by Teresa Hill
"Because of the baby?"
"That was part of it. That's always been part of it. But other things, too. We haven't had a lot of reasons to be happy lately. But it's better now. Having you and Zach and Grace here has helped a lot."
"You're going to be sad again if we go?"
"I don't know what's going to happen here if you go," he told her quite honestly.
"We could come back and visit," Emma suggested.
Sam nodded, touched. "That might help."
"I'd miss you both if we left."
"We'd miss you, too," he said. So much so that they wouldn't survive it? Sam just didn't know. He turned out the light and said, "Go to sleep, Emma. Try not to worry so much."
And then he walked downstairs, feeling about a thousand years old and every bit as lost as he'd ever been in his life.
He walked into the front room and found his wife there, her arms wrapped around her midsection as she stared down into the fire. Sam was so shocked he nearly stumbled over a toy Zach had left on the floor. He swore, barely managed to catch himself. Rachel jumped and whirled around herself.
He checked his first impulse, which was to grab her and demand to know where she'd been and what she had been thinking worrying him so. But there was something in the way she stood there, the way she held her body. He was suddenly afraid of what she might tell him and what had sent her rushing off into the night away from him.
It had torn him up to see her walking away from him. He wanted her so badly he ached, wanted her in every way a man could want a woman.
There wasn't as much standing between them as there used to be. It didn't seem as insurmountable as before. But he was going to Shepherdsville tomorrow. He might well find the children's mother, and then where would he and Rachel be?
"Hi," she whispered.
"Where have you been?" he practically growled, as he had at the kids that first night. When he was worried or scared, he sounded way too much like his grandfather.
"I just had to get away for a few minutes."
"Rachel, it's been nearly two hours."
"Oh." She looked surprised. "I'm sorry. You were worried?"
He wanted to scream. "Yes, I was worried."
"I'm sorry."
She looked a bit dazed, and she'd definitely been crying. "Where did you go?"
"Walking."
"In this? It's twenty-eight degrees out there." He knew because he'd checked. It was probably colder than that by now.
"I ended up at church. The kids are practicing for the Christmas program, and Father Tim was there. We talked. About a lot of things."
Sam waited, wondering what took her there. Rachel hadn't had much use for church in years. She'd dragged him there with her when they'd been younger, and he'd gone to please her. And maybe he'd found some comfort there, too, before. Before they'd both gotten so angry at the world and felt so betrayed by everything, so lost.
"We talked about the baby," she said.
Always the baby, he thought. They couldn't seem to get past the loss.
"It helped," she said. "And talking to you helped. Or maybe I'm just ready, finally, to deal with it. We never really dealt with it, Sam, and it's been like a poison to us."
He knew that. He'd just never known how to change that.
"Do you ever think about where she is now?"
"No." He wouldn't let himself.
"I used to try not to. I used to have nightmares where I'd hear her crying and I couldn't find her, but I thought about it tonight. Father Tim made me, and she's okay, Sam. I know she's okay."
"How do you know?" How could anyone?
"I just do. I believe it. And I'm not worried about her anymore. I may always be sad that we had so little time with her, but even that doesn't seem to have the sting it used to. I think she's out there waiting for us somewhere. I think we'll have her again someday."
Sam would like to believe that. As skeptical as he'd always been about anything to do with heaven and anyone's ideas of what it would be like, he would love to believe that their daughter was somewhere safe and happy and waiting for them, that they'd see her again someday. He'd never seen Rachel so calm when she talked about their daughter.
He frowned at her, looking at her more closely now. Yes, there was evidence of tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, but she was different, too.
"I'm going to put this behind me," she said. "For the first time, I believe I can. When I was on my way back here, I ended up walking past the Parker mansion. I don't think I ever saw it at night, not once all the work was done. And I stood there staring up at the windows I did, and they're beautiful, Sam."
"They are," he said.
"And I thought, I did that. They were such a mess when they came down one by one. There were all those little bits of glass, some of them dirty, some of them broken and chipped, some of them worn down over time, the colors all fading away. I remember how overwhelming the whole project seemed at first. I didn't think I'd ever manage it or why they would have put such faith in me. But you told me how to do it, and before you, my grandfather had. You said to take it one step at a time, one piece, that it was like a puzzle and if I stood there just staring at how big it was and how much had to be done, I'd never finish it. I'd likely never start it. I'd give up without really trying.
"It took the better part of a year, and there were lots of times when I thought I'd never be able to put all the pieces back together in the right way, never make anything of it. But looking at it tonight, I can see that I did. There was a place for everything. I put it all back together and it's beautiful now," she said. "Do you know what I'm getting at?"
"I'm not sure."
"This is my place. It's a mess right now, and I've been standing back staring at it and thinking it was just too much, too overwhelming, that I'd never get it all back together. I think that paralyzed me for a while, but I'm done letting it. I'm ready to go to work now, no matter what it takes, no matter how much time, and you and I both know how to do that, Sam. We both put things back together. I'm going to stop being so sad and so angry all the time. I'm going to believe that you married me because you loved me—"
"I did," he said, feeling hopeful for the first time that he'd actually made her believe that.
