resisting the urge to hang her head.
Why didn’t lightning strike her dead on the spot? She should be apologizing to him, not the other way around. Because even though she hadn’t known Maya was allergic to peanuts, the real issue was whether she should’ve known.
And the answer to that question was an unequivocal yes.
Today, when she’d sat staring at Maya’s disfigured little face, Angela had faced the ugly truth about herself and the kind of aunt she was.
And what kind was that?
A bad one.
The kind who fed a small child a peanut butter sandwich and then didn’t notice that the child’s face was covered with hives. The kind who refused to get medical treatment for the child because it was inconvenient. The kind who shouted at the child, then didn’t apologize. The kind who was more concerned about her career than she was about the child’s needs. The kind who, prior to the accident, hadn’t even bothered to get to know her niece.
Worst of all, Angela was the kind of aunt who tried to atone for her sins by adopting the child when it was painfully obvious to anyone with half a functioning brain that she wasn’t the best person for the job.
Peanut butter, for God’s sake! Every idiot who’d ever watched half an hour of primetime TV knew what the symptoms of a peanut allergy were!
Trying not to cry, her throat burning with the effort of holding back her emotion, she collapsed on the sofa.
“Where’s Justus?” Vincent asked.
“He dropped us off, then went to the pharmacy to get Maya’s prescription filled. She’ll need an EpiPen with her everywhere she goes. And I guess we should see about getting her one of those medical ID bracelets.”
Vincent nodded approvingly. “You’re a good aunt, Angela. She’s lucky to have you.”
Angela turned away, unable to hold his gaze.
When Angela opened the door for him after he got back from the pharmacy, Justus was not happy to see his father embedded at the kitchen table eating pizza. In fact, his father’s presence was a direct and material breach of the unwritten armistice they’d developed over the years, namely that they stayed the hell out of each other’s way. It was petty of him, sure, to feel having his father here somehow contaminated the one little corner of heaven on earth he’d managed to eke out for himself, but that was how he felt. Still, Vincent was probably as concerned as the rest of them about Maya’s condition, so he tried to be polite.
“Hey, Vincent,” he murmured.
Vincent dabbed at his mouth with a white paper napkin. “Justus.”
Bemused, Justus stared at his father for a minute. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the man eat something as lowly as pizza before, and watching him finish his slice was as strange as watching a tiger eat a salad.
Then he went to Angela and kissed her. On the mouth. Because he’d meant it last night when he told her nothing would come between them, and that nothing included his father. Maybe it was a little soon to let Vincent know about their relationship, but Justus had nothing to hide.
Angela, on the other hand, quickly stepped back, her lids lowered. Without a word, she hurried off to reclaim her seat at the table.
Irritated, Justus jerked off his jacket and tossed it on top of a chair on his way to the table.
“She’s still asleep,” Angela told him, picking up a fresh paper plate and tossing several slices on it. “I didn’t bother waking her up for dinner. I think rest is more important than food right now. Are you hungry? Here you go.”
Justus took the plate and sat, taken aback by her chattering. He wanted to ask how she was doing, but he didn’t think he could tolerate another recitation of how fine she was without vomiting.
“Did you talk to anyone at the office again?” he asked instead.
“Larry wants to speak with me first thing in the morning,” she said.
Vincent cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”
Angela got up, found her sponge, and came back to wipe the table even though the men were still eating. “I was so upset about Maya this morning I forgot to call the office.” She hesitated, her jaw tightening. “I missed a final pretrial hearing.”
“Oh.” Vincent frowned thoughtfully. “Larry’s a golf buddy of mine. If you think it would help, I could call and—”
“No.” Straightening, Angela rolled her eyes. If Justus didn’t know better, he’d almost think there was some affection for Vincent in her tired smile. “I know you don’t believe it, Vincent,” she continued, patting the old man’s hand condescendingly, “but there are some things in life even you can’t control.”
Uh-oh. Justus braced himself. Better women than Angela had received a tongue lashing for less impertinence than this. But to his astonishment, Vincent just laughed.
“That doesn’t seem possible, dear,” Vincent said.
Justus’s irritation grew. What the hell was going on here? When had Angela and his father gotten so buddy-buddy? And why? This whole cozy dinner scene set his teeth on edge and made him lose his appetite. He pushed his pizza away.
Angela frowned at him. “You okay? I’ve never seen you push food away.”
Well, at least she’d remembered he was still there, Justus thought sourly. He opened his mouth to tell her he’d eat later, but Vincent spoke first.
“It’s me he objects to, not the food.”
Vincent’s tragic, resigned tone—woe is me, my irrational son hates me—rubbed Justus the wrong way. Itching for a fight, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned his elbows on the table, and glared at his father.
