by Irene Hannon
Bryan shifted his attention to her, and for a second he seemed thrown by whatever he saw on her face. But when Ethan came up beside them, the mood shifted.
“Sorry. I got hung up behind a stalled car. Hi, Amy.”
She took her time rising, buying herself a few seconds to regain her composure. “How did things go at the house?” She’d begged off joining Ethan at Bryan’s father’s house, unwilling to get that up close and personal.
“Great. It shouldn’t take us long to wrap up here.”
They got down to business, and in short order Ethan had taken a series of photos of Bryan and Dylan arriving, walking into the school, saying goodbye. Amy offered a few suggestions, but Ethan, as usual, needed little direction. It was Amy, however, who noticed the opportunity for the most poignant photo of all.
“Ethan, take one more. Use the telephoto, and get the school in the background,” she said in a low voice, motioning toward Bryan as the photographer began to store his equipment in his SUV. During the entire photo shoot, Bryan had been upbeat with Dylan, kidding him, laughing with him, encouraging him. Now the mood had changed. He’d opened the driver-side door of his car, propped one elbow on the roof and rested his chin on his wrist. His other hand was in his pocket, and he was staring toward the school with a pensive, melancholy expression that tugged at Amy’s heart.
Without commenting, Ethan switched lenses and clicked off a series of shots, unobtrusively changing angles and positions each time. When he finished, he rejoined her. “That may be the best stuff we did. The expression on his face is priceless.”
Directing her attention back toward Bryan, Amy could only agree. It was clear that this parting from Dylan was hard on him, no matter what he’d said after the staff meeting. It was just as clear that he was doing a stellar job as a single dad. Although Amy didn’t know the details of his wife’s death, Dylan seemed to be coping fine without a mom, thanks to Bryan. But that didn’t surprise her. Bryan had always been the type to rise to the occasion, quietly stepping in to do what needed to be done.
A memory from high school surfaced, one she hadn’t thought of in years. There’d been a fire in the computer lab, and Amy—as yearbook editor—had been most affected. Her final files had sustained serious damage. They’d represented weeks of work, and she’d been panicked, distraught and frenzied. Until Bryan had stepped forward to help.
Prior to that, Amy hadn’t said more than a dozen words to the quiet, soft-spoken senior who had been destined to steal her heart—and who, he later confessed, had been carrying a torch for her since their sophomore year. Their paths had crossed a few times during the first half of their senior year, since he was the editor of the school newspaper, but only when he came to her rescue did she really notice him. He’d spent every evening for the next week—surviving on high-caffeine soda—helping her to salvage what she could, even as he tried to keep up with the demands of his classes and his duties as newspaper editor. As she’d discovered, he was the kind of guy you could count on. Dylan was lucky to have him for a father. And the woman he’d married had been lucky to have him as a husband, Amy acknowledged.
“How about we stop at the Bakeshoppe? I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning, and I don’t think Bryan did, either. He fixed oatmeal and scrambled eggs for Dylan, but he didn’t eat anything himself.”
Ethan’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and Amy turned back to him. It would be safer if she sent the two men for a meal and headed back to her office. And far more conducive to her peace of mind. She was just about to suggest that when Bryan looked her way. His bleak expression and the grooves at the corners of his mouth told her just how hard the parting had been for him. Sensing his aloneness, she wanted to do her part to help him over this hurdle.
“Sounds good to me. I’ll meet you guys there.”
As Amy walked back to her car, she wondered if she was making a mistake. Bryan had only been at the magazine for a few days, and their contact had been limited, but already her long-buried feelings were bubbling up, like boiling water from a covered pot. Still, given the look on his face just now, spending a little time with him seemed like the compassionate thing to do.
But she wasn’t sure it was the smart thing.
