by Susan Sey
The Senator closed her eyes. “You’re my son and I love you, but you’re a fool.”
The grinding fear that she was right ate at him, had temper snapping up. “I’m a fool? I’m a fool? Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life moldering away on the farm while the woman I love loves everybody else in the world first? Sorry, Mom. I saw that one already. I didn’t like the ending.”
“You’re in love with Nixie?”
Erik rubbed his forehead and shut his mouth. Trust his mother to sort through all the really big ammunition and latch onto the tiny, revealing side note. More evidence that Nixie was killing him. Before she’d come along, he’d never have made that kind of tactical error. “I was talking about Dad.”
“Don’t you dare blame your father for this. He’s been gone these ten years and more, and I will not have you--”
The hard, ugly thing inside him snarled and tore free and he said, “I’m not blaming Dad. I’m blaming you.”
“Me.” She folded her arms and glared at him, more daunting in a bright blue robe than most women were in a power suit.
“Yes, you. What, I’m supposed to blame Dad because you were always leaving? It’s somehow Dad’s fault that you wanted to be famous more than you wanted to be his wife? That you wanted to take care of everybody else’s kids instead of the one you had? That you weren’t there for him when he was alive any more than you were there for him when he died?”
She looked at him coolly but her eyes crackled with temper. “I have never spoken a harsh word to you about your father, Erik. I loved you--and him--too much to make that mistake, and I’m not going to make it now. But before you start handing down judgment on me, you might want to ask yourself why you’re not passing judgment on him, too.”
“On him?” Erik stared at her in disbelief. “For what?”
“For doing exactly what I did--choosing his career over his marriage,” she said. “He could have moved to Washington, you know. Kept the family together. But incredibly, he wanted to farm. He didn’t care to sacrifice himself on the altar of my ambition any more than I cared to sacrifice myself on the altar of his. In the end, we decided it was better for our marriage--and our son--to live separately.” She shrugged. “Is politics really so much worse than farming? Was my dragging you on the campaign trail really more awful than your father making you work the farm?”
“Dad didn’t make me do anything. He put my hands in the dirt and taught me to respect life and nurture growth. All you did was put me in front of the cameras every time you needed voters to think you were a good mother.”
“I see,” she said, her voice jagged and cold as a glacier. She placed a cup of coffee at his elbow with a very precise click. “I’m sorry you feel that way. It wasn’t my intention.”
“Then what was your intention, Mom? Why else would you put a little kid through the meat grinder of national politics?”
“Maybe I wanted to expose you to the brightest political minds in America. Maybe I also wanted to expose you to the people who most needed those minds working on their behalf. Maybe I wanted you to know what it looks like when you love what you do, when you use what you’ve been given in service of others. Maybe I wanted passion and fulfillment and ambition to be more than SAT vocabulary words to you, Erik.”
Erik stared at the steaming coffee. It looked like tar, and he desperately wished he’d actually drunk some of it. Anything to explain away the sudden twist in his stomach. But no. It wasn’t the coffee; it was the truth. The Senator had just eviscerated a life-long grudge with a blast of simple perspective, and the hurt of an abandoned child came oozing out.
“I didn’t want any of that, Mom,” he forced himself to say. He’d started this thing, he might as well finish it. “I just wanted you.”
She shook her head. “No, not me. You wanted a milk and cookies mom, and I wasn’t one. I never will be, either, so if that’s going to break your heart, you’ll have to get over it.”
“Mom--”
She cut him off. “I know you resent me for leaving. For leaving your father. For leaving you. For not being there when he--and you--needed me. But staying is as much a choice as leaving. There’s no less risk in it, so if you think rejecting a woman like Nixie is going to keep you safe, think again.”
She sat down across from him, nudged the sugar bowl his way. “But if that’s your choice, make damn sure it is your choice. I’ve watched you turn away from everything I’ve ever offered you, from girlfriends to law school to political office. If you want to turn away from Nixie too, fine. But don’t you dare blame me for your cowardice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cowardice. Erik dumped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred, his head spinning with a sudden, sickening onslaught of self-knowledge. She was right, of course. He was a coward. He’d taken a childhood fear, dressed it up in sensible clothing and passed it off as pragmatism. And it had nearly cost him the one woman who’d ever found her way through the layers of bullshit to his heart.
He set down the spoon and frowned. He didn’t take sugar in his coffee. He put aside the mug and scrubbed both hands down his face. “Jesus, Mom. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Do you love her?”
He thought of the fear, the loss, the pain that had defined love his entire life. The exhausting burden and the monstrous cost of it. Then he thought of Nixie and the unimaginable generosity of her heart and he let it all go. The past and all its baggage tumbled away, leaving his heart fresh and clean and whole inside him. And full of Nixie.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“Then the rest doesn’t matter.”
A wave of shame broke over him as he remembered the casual brutality with which he’d rejected Nixie’s love. The cruelty he’d tried to disguise as honesty. Her cheeks had still been pink from their love-making when he’d deliberately shattered her heart and he would never forget the way she’d summoned up that fragile dignity and asked him to leave, the air around her shimmering with hurt and rage.