“Don’t start, Vincent,” he snapped.
Angela materialized on Justus’s side of the table, sponge still in hand. The warning smile she directed at him—him!—sent a chill down Justus’s spine.
“No one will be starting anything,” she said in a voice like a bullet dipped in honey. “Not tonight. Not in my house.”
Justus slouched, sulking, against the back of his chair. Angela made him feel like an immature seven-year-old for picking a fight with his father, a trick no one had managed since his mother died. He glanced at Vincent, half expecting to see the old man smirking at him.
But Vincent just stared, and if Justus had to name his expression he’d call it...sad.
Not reproachful. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just sad.
Justus suddenly felt small and petty. Worse, he felt an emotion he’d never felt before, no matter how badly he treated his father: shame.
“Aunt Ang-la?”
At the sound of Maya’s tiny voice from down the hallway, Angela dropped the sponge and ran off, disappearing around the corner.
Justus picked up a slice of pizza and, refusing to meet his father’s gaze, took a big bite.
“I was just trying to think when we last sat down to a meal together, other than Chri
stmas Day,” Vincent said softly.
Justus froze and kept his head down.
“Been a while,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“Well.” Vincent sat quietly for a minute. Finally he got up and threw his plate away. “I guess I’ll kiss Maya good night and go on home. But maybe you should stick around and make sure our ladies are all right.”
Justus bristled at the word our. Well, there it was, at last: the portion of the conversation where Vincent told him what to do. Next would come some sort of recitation about how disappointed Vincent was in him, followed by the inevitable name-calling and lecture.
“I know you don’t believe it,” he barked, “but I know what Maya and Angela need and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of both of them.”
To Justus’s astonishment, Vincent didn’t lash back at him.
Instead, he flashed a smile that would almost fool a casual observer into thinking it was full of fatherly pride.
Justus stilled. What the hell?
“I know you are,” Vincent said. “Why else do you think I asked you?”
By the time Angela got to Maya’s room, Maya was sitting up in bed, yawning and rubbing her eyes with her trusty dog by her side. Angela had to do a double take, because it was so hard to believe that Maya had been seriously ill just a few hours ago.
“Hi, sweetie.” Angela sat on the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Good.” Her brow furrowed. “Aunt Ang-la?”
“Yes, Maya?” She smoothed Maya’s rumpled hair away from her face.
Maya’s wide eyes seemed to take up three-fourths of her face, and she hunched like a little turtle in need of a shell. “Are you mad at me?”
The child’s soft voice, so sweet and uncertain, made Angela’s heart ache as she pulled Maya close. “No.”
Maya gratefully snuggled closer, her short arms clutching Angela’s sides and her head resting on Angela’s bosom, and there was more heartbreak.
“I’m so sorry I yelled at you this morning, sweetie. Please forgive me.”
“I didn’t listen,” Maya said, her voice muffled against Angela’s blouse.
“I still shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“It’s okay.” Maya pulled away to look up at her. “Aunt Ang-la?”
“Yes, sweetie.”
“Can I have some juice?”
Angela had to smile. Maya was not, apparently, too sick to take advantage of the situation. Pressing her hands together as if she was praying, Maya held her breath and stared hopefully at Angela.
“Maya,” Angela said reproachfully. Health crisis or no, she just couldn’t let go of the rules entirely. Her genetic makeup didn’t seem to allow such deviations. “You know my position on sugary drinks.”
Maya had apparently thought of that already. “I know. But if I eat all my dinner...”
The child was obviously a born lawyer.
“Well,” Angela said, pursing her lips to make it look good, “I guess this one time won’t hurt anything.”
“Yay!” Clapping her hands, Maya scrambled out of bed, pausing only to slide her Barbie ballet house slippers on her feet. “But, Aunt Ang-la?” The girl’s expression turned grave.
“Yes, Maya?”
“No peanut butter, okay?” Maya made a face. “I don’t like peanut butter.”
“Justus, really. I’m fine,” Angela insisted. “You should go on home and get some sleep. I really don’t want to take the chance of Maya seeing us together. I’d be surprised if she slept through the whole night, and if she comes into my room...”
“I can sleep on the sofa,” Justus said, clicking off the TV.
After helping with bath time, he’d settled on the sofa while Angela got Maya to bed, a process that included a second bowl of rainbow sherbet ice cream for the girl, who seemed to be completely recovered. Huge relief. Angela, on the other hand, was strung tighter than tightrope wire. He wasn’t about to walk off and leave her to her own dark thoughts, which had her eyes shadowed and her mouth grim.
“I want to be here if either of you need anything,” he added.
Angela leaned against the archway, her arms folded across her chest in what she probably thought was a relaxed look. It wasn’t. So much tension ran through her body that she practically glowed like one of those phosphorescent cave-dwelling fish.