Chapter Three
Ethan and Bryan were already ensconced in a booth at Betty’s Bakeshoppe by the time Amy arrived. Although the popular eatery was crowded as usual, the two men had managed to snag one of the small niches. But she noted with dismay that Ethan had brought his precious camera equipment in with him instead of dropping it in his office at Hamilton Media across the street. It now occupied the seat next to him. Meaning she’d have to sit beside Bryan.
For a second her step faltered. They hadn’t seen her yet. She could still make a quick escape, use some excuse about a crisis at the office. But just then Ethan caught sight of her and waved. Too late. With a sinking feeling, she urged her feet forward. Bryan eased over in the booth as she approached, giving her as much space as possible. Almost as if he didn’t want to be any closer to her than necessary, Amy thought with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sliding onto the bench, she stayed as close to the edge as she could.
“Did you order yet?” she asked, striving for a casual tone.
“No. We waited for you.” Ethan handed her a menu, then motioned over her shoulder. A few seconds later, Betty appeared.
“My now, isn’t this like old times.” The owner whipped out her order pad and turned her attention to Amy and Bryan, her eyes twinkling. “Seems to me your favorite order used to be hot-fudge sundaes, but I expect you’d rather have something else for breakfast.”
A hot flush crept up Amy’s neck, and she stole a look at Ethan, who was watching the exchange with amused interest. From his expression, it was clear that Heather had filled him in on the history between Amy and Bryan.
“I think I’ll just have some toast and tea, Betty.” Amy handed her unopened menu back to the owner.
Betty tucked it under her arm and gave Amy a concerned look. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always order an omelet for breakfast.”
Gritting her teeth, Amy prayed that the flush on her neck wouldn’t work its way up to her cheeks. “I’m not that hungry today.”
“Humph.” Betty made a notation on the order pad. “How about you, Bryan?”
“Coffee. Black. And scrambled eggs.”
“What about some bacon or sausage? Maybe a pancake or two? And you know our cinnamon rolls are to die for.”
“Not today, thanks.”
“Humph.” Again, she scribbled on her notepad. “Ethan?”
“A three-egg omelet with ham and mushrooms, a side order of country potatoes and a biscuit. Oh, and coffee with lots of cream.”
“Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” Betty nodded her approval as she jotted down the order, then stuck her pencil in among the strands of brown and gray hair that were woven into a bun on the back of her head. “Coffee and tea will be right out. Amy, you better slide yourself in a little or you’re going to end up on the floor.”
As Betty hustled away, Amy lost her battle to keep the warm color from invading her face. It surged onto her cheeks, intensifying as she risked a peek at Bryan and found him watching her with an unreadable expression as she eased in an inch or two. Ethan, on the other hand, seemed amused by the whole thing, and she glared at him across the table.
Clearing his throat, the photographer had the good grace—and the good sense—to change the subject. “So…Dylan is a cute kid, Bryan. But being a father must be a challenge. I admit I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since Heather and I got engaged. To be honest, raising a family wasn’t one of my top priorities until I met her. But it’s amazing how love can change your perspective. Still, the responsibility of that whole parenting thing kind of blows my mind.”
Betty deposited their mugs and joined right in on the conversation. She’d been in Davis Landing so l
ong that she knew everyone—and felt like part of their families. “You’ll be a natural, Ethan. Don’t you worry about it. Just love your kids. That’s the main thing. And you bring that son of yours in here soon.” Betty directed her last comment to Bryan. “Get him one of those hot-fudge sundaes you and Amy used to like. My treat for his first visit.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Bryan watched her leave, then turned back to Ethan. “Betty’s right. Love is the best thing you can give your kids. Just let them know that they come first in your life, and that you’re on their side. My dad and mom did that with my brother and me, and I’m trying to follow their example with Dylan. It’s a little harder when there’s just one of you, though.” A shadow passed over his face, and he reached for his mug and took a sip of coffee.
“Heather told me you’d lost your wife,” Ethan sympathized. “I’m sorry. Was it very long ago?”
“Five and a half years.”
Twin furrows appeared on Amy’s brow, and she turned to him for the first time since Betty had deposited their drinks. “How old is Dylan?”