He couldn’t undo that. He couldn’t take it back. He’d dealt out a vicious, indelible blow to the purest, more generous heart he’d ever known, and why? Because he was a coward. Because he was in love with Nixie Leighton-Brace and it scared the shit out of him.
He’d tried to save himself, pledging himself to Mary Jane in a vain attempt to undo that ill-advised leap into love. And Mary Jane, God bless her, had given him that protection when he’d needed it. The space and the time to figure out that he not only couldn’t reverse that fateful leap, but he didn’t want to. That he would give anything, everything, to undo the damage he’d done. To put Nixie’s beautiful heart back together and cherish the gift of it for the rest of his life.
But what if everything he had wasn’t enough? A cold shock settled into his stomach and he shook his head.
“I messed up. Mom, I really messed up.”
“Then fix it.”
“I don’t know how.”
She smiled at him, a bit crookedly. “Talk to her,” she said. “Tell her what’s in your heart.”
“What if it isn’t enough?”
“What if it is? Faint hearts never won jack, boyo.”
“I think you may be underestimating the degree to which I’ve been a total ass.”
“I never underestimate the degree to which a man can be a total ass.” She smiled, though, and lifted a hand to his cheek. “But you raise a kid, you make a lot of mistakes. And you learn that people who love you can be infinitely forgiving.”
He covered her hand with his, pressed it and swallowed hard, past the awkward lump of regret and love blocking his throat.
“And for the record?” she said. “I left a lot behind when I walked away from the farm, but I never left you. Never.”
“I know.” And he did.
She gave his cheek one last little pat and drew back. “So. What are you going to do about Nixie?”
Erik reached across the table. He took her ha
nd this time and said, “I have an idea, but I’m going to need your help.”
Her eyes went round, then filled with an unruly rush of tears that had Erik half out of his chair. “Jeez, Mom, don’t cry. I only--“
She waved him back into his seat with an impatient hand. “Oh for goodness sake,” she said. “Sit down. I’m allowed a couple of tears when my only child finally asks me to be part of his life.” She swiped her sleeve over her eyes, gave the table a brisk pat and said, “Now. Tell me about this plan of yours.”
One week later Mary Jane sat savoring the silence of her office. She loved Sunday mornings at the clinic. Doors locked tight until noon, phones routed directly to the answering service. She could brew up a pot of coffee and have a decent shot at actually drinking it before the series of crises that passed for the work day turned it into a pot of hard-boiled sludge.
She didn’t love the paperwork she forced herself to do while she drank it, but bills needed paying. And in spite of Nixie’s on-air melt-down last weekend--or maybe because of it--the gala had raised enough cash to actually pay them.
She’d made a good dent in both the coffee pot and the mess in her inbox when she heard the door rattle. She froze halfway through her signature. Wanda had a key, as did Erik, but she knew they would both rather drink battery acid than give up a Sunday morning to push paper at the clinic. That was what they paid her the big bucks to handle. What nonprofits considered big bucks, anyway.
Probably a couple of desperate junkies looking to keep Saturday night’s party rolling, she thought. She wrapped her hand around the Louisville Slugger she kept beside the filing cabinet for just such emergencies and marched toward the waiting room. The receptionist pen was locked down and bullet proof but the bat was a comforting weight in her hand as she rounded the corner.
And found Ty standing in her lobby.
The breath left her lungs in a whoosh. Her hand went numb on the bat. And her heart, her treacherous, stupid heart, sang at the sight of him.
He looked tired, she thought inanely. It was in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. No jaunty charm, no arrogant smirk. He didn’t smile at her, and God help her, she sort of missed that I-know-you-want-me-baby grin that made her want to strangle him because she invariably did.
“Hey, Mary Jane,” he said. “Brought you something.”
She noticed for the first time the woman beside him.
“Jass,” she said, and worked up a smile for the pregnant, sullen teenager. “You’re starting to show.”
“No, I’m smuggling a basketball.” Jass rolled her eyes.
“You said you wanted to see her,” Ty said. “See the baby. So.” He lifted his shoulders. “Here they are.”
“Here they are.” Mary Jane smiled at Jass. “I’m so glad you came. Come on back. Let’s have a look at that baby.”
Something moved across Jass’ closed face as she cut a questioning glance at Ty, something hopeful and alive and painfully young. He gave her a gentle prod through the door Mary Jane buzzed open.
“I’ll wait here,” he told her, but kept his eyes on Mary Jane.
Mary Jane nodded and he lowered himself into one of the puke-colored chairs in the empty waiting room. She watched him for a moment--she couldn’t help the weakness of drinking him in from a safe distance--then shook it off. She turned to Jass and said, “You ready to meet that baby?”
“Not in person, no.”
Mary Jane laughed. “How about just a picture?”
“That’d be cool. I guess.”
“This way.”
Half an hour later, Mary Jane left Jass with a screen shot of her baby and orders to get dressed and meet her in the receptionist’s pen to make her next appointment. She found Ty where she’d left him, his head resting on the chair back, his eyes closed. She let herself into the waiting room and took the seat opposite his. He came awake with barely a ripple.
“So? What’s the story?”
