SOMEBODY'S HERO

by Marilyn Pappano

  She smiled. "Twenty-five hundred words or less—that's my limit most nights." Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back. "Listen to that."

  Rain pounded on the tin roof and cascaded off to splash onto the waterlogged ground. It was a soothing sound as long as it stayed liquid. Sleet or hail, though, was a different story.

  She turned to look at him. Light from the kitchen window illuminated her face—and kept his in relative darkness, he hoped. "What kind of bedtime stories did you get when you were a kid?"

  "Horror stories." His father screaming out his rage, the kids screaming their fear and his mother just screaming…

  She turned so her shoulder was against the wall, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped around them. "You had a tough childhood, didn't you?"

  He didn't want to admit it, but there was no point in denying it, so he just shrugged.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  She asked as if it was a simple thing. After his mother's trial, he'd never talked about life in the Lewis house with anyone besides his sister and the shrinks they'd been ordered to see.

  "You could find out pretty much everything in town," he replied. "Everyone knows it all."

  "I don't want to hear it from someone else." Her voice softened. "How about this? I'll ask a question, and if you're not comfortable answering it, you don't."

  He smiled thinly. He knew how to not answer questions.

  "How old were you when your father died?"

  Harmless question. "Fourteen."

  "It must have been tough losing your dad at that age. Is that why you moved back here?"

  "Yeah."

  "Were you close to him?"

  Only when he caught me off guard. When he was hitting me. When I couldn't get away quick enough. "No."

  "Did you miss him?"

  "No."

  "What do you remember most about him?"

  He'd always been so careful—when teachers had questioned him about injuries, when a school counselor had grilled him about his mother's "accidents," when a homicide detective had interrogated him about the events of that night, when Zachary and Beth had interviewed him before Carrie's trial. This time he didn't censor himself but instead gave the first answer that came to mind. "His rage."

  Beside him Jayne stilled, but it wasn't surprise. He was sure of that from her expression—regret that her suspicions were proving right. Her voice little more than a whisper, she asked, "Was he abusive?"

  "He didn't think so." Del's parents hadn't thought so either. That was the way of life in the Lewis household—anger, yelling, punching, beating, suffering.

  He took a long breath to fill his lungs, to lighten the darkness inside him, and deliberately changed the subject. "What's it like being a writer?"

  Indecision crossed her face. He knew how it went: as long as he was talking, she wanted to know more—people always did—but she didn't want to push him. After a moment, the good manners Mrs. Jones had taught her won out. She lifted her chin and spoke in a haughty tone. "Naturally it's all glamor all the time. We authors don't do such menial tasks as cooking dinner or scrubbing toilets. Our staffs take care of those things whilst we lounge about in designer peignoirs, dictating our books to secretaries and eating bonbons. And of course we hobnob with the rich and famous."

  With a laugh, she rolled her gaze. "Really, it's a lot of hard work, often for very little reward—and often very little respect. Total strangers don't hesitate to ask how rich we are or what kind of sex lives we have. People want to know when we're going to write a real book. Even people we love don't think twice about insulting our books because of the sex or love scenes in them. Because we're mostly women and we mostly work at home, everyone expects us to be available at the drop of a hat to help out at school or Scouts or church. And of course virtually everyone we meet is going to write a book in their spare time someday. Yeah, and I'm going to practice neurosurgery in my spare time someday."

  "For the record, I have no interest in writing a book," Tyler said.

  "Too bad," she said with a sly grin, "because I do have an interest in operating your power tools. We could trade lessons." He could think of things he'd much rather learn from her than the proper way to construct a novel. While he'd been hiding away up here the past five years, she'd been married, with all the intimacies that implied. She'd probably forgotten more about sex than he'd ever known.

  The thought made his voice husky and forced him to clear his throat. "What do you want to make that requires power tools?"

  "Oh, nothing, really. I just want the experience of 'More power!'"

  Familiar with the "Tool Time" TV character she imitated, he smiled faintly, even as he acknowledged just how much he didn't need her in his shop. No one spent time there besides him. More than anyplace else, it was his and his alone. But that didn't stop him from offering, "You can help finish the piece I'm working on."