“Five and a half.” As Ethan and Amy stared at him, Bryan answered the unspoken question suspended in the silence. “Darlene had a condition known as preeclampsia. It’s not an uncommon complication of pregnancy, and most of the time it’s mild. Hers wasn’t. In its most severe form, it can endanger the mother and put the child at risk. There’s no cure except delivering the baby, and timing is everything. Ours was off. Darlene suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and Dylan was taken eight weeks early by C-section. He made it. She didn’t.”
Horrified, Amy stared at Bryan. His spare, curt speech had been delivered in a clinical, dispassionate voice as he stared into the murky depths of his coffee. But his white-knuckled grip on the handle, the deep creases of strain around his mouth and the tense line of his jaw spoke of a pain and trauma undimmed by the passage of years. She wanted to say something, anything, to comfort him, but her throat was too tight to let any words through, even if she could find some that were appropriate.
Ethan seemed just as much at a loss as she was. As they exchanged a What-do-we-say-now? look, Betty came to their rescue and deposited their plates on the table.
“Here you go. Ethan, I put a packet of honey on your plate. I know you like that with your biscuits. Bryan, I had Justine add a little parsley to those scrambled eggs. Dresses them up quite a bit. Amy, here’s a little cinnamon-sugar mixture for that toast. I remember you used to like that as a little girl. I like it myself. Turns plain toast into comfort food. Can I get you folks anything else?”
Ethan found his voice. “No, thanks. This looks good, Betty.”
“Just give me or one of the girls a wave if you need something. Eat up.”
As Amy stared down at her plate of toast, she doubted whether she’d be able to choke down more than a few bites after listening to Bryan’s sad story. Maybe the cinnamon sugar would help. But as for turning the toast into comfort food…not today. It would take more than that homey recipe to ease the ache in her heart that Bryan’s story had produced.
He stirred beside her, and she heard the clink of cutlery against crockery as he forked a bite of egg. Ethan, bless him, had shifted the conversation to an innocuous discussion of fishing conditions on the Cumberland River, and Bryan was responding. Amy let them chat, keeping her attention focused on her plate. She didn’t want to look at Bryan. Not yet. Not until she worked through the emotions his story had stirred up. Not until she felt enough in control that she could risk letting him look into her eyes without worrying that he’d see right into her heart and know that she still cared for him. That his pain had touched her far more than it could have if she’d truly moved on with her life, as she’d told him she had in the staff meeting.
At least everyone ate fast. Ethan cleaned his plate, and Bryan put a good dent in his scrambled eggs. Amy tore her toast into little pieces and clumped them in a pile, hoping no one would notice that most of it remained uneaten. However, as she slid from the booth, followed by Bryan, he gave her plate a quick scrutiny. When he stood beside her, his face just inches from hers, his green eyes were questioning, probing.
Feeling somehow exposed, Amy checked her watch. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you two back at the office. Just put this on my tab,” she instructed Betty, who was passing by.
“Sure thing, hon,” the owner called over her shoulder.
Then, without a backward glance at the two men, Amy headed for the exit. And tried not to run.
Leaning back in her office chair, Amy rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. Since breakfast two hours before, in between phone calls from the printer and an impromptu—and disruptive—visit from Typhoon Tim, she’d managed to find out an awful lot about preeclampsia by surfing the Net. And none of it was pretty. The disease could cause headaches, visual disturbances, high blood pressure, confusion, impaired liver function, seizures, kidney failure, coma—and death. And that was just in the mother. The baby could suffer slower-than-normal growth, oxygen deficiency, low birth weight, premature birth—and death. According to everything Amy had read, dilemmas arose when early delivery would solve the mother’s problems but put the baby at risk of the effects of extreme prematurity.
