by Stuart, Amie
I swallowed a couple of times and finally forced my eyes upward up, prepared to meet his, prepared to see whatever I might find there. Pain had replaced anger, and it stabbed my soul with the force of a twelve-inch butcher knife.
“Anything?” One dark eyebrow slowly rose, lost in the mess of bangs that had fallen over his forehead. He needed a haircut, and he obviously hadn’t stopped to shave before he came to get me. There were also lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth, and I again felt guilty for getting him out of bed and making him drive four hours to bail my stupid ass out of jail. Fatigue, pain, hurt and God knows what else I’d cost him, he looked like he’d aged ten years in the short time I’d been gone.
“Anything at all.”
He leaned in closer until only a mere four or five inches separated us. His eyes had turned sharp, dark, and frosty, as if someone had shut the lights out in them.
“Tell me your deepest darkest secret,” he whispered.
My heart stopped. It no longer wanted out of my chest, but cowered in fear as I debated my next move. The only person in all my life I had ever shared Nichole with was dead. Worse yet, I had so many secrets, which was the worst? Which was the deepest? The darkest? How could I choose? He waited, and my body shook as I struggled with the decision.
I had no choice. I knew what I had to do. I wriggled past him and reached for my purse. “Pour the coffee. It’s done.” My voice sounded rusty, even to my own ears.
In my wallet, in the very back, behind a wad of dollar bills, I found the faded Polaroid. Papa had taken the photo the day they took Nichole from me. He’d shown up fifteen minutes early, insisting to my stepmother that he wanted a few minutes alone with me, and then hurriedly snapped two pictures, handing one to me before stuffing the camera in the bottom of the diaper bag. “I’m sorry. This is the best I can do,” he muttered even as my stepmother entered the room, Mother Superior hot on her heels.
“How do you like your coffee?” Tim asked.
“Cream and sugar, please,” I absently whispered, lost in the past. I pressed the photograph to my chest and listened as he fixed our coffee. The sound of the spoon clanking against the side of the ceramic cup was loud in the tiny apartment. I felt his presence behind me as a cup was placed at my elbow. In exchange for the cup I held out the only evidence I had that my daughter even existed. That it all hadn’t been a dream…or a nightmare. Even Miss Rose hadn’t seen it. He silently took the photo from my fingers. I clasped my hands together and pressed them against my solar plexus, waiting for his verdict.
“Tell me. Tell me all of it.”
His gentle tone, the feel of his large hands gently pressing on the small of my back, easing upward and rubbing circles, chasing away the tension made the thought of telling him everything easy—easier. So easy it scared the hell out of me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but to my horror, only a loud sob came out. I shoved a fist in my mouth and squeezed my eyes tightly shut. I felt like a piñata that somebody had spent fifteen years taking swings at before it finally busted wide open. But what fell out wasn’t candy or treats.
My heart hurt, my head throbbed, I could taste blood in my mouth from where I’d bitten my fingers. My legs shook, I swayed and probably would have fallen if Tim hadn’t wrapped his arms around me. We sank to the kitchen floor and he held me while I cried. The urge to scream and rip my hair out was stronger than it had ever been in the last fifteen years. Stronger even than it had been fifteen years ago when I climbed on the bus and left the convent—and Louisiana. Finally, after what seemed like hours had passed, my sobs subsided, and I spoke, but even to my own ears the words sounded garbled and disjoined it. “She forced me...she forced me to sign the papers. She held Nichole in one hand and squeezed my fingers so tightly with the other, screeching at me to sign them. I begged and pleaded with Papa to let me keep her, but he just stood there, shook his head, and did nothing. He was a fucking coward, and he let them steal my baby. He he-helped them.”
Tim held me and rocked me, my hand clutched between his fingers so I’d stop beating on his chest as I howled my anguish–all fifteen years’ worth.