  She looked appalled. "Oh, not something real. Not your work. All I need is a piece of scrap lumber that I can cut and sand down to one one-hundredth its original size."

  "So you don't want to construct. You want to destruct."

  Her shrug and accompanying smile were innocent, a more mature and sultrier version of Lucy's best.

  "How about I help you do both over here?" When her expression remained blank, he indicated the brightly lit window above him with a tilt of his head. "Your kitchen. You can't leave that hole there where the old refrigerator used to be."

  "Why, of course I can," she teased. "But I don't want to. What are our options?"

  Our. He considered that a moment. For a long time he'd been part of an our—his family with all its secrets, responsibilities and nightmares. The older they'd gotten, though, the less they'd needed him and the more he'd withdrawn, the less a part of them he'd felt. He'd told himself he liked the isolation—liked not having anyone to worry about but himself. Truth was, he'd had more isolation than was healthy for a man, and he'd missed being needed.

  "Hellooo." Jayne nudged him with one knee. "Are you paying attention to me?" she asked with just the right amount of pout to sound like Lucy.

  "Yeah. I was just thinking. We can rip out the cabinets next to that space and make room for the new refrigerator there, then frame in around it. Or we can fill that space with cabinets for a pantry."

  She moved from her sideways position to sit with her back to the wall, settling in close enough that he could smell her various scents. "I'd like to get the refrigerator out of the dining area because it's so cramped, but if we get rid of those cabinets… The kitchen has so little storage anyway. I can't lose a whole set of cabinets."

  "You need a smaller dining table. I've got one in the shop. If you like it, you can have it."

  "If I like it, I'll buy it."

  "You can have it," he said, giving her a stern enough look that she apparently reconsidered her next words and let the matter drop. For a moment.

  After a time, though, she said, "You are a stubborn man."

  "That's hardly the worst anyone's called me." Stupid brat, a rotten mistake, worthless—along with a few profanities, those had been Del's favorite names for him. Troubled, disturbed, problem child—he'd heard those at school and from other kids' parents.

  Just like your father. That was the insult he hated most.

  "I can't imagine anyone calling you worse. Your family adores you. Your friends respect you. Lucy thinks you hung the moon—though not the stars. While I was checking my sales rank on Amazon today, she talked me into ordering a book on astronomy so you two can learn the constellations together."

  Heat flooded his face as, perversely, he contradicted her. "Lucy's a kid with a lousy father who's just looking for some attention. The friends you've met are the only ones I've got. My father hated me, and my ex-girlfriend—"

  The tension came, fast and sharp—from him and from Jayne.

  She didn't say anything, didn't move, but waited, damn near breathless, for him to continue. She was looking at him—he c
ould feel the weight of her gaze—but he refused to look back. Instead, after one endless moment, he surged to his feet. "I should go."

  He didn't bother going inside to get his jacket but took the steps two at a time to the ground. The rain was cold, soaking his hair and his clothes before he'd gone fifteen feet, but he was even colder inside.

  He'd reached the edge of the yard—where she someday wanted a fence with climbing roses—before she called out, "Are you still in love with her?"

  He stopped where the lattice arch would go. He didn't intend to, but his feet wouldn't move. She sounded almost normal except for the faint wistfulness that kept him there. A little hurt, a little sad, a little envious, a whole lot regretful.

  When he turned, she was closer than he'd expected, halfway between him and the steps. Her brown hair clung to her head, her bangs sending rivulets of water down her face. The weight of the rain tugged her sweater almost to her knees, and the thin fabric of her skirt wrapped itself around her legs.

  He took a step toward her. "I can't even remember what she looked like."

  "But you loved her."

  Whether he'd loved Angela wasn't the point. Maybe he had. Or maybe, like Lucy looking to fill an emptiness in her life, he'd been looking for something that was missing from his and he'd convinced himself that Angela was it. Truthfully, though, if their relationship had ended any other way—and it would have ended; even he'd known that—he would have forgotten her soon after.

