by Joan Hohl
“I’ve marked you.” His gaze seared the bruise. “And I’ve hurt you—” his breath shuddered from his body “—in so many ways.” His lips bestowed a quivering blessing on the mark. “I’m sorry, Karen. I never meant to hurt you in any way.”
“I know.” Karen had to pause to swallow, to breathe, to absorb the tremors racing up her arm from her wrist.
While she hesitated, Paul glanced up. His night-black eyes betrayed regret, resignation. “I don’t want to leave you here like this.” His grip on her wrist tightened as a shiver moved through her body. “Karen, let me follow you into Boston.” His voice was rough with strain.
“No!” Karen shook her head and pulled her hand from his grasp. A vision rose to torment her mind, an image of herself attempting to explain Paul’s presence to her sons. Mark, her baby, was still young enough at thirteen to accept as fact whatever his mother told him. But her eldest had developed into a very savvy fifteen-year-old. Rand would immediately identify and disdain the relationship between his mother and a man other than his father. “No,” she repeated, drowning in a fresh flood of guilt and shame. “It’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible. Nothing—” He stopped speaking as a young waitress approached the table to take their order. Paul cursed under his breath and snatched up the menu.
Karen lowered her gaze to the cardboard that was quivering suspiciously in her hand. But her reprieve was short-lived. Paul resumed the argument the instant the waitress moved on to another table. Karen had already forgotten what she’d ordered.
“Karen, I can wait in a hotel. You can’t be expected to spend every waking hour with your sons or cooling your heels in a hospital.” Lines of tension scored his face, revealing his frustration and, for the first time since she’d met him, his age.
“No, Paul.” Karen rushed the refusal, too tempted to give in to his suggestion. “I’d have to explain...”
The expression in the eyes she raised to his was stark, reflecting her inner conflict. She took a breath before continuing. “I’d have to explain to my boys, Charles, his parents. How could I make them understand something I don’t understand myself, about myself?”
“You’re a mature woman, Karen!” Paul exclaimed softly. “Except for the possibility of your children, you don’t owe explanations to anyone.” His voice lowered dangerously. “Least of all to that—”
“Paul!” Karen’s shocked voice cut across his low snarl. She glanced around quickly to see if he’d been overheard. Their nearest neighbors, a middle-aged foursome, were busily discussing the merits of the menu, quite oblivious to the drama close at hand. “Name-calling solves nothing! Don’t you understand? I can’t continue. It’s impossible.”
Paul’s eyes gleamed with a mounting anger that masked a sense of desperation. “And I’m telling you nothing’s impossible, not if you want it badly enough.” His tone hardened. “And I want it badly, Karen. You’ll probably never know how very badly I want it.”
Want. The single word hammered inside Karen’s mind while the waitress served the meal. Want. The echo of it mocked her throughout the ordeal of making believe she was eating the sandwich she couldn’t remember ordering and didn’t taste even as she consumed it. Want. Dammit! It was the wanting that had placed her in this untenable hell of guilt in the first place.
He had wanted. She had wanted. And because they had appeased their wants with one another, she was now suffering the pain of self-doubt and shame.
“Karen, we need to talk,” Paul said urgently as she placed her empty coffee cup on its delicate saucer. “Let me follow you. Meet with me in Boston. I’ll give you my word that I won’t touch you. I’ll give you all the time you need to sort out your feelings. But let’s at least talk it out. I want to explain...”
Karen had had it with the word “want.” Pushing her chair back, she surged to her feet and hurried from the restaurant. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to never hear the word want again for as long as she lived.
Paul caught up to her as she was fumbling to unlock her car. He didn’t try to restrain her. At least, not physically. The soft urgency of his tone was restraint in itself.
“You’re going to throw it away, aren’t you?”
At the end of her patience, pulled off balance by conflicting needs and emotions, Karen turned on him, lashing out.