By the time my personal tropical storm blew out, I was numb with fatigue and the front of Tim’s shirt was soaked with my tears. He hadn’t said a word. He struggled to his feet, carried me in and laid me on the bed. I wrapped my arms around my head and curled into a ball as his hands traveled the length of my body and gently removed my boots. There was nothing sexual in his touch, it was only meant to comfort. I could almost taste his reluctance to break contact as he moved away.
A few minutes later I heard the sound of water filling the bathtub. Tim returned and gently undressed me. I was too far gone to give shit at the thought of him seeing me naked. He eased me down into the water, and I grabbed the sides of the tub so he wouldn’t have to worry about dropping me. I curled up in a ball, arms wrapped ‘round my knees, unable to stop the shakes even as his hands gently lifted my hair and tied it in a scrunchie.
Despite the heat warming my skin and seeping into my bones, I couldn’t stop shaking, and I started crying again. I thought for sure my chattering teeth would shatter in my mouth. Still, he hadn’t spoken. He grabbed a washcloth and knelt beside the tub. He used it to sluice water across my shoulders and down my back until the shaking and sobbing subsided, and some of the tension eased from my body.
He never left my side.
He waited until the water began to cool and I had finally calmed down enough that he could ease his vigil. He silently climbed to his feet, leaned over, and held out his hands. I took them and lifted my weary, battered body from the water, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I shivered slightly in the cool air. He dried me with a towel off the rack, his movements quick and gentle, and he dressed me in an oversized T-shirt. The bedcovers had been folded back, and some twenty-four-hour news channel was on the TV. He silently tucked me in and returned a few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee. “I’ll be right back.”
Those weren’t the first words I had expected to come out of his mouth. But then, I hadn’t expected to break down in front of him either. He grabbed his keys and slipped out the front door, leaving it cracked a bit so he could get in when he returned. He reappeared a few minutes later, a bag in his hand.
In answer to my questioning look, he only replied, “I had no idea what I was walking into when I came down here, or what getting you out of jail might entail. So I packed a bag.”
I nodded, too weary to speak. I was exhausted, and the room quickly warmed as the heater did its job. Despite the coffee, my eyelids had a mind of their own and slowly drifted shut. The next thing I knew, Tim was in bed beside me, pulling me into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips only inches from my ear.
The comforting feel of his body against the length of mine brought me to full alert and I relaxed against him. I swallowed to clear my throat before I spoke. “Why are you sorry?”
“For pushing. For forcing you to tell me something that was obviously very personal. I shouldn’t have pushed. I hurt you, and I never ever meant to do that. Forgive me.”
His words humbled me even more than his actions. I rolled over to face him, trying to make sense of the expression on his face with only the light from the TV to guide me. I sighed, and with it released another few pounds of the weight resting on my heart.
“Tim—Flirty Boy,” I sucked in a deep breath, “I missed you.” For the first time I touched him all on my own. His goatee was soft beneath my fingers, his jaw sprinkled with stubble. Onward and upward my fingers traveled across his cheek, across the bridge of his nose and on to his eyebrows, soft and finely arched beneath my fingertips. Tears filled my eyes as I spoke. I hadn’t thought there were any left for me to shed. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m so sorry that I hurt you, that I left. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Now, get some sleep.” He gently closed his hand over my fingers and kissed the tips before t
ucking them against his chest and closing his own eyes.
HE DIDN’T THINK anything could have shocked him more than hearing Toni’s voice on the other end of the phone, but apparently he’d been wrong. He kept his arms wrapped securely around her until, somewhere near dawn, she struggled away and sprawled out on the other side of the bed. He didn’t sleep; instead he spent all night watching her frown and whimper.
He regretted every horrible thought that had crossed his mind during the long drive to get her. Never in his wildest dreams, in his most horrible nightmares had he imagined a human being could feel so much pain.