  Jayne swiped her hair back from her face, then hugged her arms across her middle. "I know it's none of my business. It's just, well, writers are nosy by nature, and I just need to know… I mean, you're spending a lot of time … and Lucy and I like you … but if you're still in love with—"

  He took the few steps necessary to reach her, cupped his palms to her cheeks and kissed her to silence her words. To substitute for the words he didn't have. To assure her. To assure himself.

  For an instant she was startled into stillness, but when his tongue brushed her lips, she opened to him, welcomed him in a hot, hungry kiss. She didn't wrap her arms around him, though—didn't move closer or pull him closer, didn't even touch him except where he touched her. Her arms remained folded so tightly he felt them tremble against his middle.

  He probed her mouth, searched, tested, until he thought he would remember the feel, the taste, the texture of her forever. Ending the kiss, he drew back just far enough to gaze at her, damp and dazed in the thin light. "I can't remember her face," he said thickly, hoarsely, "or her voice or wanting her or needing her. Since meeting you, I can't remember anything about her."

  Except the most important thing, whispered a nasty little voice that sounded like his father.

  He ignored it through sheer will, focusing instead on Jayne. He wanted to kiss her again, to hold her, to learn everything about her, but she was still looking stunned and still trembling—more likely from cold or surprise than from passion. She looked as if she didn't know what to say, what to think, and he couldn't begin to guess what she wanted next. Should he say good-night and walk away? Push his luck and kiss her again? Do nothing until she acted?

  Before he could decide, she raised her gaze to his. "Can I touch you?" she whispered.

  Of course she'd noticed that he wasn't much on physical contact. It was one of the things he'd given up after Angela—part of his punishment along with his exile. Wanting and not having was hard enough without tormenting himself with contact.

  Nodding was hard. Waiting for her to act was even harder.

  She untangled her hands from the sweater, lowered one arm to her side and raised the other hand until just the tips of her fingers brushed over his jaw. He swore it sizzled as cool skin touched hot skin, and he felt the sharp, raw jolt all the way through his body. After so many years alone, it actually hurt—a damn sweet hurt that he'd missed more than he'd realized.

  Then she knotted her fingers in his hair, raised onto her toes and kissed him.

  This was what being like his father had cost him—feeling human. Being touched. Being wanted. Being alive.

  This was what he would lose again when she found out the truth about him.

  Even knowing that, God help him, he couldn't stop her. Couldn't pull her hands from his hair or his chest. Couldn't let her go. Not yet. Not when he'd been alone so long. Not when he needed her so much.

  Finally she stopped. She pulled away, rested her head on his shoulder and gave a soft, surprised laugh. "Oh, my gosh," she murmured. "I think I can finish that love scene now." Almost immediately she lifted her head again. "Want to come inside and get warm?"

  He wasn't sure exactly what she was offering—a dry towel and a spot in front of her fireplace or more. Either way, if he got any warmer, his blood would boil. Somewhere he found the strength to shake his head. "I'd better go."

  She didn't try to change his mind but tiptoed to kiss his jaw. "Good night."

  He watched until she went inside, turned and waved, then closed the door behind her before he started toward his house. It was cold, the rain showed no sign of letting up, he was soaked to the bone and he'd kissed Jayne.

  All in all, it was a damn good night.

  * * *

  At eleven o'clock Friday morning Jayne shut down the computer, rose from the desk and stretched. The day was bright and sunny, she'd had a very productive week and she was celebrating by taking a few hours off for lunch in town with Sarah Ryan and Beth Adams.

  Listening to three women talk over lunch wasn't Lucy's idea of fun. "Are you sure Jordan isn't going to be there?" she asked for the fifth time as Jayne headed into the bedroom.

  "I doubt it, sweetie. She's probably in school."

  Lucy plopped down on the bed and pouted. "I wish I was in school."

  "You'll be going soon enough, kiddo."

  "If I was in school, I'd have lots of kids to play with and we'd swing on the swings and ride the merry-go-round and play kickball and tag and hide-and-seek."