“Seriously. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you should just go home and get a good night’s sleep in your own bed.”
Yeah, okay.
Enough.
Justus stood and tossed the remote onto the sofa. It skidded over the side and hit the floor with a hard clunk. “Really? You think I can go home and sleep well tonight? You don’t think much of me, do you?”
Angela blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Did it ever occur to you, Duchess—”
The hard edge to his voice made her wince.
“—that maybe we need each other tonight? That maybe I need you tonight as much as you need me? Or do you just not care about what I need?”
Aha. There it is, he thought.
Angela’s defiantly independent gaze wavered for the first time. Misery—or was it plain old fear?— streaked across her face, but she decided to stick to her stupid script.
“I keep telling you I’m fine.”
At the word, something inside him snapped like a pulled wishbone.
“Only a heartless bitch would be fine after her niece almost died on her watch,” he said quietly. “You may have ninety-nine problems, Angela, but being a heartless bitch ain’t one.”
Angela’s low moan gave him just enough notice to leap forward and catch her as she crumpled. They sank to the floor together. Justus cradled her between his legs, leaning back against the nearest chair and pressing her head to his chest as tortured sobs racked her body.
Ah, shit, he thought, hanging on to her as best he could even though every one of her hot tears that fell onto his chest felt as though it ripped a strip of flesh off his hide. This was bad.
This was really bad.
He rocked her, trying to keep his own surging emotions at bay.
She ruined him when she cried. Absolutely killed him.
“Shh,” he said, clearing his hoarse throat. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
“I-I almost killed her—”
“No, you didn’t.”
“—and she was grabbing at her throat and trying to get some air and she stared at me the whole time like she was begging me to help her, but I didn’t know what to do—”
“No.”
“—and do you want to know the funny part?” Wrenching away, Angela twisted to face him. Her face was a scary wreck of wild eyes and running makeup, and that was before she broke into the maniacal laughter. “Do—do you want to know the funny part?”
“No,” he said, tightening his grip on her.
“The funny part is that she shouldn’t have been asking me for help because I’m the one who poisoned her in the first place. I fed her the peanut butter!”
“No. No one’s to blame here. None of us knew she was allergic to peanuts—”
“But I should’ve known.” She dropped her head so he couldn’t see her face, but her heaving shoulders told him she was crying—or laughing—again. “That’s the whole point.”
“How?” he cried helplessly. “How could any of us have known?”
“That day I fed her peanut butter and jelly and she got hives on her face. Remember?”
The memory rushed back to him, making him gasp: Maya with angry red marks on her face. That was bad enough. Worse was the sudden realization of where Angela was going with this.
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “That wasn’t your fault.”
She smiled tiredly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Of course it was. You know why? Because I have no maternal instincts. Your instincts are great, though. You wanted to take her to the doctor. Remember? And I talked you out of
it.”
“Angela.” He heard the rising desperation in his voice and tried to tamp it down. “That’s the kind of judgment call every parent makes.”
She turned her face away from him. “You did the right thing. Carolyn would’ve done the right thing. I wouldn’t know the right thing if it bit me in the ass.”
Justus stared at her while dread uncoiled in his belly and slithered up his spine. It was like watching while she stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, preparing to jump, and he was trapped in the car a hundred yards away.
There was nothing he could do. Anything he tried was already way too late.
But he had to try.
He smoothed her hair back and kissed her temple. “Don’t blame yourself. I don’t blame you. Neither would Carolyn.”
“Oh, Carolyn,” she said in a mocking little tone that made the fine hair on his arms stand on end. “Funny you should mention her. You want to know what Carolyn told me the last time I ever spoke to her?”
Justus’s heart thudded like a sledgehammer trying to get out of his chest. Angela’s toes were hanging over the edge of the canyon now, and he was still trying to unbuckle his seatbelt and get out of the car.
“It doesn’t matter what Carolyn said,” he said, desperate to stop this chain of events from unfolding. “Forget it—”
“She said I was a terrible aunt,” Angela said, staring him in the face. “That I was a self-absorbed and selfish workaholic. And she said I didn’t know anything about Maya.”
Whoa, he thought, reeling. Harsh.
His mind tried to generate the image, but he just couldn’t see sweet Carolyn saying something so cruel. He had an easier time imagining Mister Rogers telling little kids to go to hell.
“Angela,” he began, “I’m sure she didn’t really—”
Angela stared at him with eyes that were now clear and calm. “She meant it. And she was right. I didn’t spend time with Maya. I didn’t try to get to know her.”
“Angela—”
“I didn’t even like her,” she said on a choked sob.
Justus tried not to recoil, but this kind of blasphemy was like a sword thrust through his heart.
Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) Page 30