She curled up in a ball, no more than a foot and a half separating them, her fist, the one she’d earlier beaten on his chest with, now tucked beneath her chin as if she were no older than his five-year-old nephew, Trav. Every once in a while she’d hiccup in her sleep, and he’d resist the urge to pull her into his arms. Instead, he rolled over onto his back and tucked his hands beneath his head. His mind worked at full tilt, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sleep. And he had a long drive home, and a lot of explaining to do to his daughter. Who would be very very angry, because there was no way he was letting Toni out of sight again. He blew out a long, slow breath.
He glanced over at Toni, afraid she might wake up. She didn’t move. Her breathing had grown slow and steady. He slipped from the bed and retrieved the picture from the kitchen counter. He’d failed to ask where the Polaroid had been taken. An oversized crucifix hung above her bed. The wall behind her was white, the bed, old-fashioned wrought iron, plain and functional. Everything was white, even her face. The baby in her arms appeared to be wrapped in a white blanket, but the photograph was so faded he couldn’t be sure.
Toni’s hair was pulled back into what looked like two impossibly tight and painful braids. She looked sad and younger than fifteen. Jesus, she’d given birth when she was just a few years older than Rene. He leaned closer and studied it again. Not that he needed to, he’d practically memorized it first time she handed it to him. The baby also had dark hair. Nichole.
She was a mother with no child. He wondered if Charlene ever had such deep regrets about Rene, but he immediately shoved the thought away. Charlene hadn’t been forced, but had walked away all on her own. Toni hadn’t said a word about the father and he didn’t really care—unless she chose to share. He wouldn’t push. All he cared about was getting her back to Bluebonnet and keeping her safe. He finally dozed, and when he woke up, the photograph was nowhere to be seen. Toni was dressed and two trash bags sat beside the front door along with a tote bag.
“I’m cooking. No sense in wasting the last of the food in the ‘fridge. Get cleaned up, Flirty Boy.”
He scrubbed at his bleary, stubble-covered face with both hands and studied her. Her cool and in charge act didn’t fool him. She was pale under the little bit of makeup she wore, and there were deep, dark circles beneath her eyes. He wondered how long she’d been awake as he slipped from the bed and grabbed his bag. A quick shower and shave did much to restore his spirits as he slipped on clean jeans and flannel shirt. His stomach rumbled at the smell of sausage and eggs and he headed out to breakfast. “Smells good.”
Sounding cheerful wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. He gave in to the urge to hug her and slipped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a gentle squeeze.
He now knew the distinctive scent of cinnamon and oranges came from her bath wash, the same one he’d squirted in the tub the previous night. She stiffened against him before relaxing and leaning into him. The fact that she relaxed warmed his heart. He’d worried as he showered that she might revert to her same old distant self. He didn’t expect miracles, but this tiny one was nice.
“Morning,” she murmured. He replied with the same greeting and planted a soft kiss and her temple. She hadn’t turned to face him, as if she couldn’t meet his eyes. She was embarrassed at her previous night’s display of emotion; she shouldn’t have been. She had nothing to be embarrassed about.
Still he decided to test her limits and didn’t stop with just one soft kiss but gently worked his way down the side of her face until he reached the tender pulse beneath her ear.
Rather than pull away, she leaned into him even more and arched her neck with the softest of sighs. He struggled against the need that pushed his temperature up a few degrees. He wanted her. If anything, he wanted her more now than before. The months they’d spent apart had done nothing to diminish his feelings for her, or his need of her.
He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or terrified. No one since Charlene had made him feel this alive or terrifyingly vulnerable. If anything, at least he understood Toni better after the previous night’s revelation. Things could only get easier. Right?
One arm tightened around her waist, pulling her firmly against him while the other skimmed her belly and glanced off the lush curve of her breasts to rest at her jaw. He paused, caught off guard by the long low groan that escaped her throat and vibrated against his lips. He needed to release her. He should let her go. But he couldn’t. He’d waited an incredibly long time to get this close to her.
He gave in, unable to fight the urgent needs of his own body. She arched against him, growling, her heavy breathing loud in the tiny kitchen as his lips worked their way down her neck. He struggled to keep it in check, fighting the urge to rip her clothes from her body and mate where they stood.
