“I’m fine,” I assured the girls manning the Dragon Swing. They still had a line of children waiting for one last ride. The stall was close to the Faire exit, and it would be one of the last stops on the way out for many. They sold a lot of rides to folks making one final fantasy memory before going home to their real lives. “We’re going to grab a Toad in the Hole if there are any left. I haven’t eaten much this afternoon. You two need anything?” We were all one big family, this motley group of carnival entertainers. Many of us moved along the same circuits and we looked out for each other, making sure no one was left unattended or in need of any kind.
I took a couple of orders from them and promised Killian we’d ride the dragon when we came back—the line would be gone by then and it would give us a reason to put off going back to our own spot a little longer. I was not ready to face whatever Marek had up his sleeve for me.
We stopped at several booths on our way. Jesse was working the Bad Hatter Dude stall today, so Killian got to try on all his favorite hats. At the knife-throwing booth, we watched a few men laugh good-naturedly at themselves and their shoddy skills, and I clapped and cheered for Killian while he rolled around the watery fairy bubble with a few other kids. We finally made it to the food court and scored a huge stash of the yummy sausage rolls to take back with us.
Almost an hour later, after a quick visit to Ashanti’s Exotica stand to refill my stock of my favorite Walk in the Woods incense, and not one, but two dragon swing rides, we made one more stop at the Italian Guild tent for a cup of real dark roast coffee for me and a spiced cocoa for Killian. My son was in love with Marissa, the three-year-old daughter of Bernardo and Nina Allegri, and we often ended our days together this way, us adults chatting about the events of the day and the kids expending the last of their energy reserves on each other. When the park was finally cleared out except for the entertainers and vendors who were closing up shops and packing up their wares for the night, I scooped up Killian and headed back, feeling fortified enough to face whatever Marek had planned for me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As I rounded the bend and our stage came into sight, I saw them. Marek had Cassandra pressed up against the same tree Jordan and I had been sitting under, his face all but buried in her bountiful cleavage. Cassandra’s head lolled back in what appeared to be a passionate stupor, small sounds of pleasure emitting from her open mouth. Her hands were in his long curls, one leg hitched up around his thigh to accommodate Marek’s hand that disappeared beneath her layered skirts.
I put a hand over Killian’s eyes before he could get a good look, before he embarrassed us both even more by calling out to Marek, turned as noiselessly as I could, and took off back down the corridor the way I’d just come. “Let’s go for a walk, baby, okay? We’ll go feed the ducks some of our leftover Toadies.” I still had a couple of sausage rolls in a plastic bag in my wicker market basket.
I didn’t know what to think or how to feel about what I’d just seen. I knew—at least it was no surprise—that Marek wasn’t monogamous with me. He’d never made any promises but to take care of me, and then Killian when he was born, as long as I would do my part as well. My part being to work hard in his troupe and to be at his beck and call as his woman. Except that he’d never even called me that either. Not until today, at any rate. Mostly, I was just at his beck and call, period.
Lately, though, he hadn’t really beckoned or called me for anything. I was good with that, believe me, but it had started to worry me the last couple of weeks, mainly because I didn’t know what it meant. Killian and I still shared the trailer with him, but more often than not, he just came in when he was finished for the day, took care of his nightly hygiene stuff, and went to bed. There were some nights when he didn’t stumble in until the wee hours, and I knew he’d been with someone else, but in the past, those dalliances didn’t interfere with his expectations of me. Looking back, though, it seemed like weeks, months even, that he’d made any demands of me, other than to clean up after Killian or restock the camper supplies. Was he losing interest in me? He wouldn’t kick us out, would he? Where would we go?
And now this public display of the true nature of his relationship with Cassandra the Fortune Teller—had she seen me coming upon them in her crystal ball? He’d never been so open about who he was cavorting with in the past. I used to think it was in deference to me, but I’d stopped believing that a few months before Killian was born. No, Marek kept his consorts on the down low because it was good for business. His female audiences appreciated that he was available; they saw me only as a representation of every woman, not as a woman myself, dancing with the father of my child.