“Throw all what away?” she demanded, angry and scared. “We don’t know each other. We don’t even know if we like one another! We felt an attraction, a highly combustible chemical attraction, and we both responded to it.” Her shoulders drooped. “But now it’s time for reality.” Karen forced herself to look at him. “You have a family, a life in Philadelphia. And I have two boys who may be facing the possibility of losing their father. I think someone once said that when reality walks in the door, sensuality flies out the window. The window is open, Paul. The time for flight is now.”
“It’s not true.” Paul smiled faintly as she began to frown. “I do know that I like you. You are very easy to like.”
For one fleeting instant, Karen’s smile rivaled the brilliance of the sun-sparkled day. Then it was gone, as was the light of hope that had sprung to life in Paul’s eyes. Obeying an impulse, she reached out to touch him. Then, just as quickly, she withdrew her hand.
“I like you, too.” Her smile had the power to break a cynic’s heart. “You’re bossy as hell, but I like you, Paul Vanzant.”
“Karen.” He moved toward her, but she was faster, opening the door and slipping behind the wheel.
“I must go,” she said, her voice edged with desperation. “They’re expecting me.” She bit her lip, then looked up at him. “I’ll never forget you. Goodbye, Paul.” She pulled the door closed between them.
“Karen!”
The sound of the engine roaring to life muffled his cry of protest. Throwing the car into reverse, she backed the vehicle away from him. Again she hesitated, staring at him as if unable to tear her eyes away. Then she spun the wheel. Tires screeched, and the car shot forward. Karen heard Paul’s angry voice through the closed window.
“Damn you, Karen!”
“Will Dad be all right, Mom?”
Stifling a sigh, Karen managed a patient smile instead. It was at least the dozenth time her youngest son had asked that same question.
“I don’t know, honey,” Karen answered honestly. “Grandma didn’t know when I spoke to her. It was too soon after the attack. But hopefully by the time we reach Boston the doctors will have more information for us.”
“I don’t want Dad to die, Mom.” Fear reduced Mark’s voice to that of a very young child’s.
“Oh, honey.” Karen reached across the seat to grasp the boy’s hand. “I know. I know.” Understanding and compassion clenched at her chest. “Try not to think about it.” Karen hated being reduced to trite, inane motherly platitudes, but as a mother, what option did she have? “Just hope, and pray, and—”
“Dad’s not going to die, ya nerd.” The jeer of disgust came from the half boy, half man sprawled on the back seat.
“Rand,” Karen murmured warningly, capturing his reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Well, does he hafta whine and talk so dumb?” Rand argued defensively.
“But I’m scared!” Mark sniffled. “What will we do ifhe—”
“Will ya stuff it?” Rand’s voice rose, then cracked.
“Randolf!”
“Aw, Mom!” The boy glared into the mirror at her for a moment, then quickly lowered his gaze. Rand was not quick enough to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes.
Karen’s fingers contracted around the abused steering wheel. Rand was every bit as frightened as
Mark was; his belligerence was a ruse to conceal his fear and uncertainty. Karen longed to comfort both boys, reassure them, soothe them as she had when they had been small and had run to her with scrapes and bruises. If only she could hug them and kiss them and make it better, she thought, feeling suddenly inadequate and unequal
to the task before her.
Without conscious direction, Karen’s gaze sought the mirror, not to seek the wounded eyes of her son but to study the highway unwinding behind her. There were all types of vehicles jockeying for position on the multilane highway, but not one of them was painted a midnight blue.
A man is never there when you really need him, she told herself, her throat working to ease a growing tightness.
With her youngest son weeping softly on the seat beside her and her eldest alternately yelling at him, then pleading with him to “bag it,” Karen was much too upset and distracted to consider the incongruity of her blanket condemnation of men, most particularly the man she had refused to have there when she needed him. She was hurting on more levels than she’d ever realized there were. She was tired. She felt alone, really alone, for the first time in her adult life. She felt too close to the edge of defeat. She was beginning to get frightened, and beginning to question her ability to cope with the traumatic effect on her sons in the event Charles succumbed to the heart attack.