"And I know I married you for the same reason. I will never understand or be able to explain all the things that happened to us later, but I think things can get better, Sam. I think we can put all the pieces back together. I have so much faith in you—"
"In me?"
"Yes. And in us."
Oh, damn. Look what she was giving him. So much faith. He never dreamed... And he owed her. He owed her the truth about himself. "Rachel, you don't really know me. There are things I never told you."
"About when your parents died?"
He nodded. "Things I never wanted you or anyone else to know."
"Sam, it doesn't matter. It doesn't change who you are now. It all happened before we ever met. All those things are just what made you the man I've always known, the one I've always loved."
He thought about that. Really thought about it. By the time she'd met him, all of those things had already happened. She'd never known him the way he'd been before, had never known the little boy nobody wanted, who got passed from house to house seemingly at a whim. He'd never wanted her to know. He hated that boy, hated the weakness in him, the neediness, the sorrow.
All that had ever come out was the rage. By the time someone found Sam's paternal grandfather and convinced the man to take him in, Sam was capable of being every bit as nasty as his grandfather. He had been consumed with anger and stubborn pride and shame, illogical as that was.
"I can't imagine what you ever saw in me," he said.
"I saw you, Sam, and all those things you tried so hard to hide."
And in her, he had seen everything he'd ever wanted. She was the most beloved daughter of one of the oldest families in town, with two parents who obviously loved her, three sisters and a brother, all of whom indulged h
er terribly, plus a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Her roots were as deeply imbedded in this town as the massive hundred-year-old oak tree in the town square. Her place in the world had been absolutely assured. It was here, in that old house of her grandparents', surrounded by people who loved her.
"You should have hated me on sight," he said.
"Never. I could never hate you."
Somehow, she'd been practically the only one in town to see through that sullen look that was so often on his face. The one he hid that pitiful little boy he used to be behind. That and the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude.
"I would have thought you'd run from me as fast as you could," he said. Instead, she'd followed him around the way Zach did now, giving him those same shy smiles and that insane amount of trust Zach did. Why would either of them have ever trusted him? Or wanted to be with him?
"Sam, think about it. I've spent my whole life running after you."
And she had. She'd been as gentle and happy and hopeful as he was sad and angry and gruff. She'd always been so sure she could draw him into her life, into her family and make a place for him there, just as strong a place as she had. She just kept coming back, kept after him with a stubborn kindness and teenage admiration he hadn't been able to resist.
"I tried, Rachel," he confessed. "I tried so hard to resist you."
"I know," she said.
He'd never quite believed he was good enough for her. Her family saw that, even if she did not. But there was only so much a man could do when faced with a woman who represented everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd never had. She'd accepted him just as he was, and saw him as he'd always wanted to be, believed in him somehow. And one day, he'd given himself just one oh-so-innocent taste of her, and she'd gone straight to his head.
There'd really been no going back then. Not for either of them.
He still wanted her every bit as much. Wanted all that kindness and happiness and sunshine. He wondered if there was any sunshine left inside of her, and thought maybe he was seeing it tonight for the first time in ages.
"I guess I'm still chasing you, Sam," she said. "I've missed you."
Like he had in the old days, he took a step back, thought about saying something to try to make light of the situation. To dismiss everything that had always been between them.
But this was Rachel, and it was gut-level honesty time.
They'd hurt each other so much over the years, and he'd decided, right before the children came, that he simply couldn't do it anymore. He was sick and tired of feeling like he'd failed her in every way possible and he'd given up hope that they'd ever be happy together. Too many bad things stood between them for that.
So now, here they were, about to get their hearts broken again if he was any judge of the situation. And he still wanted her every bit as much as he always had, probably more. Still needed her. Still wished for something he could give her, and still worried that someday she'd see the real him and not the man she'd always believed he could be.
"I can't do this halfway, Rachel. Not anymore."
She put her hands against his chest, fingers splayed wide, palms warm enough that he felt it through the fabric of his shirt. It seemed like it had been decades since she touched him.
"What do you mean, halfway?"
"It means I don't want to live the way we have been. I can't."
"I don't want to, either, Sam. I want so much more. I want to give you so much more. I think we can make a new start. Right now."
"With these children," he said.
"Maybe."
"We don't know what's going to happen—"
"We never really know. Maybe for a while we thought we did, but we were wrong. Whatever happens tomorrow or the next day or the next, I want to spend those days with you."
He closed his eyes, letting the words sink into him, letting her touch him, running her hands lightly up and down his chest, soothing him and heating him through and through and making him want to grab her and take her upstairs and kiss every inch of her. That used to make things better. At least for a while. While he could hold her close and feel as if he were truly a part of her and lie to himself that he'd never lose her.
"You don't really know me," he said.
"I don't know the little boy who lost his mother when he was so young. But I know the man. He's my husband. He has been for twelve years."