Surely, he wasn’t making plans to send me packing.
We exited the Faire and I set Killian down, but I kept a firm grip on his hand, letting him tug me across the nearly empty picnic area toward the shallow water of the lake where the ducks made a killing on leftovers. I couldn’t help but wonder how many park birds died each year of heart disease and high cholesterol from the crap humans fed them. Killian already knew from experience that if he wanted to get close to a duck, he needed to sit quietly with the treats and let them come to him. So we found the perfect spot to sit down. I handed him some chunks of bread, attempting to turn my thoughts away from Marek and the woman he’d been devouring for the entire world to see. For Killian and me to see.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come out.” Jordan Ransome lowered himself to the ground beside me, and I nearly tipped my basket off my lap. He snatched it up, righting it before it hit the ground and the contents spilled out. “Whoa. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, you did.” I sounded like a crabby baby.
“Mama, look!” Killian’s voice was hushed and squeaky, his delight practically emanating off him. A brown-feathered duck and three half-grown ducklings had waddled up to Killian’s side and were tentatively pecking at the tiny pieces of bread he was tossing on the ground in front of them. Apparently, either he hadn’t even noticed Jordan, or he felt the guy wasn’t worth his attention. I handed him another chunk of roll to shred and then offered one of the still-whole sandwiches to Jordan.
“Hungry?” I asked, glad for something to do, to say.
“Um…” He hesitated for a moment, cocking his head uncertainly.
“They’re fairly fresh,” I assured him.
“Sure.” He took it from me, unwrapped the wax paper from around it, and took a large bite. A drop of grease squeezed out the other end of the sandwich, landing on his jeans, and I looked away, feeling embarrassed and awkward at the same time. I hoped he’d think my blush was due to too much California May sunshine. “That’s going to stain, isn’t it?” he muttered.
I nodded, still not looking at him.
“Well, this is amazing, whether it’s fresh or not. That’s all I have to say about that.” He took another bite, and we sat in silence, watching Killian attempt to pick up the boldest of the ducklings that had come within arm’s reach of the boy. “Besides, you remember my mother. She’ll know how to get this out, I guarantee you.”
I nodded again, this time smiling slightly at the thought of Mrs. Ransome. I spoke quietly. “I do miss home, you know. I think about it, about my folks, about you…” I paused, and then added, “You and the rest of the gang on Maple Avenue, every single day. Every night.”
“I’m glad.” It was an odd response, and I frowned, finally looking at him. “Because home misses you. Your folks, me…” He paused too, but I couldn’t tell if he did it to mimic me or not. “And just so you know, the rest of the gang on Maple Avenue and the congregation from Midtown Congregational Church? They all miss you, too. None of us have ever stopped hoping you’ll come home.”
His last words were gentle, spoken so softly I had to still my movements to hear them all. Try as I might, I could not stop the tears that began to slip, hot and ashamed, from the corners of my eyes. They were the first tears I’d shed in as long as I could remember, and I w
asn’t prepared for the release they provided.
Jordan didn’t touch me. He didn’t try to offer me any comfort except for his presence. He simply let me grieve, something I desperately needed to do, as though we were remembering someone who had recently died. And I suppose, all things considered, Savannah Clark had died. I was no longer that ridiculously naïve, home-schooled girl, embraced by a neighborhood, by her father’s church, by the love of her quiet, but devoted parents. By Jordan Ransome. I was now Savah—just Savah—a Gypsy dancer with my Gypsy child and my faithless Gypsy King, and I no longer belonged at 300 Maple Avenue.
Killian had somehow wooed the three baby ducks into his lap, made nest-like by the excessive material of his pantaloons, and he was gently stroking their backs as they settled in for a late afternoon nap. I was often amazed at my little boy’s ability to be so still when he chose to be.