He can’t diel The protest rang inside her head, accompanied by one boy’s sobs and another boy’s muttered imprecations. Damn you, Charles Mitchell, don’t you dare die!
Karen’s glance flicked to the mirror.
Oh, God, Paul, where are you?
Where was she now? Nearing Boston? In Boston? Perhaps already at the hospital—with Charles?
Paul grunted in self-disgust and sliced a resentful glance at his wristwatch. He had promised himself he would not think about her. He had warned himself he could not afford to think about her. He had failed miserably to keep his promise.
How had her sons reacted to the news about their father? Paul sighed. Karen’s boys were another subject he had vowed not to consider. But dammit! he said to himself, he was a parent, too! He had raised a son through the difficult teenage years. He knew firsthand how very deeply children felt about all kinds of things, important and mundane. They would be a handful for her, Paul decided, his tight lips smoothing into a gentle smile of reminiscence. Hell, children were usually a handful, even on the best of days!
She should have support.
The tightness was back, flattening his lips. He should be with her. He had wanted to be with her. He still wanted to be there for her.
Where was she now?
With favorable driving conditions, Karen could be in the city and at the hospital by now. Was the bas— Paul cut his thought short. Had Charles Mitchell’s condition improved at all? Paul sincerely hoped so. He hoped so for the boys’ sake. He hoped so for Karen’s sake. And, not even sure why, he hoped so for his own sake.
He missed her. It had been only a matter of hours since she’d left him breathing in the exhaust fumes from her car as she’d roared out of the parking lot, and yet he missed her like hell on fire. Paul exhaled heavily. With his control on his mental responses undermined, memories of the previous night rushed to the fore to tease his senses and torment his body.
Lord! Had he really behaved like that, all macho and masterful? The mere concept boggled his mind. Never, never before in his life, had Paul displayed such aroused heat or such vigor! And damn him if he hadn’t reveled in every second of the display.
Paul’s thigh muscles grew taut; he shifted on the leather seat. How, he wondered, was Karen feeling about her own responses and participation in the previous night’s activities? She’d refused to discuss it that morning, had in fact shied away from even looking directly at him until they had stopped for lunch. Paul grimaced. Had he succeeded in adding more selfdoubt and guilt to her overscrupulous conscience? He fervently hoped not, yet feared he had.
Paul’s spirit flagged. He had an empty feeling that warned him he’d be missing Karen Mitchell for a long time to come.
Karen greeted the usual tangle of midafternoon traffic in Boston with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Her spirit felt battered from having to constantly comfort her sons.
She had a pounding headache from the increasing pressure of the tension at the back of her neck. Her eyes were gritty from incipient tears and the lack of sleep the night before. And her mind felt abused from fighting the memories of why she hadn’t slept the night before. In comparison, the need to maneuver the crazy-quilt mess of one-way traffic in the historic city was a piece of cake.
“Are we going to Grandma’s first?” Mark asked.
Karen stole a glance from the street to offer her son a smile. “No, honey. I think both Grandma and Grandpa will be at the hospital.”
“Are we soon there?”
Karen frowned at his grammar. “Just a little while longer, honey,” she replied, striving to hang on to her control.
“I’m hungry,” he whimpered.
“You’re always hungry,” his brother taunted from the back.
“As a matter of fact, I’m hungry, too,” Karen said brightly, giving her oldest a quelling look via the rearview mirror. “We can get something to eat in the hospital coffee shop as soon as we find out how your dad’s doing. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mark agreed.
“Now take a break,” came the hard-voiced order from the back seat.
Karen’s eyes shot to the mirror to catch his reflection with a “this is your mother speaking and I’m not kidding” look. Rand lowered his eyes.