“Healthy baby boy,” Mary Jane said. “Estimated date of arrival August 22. I’ll need to run some standard tests, blood work and such, but everything looks fine.” She paused. “Thank you for bringing her in, Ty. It was a good thing to do.”
“Yeah, I’ve been on a roll lately.”
“You have?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Sorry. I just--” She cut herself off. “No, I’m done lying. To you, about you. To myself about you. I am surprised. Life shit on you, Ty. I don’t dispute that. But you’ve been shitting right back ever since so yes, the occasional good deed surprises me.”
“Yeah. I guess I deserve that. Hell, I deserve a lot more than that from you.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees and her heart leapt into her mouth. He made no move to touch her but she drew back anyway. Something shifted in his eyes, but she forced herself to look away. She was finished looking for hope where there was none.
“I’m sorry, MJ,” he said. “I really am.”
“You are?” Mary Jane narrowed her eyes at him. Better suspicious than gullible. “Why?”
“You were right,” he said. “All this time. When they took my license--” He shook his head, started again. “When I lost my license, I went a little crazy. I’d worked so hard, MJ. So hard to get myself out of this place. To deserve more than this. I wanted the two thousand dollar suits, the four hundred dollar lunches. I wanted people to look at me and see power. To see somebody important. Somebody who meant something.”
“I always saw that, Ty.”
“I know. I wanted more.”
Her heart--stupid, stupid--took the slap. Deserved it, she told herself. Five yards for being an idiot.
“And for a while, I had more,” he said. “I had it all--you, the job, the money, the power. The thrill. God, I loved it.”
“I know,” she said and the bitterness in her voice shocked her. Was she really still so angry?
“But then I lost it. I wanted to believe somebody took it from me. Because I was young. Because I was smart. Because I was black. Take your pick.” He spread his hands. “What I didn’t want to believe was that I could be the problem. That my drive for success had somehow disintegrated into an addiction to risk. To playing fast and loose with money that wasn’t mine and morals that, unfortunately, were. I wasn’t doing anything other people weren’t doing, right? Couldn’t be wrong if my boss was okay with it, too, right?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, you know how it played out from there.”
“Yeah. I do.” And she had the broken heart to prove it, thank you very much. She stood. “So thanks for bringing Jass in. I’ll need to see her again in--”
“There’s more, MJ. I’m not just here to apologize.”
She closed her eyes. More? How much more could she possibly take? “Ty, please. I said everything I had to say at the gala last week. Let’s just...not, okay?”
He came to his feet and stuffed his hands into his pockets when she flinched back. “It’s not that. I mean, not just that. I still love you, MJ. I probably always will. But okay, I’ve been a jerk and I don’t deserve you. I get that. But I’m changing. I’m working hard on changing, MJ. You’ve got to hear me out.”
She put a trembling hand over her eyes. She didn’t know if she was trying to block out the sight of him, earnest and nakedly needy, or trying to conceal her own ridiculous tears. Both were good enough reasons to hide. “It’s too late, Ty. I’m past that.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m not. Don’t you want to know how I got in here this morning?”
She dropped her hand, frowned at him. She’d been so relieved about not having to Louisville Slug somebody she’d forgotten to wonder. “How did you get in?”
He produced a key from his pocket and held it up.
“Where did you get that?”
“They give them out like candy when you buy the building.”
“You bought the building?”
“Yep. Got a really good deal. Apparently, this isn’t the best neighbo
rhood.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now whose fault is that?”
His grin disappeared and those dark eyes went serious. “Mine, partly. I won’t deny it. But I’m working on fixing that.”
She folded her arms. “Yeah? You organizing a basketball tournament at the Wash? Donating to the bail-out-your-fellow-gang-bangers fund?”
“Not exactly. I turned my books over to the FBI.”
Her knees folded and she landed in the chair she’d just abandoned. “You what?”
He smiled ruefully. “I might not be a model citizen but I’m one hell of a manager. My books are neat, clean and very, very detailed. The paper trail goes right to the top, MJ. Right to some very, very bad men who, as it turns out, the FBI has been looking at for some time.”
Mary Jane pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, to the twin jets of hope and fear that spurted there. “Why would you do that?” she asked.
“Besides the immunity from prosecution and the fact that I owed it to every kid in this neighborhood?” He sat down across from her, took her hand. “You, MJ. I did it for you.”
A terrifying joy swept over her and she bowed under it. He pressed her cold hand, and the strength, the heat of him washed over her, pulled at her like the sun pulls the planets.
“I was never enough for you before,” she whispered. “Why would I be enough now?”
“You were always enough, MJ. More than enough. More than I deserved. But I was too busy pitying myself to see that.” He lifted his shoulders. “Then a kid put his gun against your beautiful skin.” He brushed a finger against her temple. “There. Right there. That kid pressed a gun against your head and I just--”
His voice went unsteady and he cleared his throat. “Well, let’s just say I grew up in a fucking hurry. It was time to make some changes. Big ones.”
“So you turned over your books to the FBI, and in doing so painted a big old target on your back.”
He gave her a grim smile. “Please. I haven’t survived in this neighborhood being a fool.”