  "And sit in class all day learning arithmetic and history and geography."

  Lucy brushed that off as inconsequential and sank back dramatically against the pillows. "I'm bored, Mom. I need to do something."

  Jayne stripped off her nightshirt—she hadn't bothered to dress that morning since she'd known she was going out—and pulled on a red sundress that left her arms and a fair portion of her back bare. It was cool and made her feel utterly feminine. "You sound like your father." Greg had gotten bored so easily. If he wasn't going somewhere or doing something, life wasn't worth living.

  Jayne went into the bathroom, and Lucy followed, closing the lid on the toilet and taking a seat. "I don't think Daddy loves me," she said of matter-of-factly.

  The basket that held Jayne's makeup slid from her grasp, dumping everything into the sink. Giving her a chastising look, Lucy shook one finger in warning. "You don't play around with Bobbi Brown. It's too expensive."

  Jayne looked from her to the cosmetics, then began returning them to the basket. Though she hated to defend Greg, she did so—for Lucy's sake, not his—choosing her words carefully.

  "Your father loves you, babe. It's just he likes living his own way. It doesn't have anything to do with you and it doesn't mean he doesn't love you. He does. He just—"

  "Loves himself more," Lucy finished for her, then gave a careless shrug. "Grandma says. But it doesn't matter. I don't think I love him, neither, so it's okay."

  "Oh, Luce…" Jayne didn't know what to say. Simply providing the sperm that helped create Lucy and showing up occasionally for a bit of fun didn't entitle Greg to his daughter's love, any more than it made him a father. But it saddened Jayne, who had always dearly loved and been loved by her father, to think that Lucy was missing out on so much.

  "I bet Tyler'd be a good dad," Lucy continued in that casual voice.

  Oh, no. No matchmaking from the kid. No feeding the fantasies that were starting to keep Jayne awake at night.

  But that wasn't on Lucy's mind. "When he has
a little girl, he'll be way better at it than Daddy is. But, like, who isn't?"

  Jayne wanted to sweep her into a hug and apologize for her lousy taste in men, but how could she apologize for the man who'd helped make Lucy the sweet, lovable child she was? So instead she started putting on her makeup, and within moments, Lucy was kneeling on the rim of the pedestal sink, watching her.

  "I'm not ever wearin' makeup," Lucy announced even as she dabbed her finger in a pot of shimmery eye shadow and rubbed the color onto her cheek. "Charley says makeup is girlie."

  That was twice she'd mentioned Charley in the past twenty-four hours. Presuming it must be one of the numerous kids at the Morris farm on Sunday, Jayne asked, "Which one is Charley?"

  "The one with the red hair and freckles. Tyler's niece or somethin'. Her real name is something silly like Charlotte."

  Jayne traded foundation for blush and a fluffy brush. "Oh, well, Charley is so much better for a little girl."

  "Yep. She goes barefoot all the time when it's warm and it doesn't even hurt her feet. I'm gonna do that this summer. And she wears overalls. I wish I had some overalls. And she rides her pony without a saddle. I wish I had—"

  Jayne headed her off by tickling the brush over her face, making her giggle. Immediately she stretched up to see her reflection in the mirror. "Oh, I look so pretty," she said in a high-pitched voice, then giggled again.

  With a lump in her throat, Jayne swept her daughter into her arms and hugged her tightly. "I love you, Luce."

  "I love you, too, Mom." Lucy's little hand patted Jayne's back comfortingly, then she murmured wistfully, "But I still wish I had a pony."

  * * *

  Lunch was lovely. Jayne and Lucy shared a corner booth with Sarah and Beth. Rebecca joined them and gave Lucy the run of the place. She helped the waitress deliver meals, clear tables and make change, delivering service with her trademark ear-to-ear grin, and when she finally joined them for dessert, she announced that she'd found her calling. She was going to be a waitress.

  "And here I thought you'd want to be a famous writer like your mom," Rebecca teased.

  Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward. "Sit at a computer alone with myself all day with no one to talk to? I don't think so."