For a few moments, relative peace and quiet prevailed—at least inside the car. Outside it was a different story. A motorist running a yellow light missed her car by a breath. As she attempted to push the brake pedal through the floor of the car with her foot, Karen flung her right arm out in front of Mark to back up his seat belt.
Mark decided that was the perfect time to begin wailing. “I hate this! I hate this whole day!” he sobbed. “We’re all gonna die.”
“Mark, please!” Karen eased the car back into the flow of traffic and her temper back into submission. “It was close,” she said soothingly, silently cursing the ancestry of the other driver. “But we’re fine, and no one is going to die.” Brave words, she jeered at herself.
“Boy, are you really thirteen?” Rand asked sarcastically.
Karen prayed for enlightened motorists and spared another warning glare for her back-seat agitator.
Mark then made the mistake of wriggling in his seat. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You always hafta go to the bathroom. All you ever do is eat and go to the bathroom,” Rand gibed.
Karen’s patience gave up the battle. “Rand, I’ve had enough of your snide remarks. What in the world is the matter with you?” Her eyes shifted back and forth between the street and the mirror; she saw her firstborn drop his head abjectly. Her heart clenched as she heard his whispered cry.
“Oh, Mom. I’m so scared.”
Chapter Seven
iVaren ached to bring the car to a dead stop right there in the middle of the nightmarish traffic and bawl with her two offspring, both of whom were sobbing now. Gritting her teeth and murmuring garbled words of comfort, she wove the car in and around the vehicular maze leading to the hospital.
After finally securing a place to park, she rushed the boys into the hospital, past the information desk and straight into the first visitors’ lounge she came to. Breathing a sigh of relief at finding the room empty, Karen dropped her purse onto the nearest chair and swept Rand and Mark into her arms.
“Okay, now cry it out,” she coaxed softly. “It’ll help.”
Neither of the boys held back. The dam of fear and anxiety burst, and Karen tightened her arms, absorbing her sons’ shudders into her body. The moment was bittersweet for Karen. It had been some time since either of the boys had sought succor in her embrace, and an especially long time for Rand. At odd moments, catching herself gazing wistfully at an infant or toddler and consumed with a longing to cradle the child to her breast, she wondered if she was suffering the empty-nest syndrome. Usually the sensation of emptiness was fleeting and she went back to the reality of the present convinced that she was content with her life. Now, fiercely cla
sping their slim bodies to her heart, Karen wondered again.
Ignoring the tears stinging her eyes, she closed them and brushed one damp cheek over Rand’s tangled hair and the other over Mark’s tousled curls.
For this tiny, isolated moment, the boys were hers again, her beautiful babies. Soon, too soon, they would collect themselves, she knew. Very likely, Rand would be first. Then, together, they would go face the news about their father. But until then, Karen would savor the sweet feeling of being needed by her babies, even if the feeling was transient and contained equal amounts of pleasure and pain. As she had suspected, Rand was the first to withdraw.
“I forgot a hankie,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes by swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. '
“There are tissues in my purse.” She indicated the bag with a movement of her hand. “Give some to your brother, please.” She was unable to keep her hand from creeping to the back of Mark’s head, and her fingers stroked his fine curly hair. With a final snorting gulp, Mark stepped back.
“I didn’t wanna act like a baby.” Mark shot a fearful look at his brother, the infamous tormentor.
“Who did?” Rand muttered, absolving Mark of guilt, while shoving a wad of tissues into his hand. “Neither one of you have..Karen began.
“Only little kids cry,” Mark sniffled.
“Sez who?” Rand demanded, mopping the moisture from his lean cheeks.
“Dad,” Mark said, following his idol’s example and applying damp tissue to his even damper face. “He said real men never cry.”
Sounds exactly like something your dad would say, Karen thought, shaking her head. “Men are human, Mark, and all humans experience a need to relieve fear and pain at times,” she said softly.
“Dad don’t ever cry,” Mark insisted.
“No,” Rand agreed in a surprisingly adult tone. “Dad swears.”