We sat in silence for several minutes, the late afternoon finally cooling a little as a light breeze swept toward us over the lake. I lifted my face to it and closed my eyes, letting the air dry the last of my tears. The weight of Killian’s head against my arm told me he was feeling the long, hot day, and would soon need to find his bed.
“We should get back,” I murmured, not wanting to break the peaceful stillness that had settled around us.
“We need to talk first,” Jordan said, his tone quiet but firm.
“I know. I just don’t know what to say.”
“Then let me start.” He stared out over the water, as though collecting his thoughts.
I slipped my arm around Killian and he shimmied down so his head rested on my lap, the ducks adjusting to accommodate him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I let you go with him today because I thought if I kept on, you might be in danger.” Jordan still didn’t look at me. “I made a bit of a show of it. I wanted him to think he’d scared me off. I didn’t want him going back there and blaming you for something you hadn’t done.”
I nodded my thanks, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
“You do that a lot, you know. You nod a lot. Like you’re just trying to be agreeable, or something.”
I jerked my gaze around to him. “I do?”
“You do. Everything I say, you nod in response. When you don’t want to speak, you nod.”
He reached out, and I tensed. He immediately withdrew his hand, holding it aloft.
“Sorry. I won’t touch you.” He brought his knees up and rested both elbows on them, lacing his fingers together out in front of him. After a few moments, he asked, “Does he hit you?”
And just like that, the peace around us evaporated. I straightened my shoulders, my jaw tight, and stared down at the soft curve of Killian’s sun-kissed cheek. I did not nod this time.
Jordan stood suddenly and took several deliberate steps away. He scooped up a golf ball-sized rock and chucked it as hard as he could out into the lake. I looked up in time to see it hit the water with a plunk and tried to track the ripples to see how far they went before they faded away. I could hear Jordan pacing behind me.
“Why do you stay?” He crouched down beside me, ready to spring up again at my response. “Why? That guy is dangerous, you know.”
The ducks must have sensed something brewing because the mama made a few grunting noises through her closed bill and all three babies’ heads popped up, turning in her direction. They clambered off Killian’s lap and waddled away. Thankfully, Jordan kept his voice low, and Killian didn’t stir. I clenched my jaw tighter.
“And he’s a—a womanizer. He thinks he’s some kind of Don Juan or Casanova or something.” Jordan stood again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He’s a cheat, Savannah. I saw him with that woman, that fortune teller. Believe me, they weren’t chatting about business.”
“I saw them too,” I stated, forcing my voice to stay calm. I didn’t correct his use of my real name this time. “He never made me any promises, Jordan. We’re not married.”
“What?” The word shot out of his mouth, cracking like a teenager’s. “You’re kidding me, right? He claims you as his woman—” he made air quotes around the words, “—but you have no such claim on him?” His voice was beginning to grow in volume, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I am the mother of his child.”
“And he is the father of yours!” Jordan lifted his hands in frustration.
“He has given us a home.”
“No, you work for your home. Just like everyone else in your—your—caravan.” He said the word as if he still couldn’t quite believe it was really a thing. “He’s given you nothing.”
“He’s given me a son.”
“No! He hasn’t given you a son, Savannah!” When he dropped to his knees beside me, his voice was tight and urgent. He grabbed my chin, clearly having forgotten his promise not to touch me, and made me look him in the eye. His grip was gentle, though, and my skin warmed under his touch. “Killian isn’t a gift from Casanova over there.” He pointed with his other hand toward the huge bow of Captain Francis Drake’s ship that marked the entrance into the Faire. “Your son is a gift from God. Every child is. Stop giving credit where credit isn’t due.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my chin free of his grasp. “You sound like my father. And now, you’re acting like Marek.” I brushed my fingers over my chin so he would know what I meant. He was certain to recall Marek doing the same thing to me earlier today… right before he kissed me. The unexpected thought of Jordan following through in the same way sent a jolt of memory up my spine. I knew what that would feel like. After all this time, I still remembered.