Bryan’s passing reference about his and Darlene’s timing being off led Amy to believe they’d faced that very dilemma. As it was, Dylan had been born two months early—borderline for many problems, according to the Internet. But he didn’t seem to suffer from any lasting effects. Except maybe the glasses. It seemed that premature children were at higher risk for eye complications. She leaned forward to read a bit more on that subject. She’d had no idea that preemies could…
“Can I interrupt for a minute?”
At the sound of Bryan’s voice, Amy spun toward the door, a guilty flush suffusing her face.
“Sorry to startle you. I didn’t realize you were that deep in concentration.” His focus shifted to the screen behind her, and she tried to remember if the type had been large or small. In either case, she was sure he couldn’t read it from the doorway. Could he?
Steeling herself, she swiveled her chair just enough to reach her keyboard. In the second before she closed her Internet connection, she saw that the headline on her screen, “Long-term Effects of Premature Birth,” was more than big enough to be read from across the room. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and caught her lower lip in her teeth. She couldn’t keep her back to him forever. She might as well turn and face the music. Praying he’d let it pass, she clicked out of the screen, then eased her chair around.
“No problem. I was just doing some research. What can I do for you?” She congratulated herself for sounding far calmer than she felt.
Instead of responding at once, he folded his arms and propped a shoulder against her doorway, as if debating his next move. When he spoke at last, her heart sank. “If you wanted to know anything about Dylan, you could have just asked.”
Amy was used to being in control. At the magazine, at home, in her life. At least, as much as God let her be. Her self-confidence was solid, and it took a lot to fluster her. But Bryan had been doing it with almost no effort ever since his return. His mere presence was enough to throw her off balance, let alone his straightforward, cut-to-the-chase manner. She should have remembered how direct he could be when she’d agreed to hire him. At one time she’d admired that trait. Had liked his honesty, his willingness to address problems without game playing. Not anymore. Not when it put her on the hot seat.
His regard was steady as he waited for her response, and Amy forced herself to maintain eye contact as she spoke. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask for more information about such a personal subject. But I found Dylan charming, and after your comments this morning I wondered how rough his early start might have been for him.” And for you. She left the latter unvoiced, however.
Again, a couple of beats of silence ensued. She wasn’t sure he was
even going to reply. But he did. “Pretty rough.” He studied her, as if considering how to proceed. Then he inclined his head toward the door. “Do you mind if I close this?”
She shook her head, and he pushed himself away from the frame, then eased the door shut. Before she could suggest that he sit down, he strolled over to stare out of her window. It offered a scenic view of the Cumberland River, which ran through the middle of town a few blocks away. The strong midday light highlighted the faint lines around his eyes, the slight horizontal creases in his forehead, the hard line of lips that had once been supple and soft. He had changed in so many ways, Amy thought with a pang. He’d been tested by fire, and while he’d survived, he’d paid a price. Bryan had always been serious, but he’d known how to laugh, too. The flashes of spontaneous joy in his sparkling eyes, his dry wit, his ability to make lemonade out of lemons—and do it with a smile—had always appealed to her. Looking at him now, Amy suspected that joy and laughter had been absent from his life for some time. Only around Dylan did she catch a glimpse of the man he had once been. Bryan might still be doing his best to make lemonade, but the flavor of the ingredients seemed to have left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He turned to her then, and his question caught her off guard. “Why did you hire me, Amy?”
Trying to steady her fluttering pulse, she told him what she’d told herself. “You were the best qualified person for the job. Heather recommended you. I couldn’t find any grounds to object.”
“But you don’t want me here.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’m picking up…unsettling…vibes.”
“Maybe it’s your imagination.”
“I don’t think so.” He walked over and put his hands flat on her desk, leaning toward her, his face just inches from hers. “Look, let me just lay this on the line, okay? I know you don’t want me around. I got that message a long time ago.” His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile, there and gone in a flash. “Frankly, I don’t want to be here, either. In fact, I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for Dylan. But I need this job, Amy. At least until something else comes along. In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible. I promise you that I’ll put our personal history and differences aside and give the magazine a hundred and ten percent.