He waited, not saying anything, not able to.
"Sam, whatever it was, whatever happened, it's not going to change the way I feel about you."
"I never wanted you to see me that way," he said. "To look at me that way."
"What way?"
"The way you look at Zach. The way I do," he choked out.
"How do I look at him? Like I pity him?"
Sam nodded. "I never wanted your pity, Rachel."
"I don't recall ever offering it. Not to you or to him. I love Zach," she said. "I hate what's happened to him, and I wish I could take him in my arms and make everything all better for him. I think about those things when I see him. But mostly, I just think about how precious he is to me and how much I love him. I couldn't help myself any more with him than I could with you."
And still, he stood there.
"I've never been any good at hanging on to the people I love," he said.
"I am," she said, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm never going to walk away from you. I'm never going to leave you, and I'll never ask you to go."
And maybe she wouldn't. After all, she never had. Despite all they'd been through. That should have told him something about her and about the two of them. She wasn't going to give up on him, and there was a new strength and determination to her these days. There were times when she seemed determined to have him back, the way things had been before.
She was right here, too, and he was trying so hard to keep his hands off her. He'd been counting on it getting easier with each passing day, but the last few days, it had been anything but easy.
"Rachel." He stepped back, trying not to look at the hurt on her face.
He'd almost given up hope of her ever really wanting him again. But everything could change in a heartbeat. He could find the children's mother tomorrow, and then where would he and Rachel be? He couldn't go back to what they'd had before.
So when she came toward him again, he blurted out the only thing he could think of to keep her away, the worst thing. "I had a brother once."
"What?" she said.
"A brother. Four years younger than I am. You asked me to tell you the worst of it. I had a brother. I told you I have a hard time hanging on to the people I love..."
"What happened to him, Sam?"
"I lost him," he said.
"Lost? How?"
"At one of the places we went to live. I think, the third place we went, after some time at our great aunt's and our other grandmother's. It was a couple having problems having a baby. They decided to take a chance on me and Robbie. He was only about a year old when our parents died, so he would have been about two and a half when we went to live in that house. I think right from the start, they wanted him. He was so much littler. He didn't have any memory of our parents. I think they liked that. I think they believed they could erase any memories he had of any other home but theirs, and I was the only thing standing in their way. I was... angry. I was so angry, Rachel. And Robbie... he was mine. I was supposed to take care of him. I was all he had left."
"And he was all you had left," she said.
Sam nodded. His heart hurt. It hurt so bad.
"Anyway, they wanted him, and they didn't want me. And in the end, they got him. I got into trouble at school one too many times, and before long I was seeing a counselor and labeled a troublemaker. They told everyone all kinds of stuff about me, and I was so mad by then. I knew what they were after. They adopted Robbie, and they gave me to social services. To a foster home. I didn't care about anything then. Not after they took my brother from me."
"You never saw him aga
in?"
"Not until right after you and I lost our baby."
"You found him?"
"I had to know what happened to him. Losing the baby... I just had to know."
"And he was okay?"
"Sure. Had a great life. Had no idea who I was."
"Oh, Sam," she gasped.
He shrugged his nothing-can-hurt-me shrug. What a crock.
"You left it at that?" Rachel asked. "With him not knowing?"
"He didn't even recognize me. He introduced himself to me using their last name and asked if he was supposed to know me." Sam winced at the way that hurt, even now. "What was there to say to him? I told him I thought I knew him, asked him about his family. He was happy, Rachel. They'd never even told him about me or our parents. He was only about four when they got rid of me. I guess it's not that surprising he wouldn't remember."
"And you just let it go? You let him go?"
"Think about it. He missed all the crap. Losing his parents and getting passed around from place to place. I wouldn't give that back to him for anything in this world. As far as he knew, he just had two parents who'd always loved him and wanted him. The truth was that his so-called parents had been lying to him his whole life and had neatly disposed of me. Do you think he would have thanked me for telling him that? It would have destroyed his whole life, and I know what that feels like. I wouldn't do it to him."
"Oh, Sam," she said. It seemed that was all she could say.
He finally looked at her, not wanting to think about what he'd see in her eyes but unable to stop himself from looking. Pity? He couldn't say. Horror? That part he was sure of. Shock? No surprise there. Anger? He loved her for that, for her outrage on his behalf.
"He'd be an adult now," she said.
"Who would still be seeing his whole world fall apart if I told him the truth."
"Oh, Sam. I love you," she said, looking as fiercely protective of him as anyone had ever been. "And I want you. I want you here with me."
Sam actually smiled then. He took her chin in his hand and filled his lungs with the sweet scent of her, rubbed his cheek against the side of her face.
"I've missed you, Rachel. I don't want you to be hurt anymore."
And he was afraid he was going to hurt her. Maybe if he didn't find the kids' mother. Maybe if no one ever found her.... What a terrible thought. Sam was ashamed of himself for how badly he wanted that to happen, so the kids could stay here with him and his wife and maybe they would all be okay.