“No, damn it! I sound like me.” He surged to his feet again. “I sound like a guy who actually does care about you. And I do not—nor will I ever—act like Marek. Is that even a real name?” His fists were clenched at his sides now, and I warily eyed him. I’d seen Marek in that stance too many times to count. “I sound like a man who thinks the guy you’re with is a dangerous monster, and honestly, Savannah, I’m afraid for you. And for your son!”
“Well, don’t be!” I twisted so I could scoop Killian up, and then I awkwardly stood. Jordan jerked into motion and rushed to my side, supporting me with one hand on my back and one under the elbow. It was nearly my undoing, but I took a few stumbling steps away, righted myself, and turned back to face him. “You don’t know anything about me and my life anymore, Jordan.” I kept my voice low, relieved to feel Killian’s head lolling against my shoulder. He was out cold. “I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances I’m in, and I don’t need some do-gooder coming along, trying to coerce me into abandoning what I have, just because he thinks he knows me better than I know myself and my needs.”
I bent over to pick up my basket, but Jordan beat me to it, snatching it up and taking a quick step away from me. “Really? Give it to me, Jordan.” I rolled my eyes in an attempt to look derisive, but my pulse was throbbing so hard I could hear it pounding in my head.
“Really?” he echoed, mimicking my tone. “Some do-gooder? You think that’s what I am? You think I’m trying to coerce you? The only one I see coercing you into anything is that jackass Gypsy king in there!” He waved angrily behind him. Stepping forward, he grabbed my arm just above my elbow. “Come away with me, Savannah. Come home. Let’s just leave this place.”
I wanted to demand he let go, but his grip on my arm, although nothing like Marek’s, triggered some kind of automatic response in me. Cringing, I covered Killian’s head with one hand and ducked my own, my eyes squeezed shut, in frozen anticipation of whatever came next.
“Oh, Savannah, no!” Jordan’s words came out broken and despairing. “I would never—”He took a tentative step forward and eased his arms around both of us, his gesture consoling, protective. “What has he done to you?”
He didn’t stroke my back or play with my hair the way a lover might; he just held me upright, offering his solidness to my weakness. I didn’t cry again, but I was sure if he let me go, I would
n’t be able to stay upright on my own.
It took several moments, but I finally began to relax, to lean into him a little. I turned my head so it rested in the crook of his shoulder. Killian, too, seemed to slump toward Jordan, and I realized the man actually had one of his arms beneath my son’s bottom, supporting his weight as well. I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly let it out.
He smelled of California sunshine, a not unpleasant sweaty male scent, and of home. He actually smelled like Maple Avenue to me, the pleasant tang of the sycamore trees that stood like jolly sentries up and down our block, fresh-cut grass, and messy two-car garages where there was inevitably only room for one car to park. And paint. Jordan smelled faintly of paint, lacquer thinner, and a hint of cologne or aftershave applied hours ago.
Jordan Ransome smelled like memories.
CHAPTER NINE
Three years earlier…
Jordan was home. His car, the same one he’d restored his junior year of high school, was parked on the street in front of the Ransome house, and I knew for a fact it hadn’t been there last night. I’d been watching for it. For him.
After months of no communication, he’d emailed me yesterday to let me know he was coming home, and that he wanted to talk.
I shoved my earbuds in place and turned on the audiobook I was listening to—an Amy Harmon novel about an abandoned, angry girl—then headed out to the rattan nest swing Dad had hung for me from one of the sturdier branches of my sycamore.
The first Monday of June had burst onto the scene in a blast of heat waves, and even stepping outside into the late afternoon made my skin prickle in protest. But knowing Jordan was home, I couldn’t stay behind closed doors. I had to see him. I needed to see him.
And this summer, I needed him to see me. If Jordan looked at me and still wanted to be with me, then maybe, just maybe, I would be okay
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