“Tim!”
The sound of her voice snapped him back to reality, and he pulled away, wincing at the sight of love bites he left on her neck. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I got a little carried away.”
“You don’t have to stop,” she whispered, looking up at him over her shoulder, even as she pulled the soft elastic hair band from her hair. Her beautiful eyes had turned deep and smoky, and her lips were red and peppered with teeth marks where she’d bitten them.
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of all the times for her to decide to give in. She turned to face him, and her next words told him all he needed to know.
“I need you.”
“Are you positive? No doubts?” Even as he watched her nod, a horrible thought struck him. “I didn’t bring any condoms.” He released a sigh of frustrated defeat. He hadn’t come planning to seduce.
She leaned against his chest and her eyes returned to their sharp, clear amethyst color. “I don’t have any either.”
“Are you on the pill?”
“Non.” She shook her head in case there was any chance he didn’t understand her words, but he did.
“I didn’t think so, but thought I’d ask. Then we can’t...I can’t risk it. God knows I’d love nothing better than to spend all day making love to you, but it will have to wait.”
“I’m sorry.” She frowned in obvious concern, and he struggled for a way to solve their dilemma. He was so hard he ached. He caught her lips with his, savoring the feel of their plush softness, of her tongue against his one last time.
“I’ve waited six months for you. I can wait one more night. It’ll just be that much sweeter.”
I WOKE UP to a quiet house. Which was nothing unusual, but I didn’t even smell coffee. Daddy made coffee every morning. I threw back the covers and snatched a pair of socks from my drawer. Damned floors were cold. Downstairs, I peeked into Daddy’s bedroom and found it empty, bedcovers tossed everywhere–again not unusual. He never made his bed. No time. In the kitchen, I headed for the coffeepot, needing a cup of my own, only to discover the note propped up there.
Gone to get Toni. If you need anything, go see your Poppy. I called him before I left but didn’t want to wake you.
love Dad.
My blood boiled as I ground my teeth together, thankful I didn’t have braces. I couldn’t believe it. He’d just up and gone to get her for no reason. No explanation. Adults are fucking stupid. No, Dad was stupid. I stumbled through making coffee, fed the horses, and then took Sonny for a ride, a part of me wishi
ng I had school. Instead I groused around all morning, fretting and pacing until I heard Daddy’s truck in the driveway.
I stood in the living room and watched through the big picture window. He climbed out and went around to help her out. I felt like screaming at the sight of her. At the sight of them together, his arm around her shoulder. No, no, no! The closer they got to the front porch, the angrier I grew. By the time they came in the door, my temper had hit an all-time high.
“Rene!”
“Dad,” I snapped as I stepped into the entryway. I shoved my hands deep in the pockets of my dusty jeans. Daddy looked guilty and a little angry, but I didn’t give a shit. I ignored the pleading expression in his eyes and glared at them standing there together, his arm still around her shoulder.
Shit, shit, shit, this isn’t happening. I should have done the damn voodoo spell.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch in an explosion of words. “How could you be so fucking stupid?”
“Rene—”
“How could you? I saw you....” I scrambled for words struggling to vocalize my anger with more than a scream of frustration. “I…how could you fucking bring her here after she hurt you? Don’t you have any goddamned sense?”
To my horror, he dropped the tote bag at his feet and pulled me against him. “Rene, please.”
He sounded as if he were begging. He wasn’t even angry! Daddy had never begged me for anything. I couldn’t believe he’d let a woman bring him so low, and that made me even madder!
“I don’t want to hear it.” I pushed him away. “Just for the record, I think you’re stupid, Dad! Really, really fucking stupid.” I turned and hustled out the French doors, down the porch and across the yard to Aunt Betti’s, tears filling my eyes as the ice cold gravel and dried grass dug into my socks. At least, that’s what I blamed them on.
