by Hinze, Vicki
“I’m tired, Bryce.” She swiped a trembling hand over her face. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Bryce stared at her for a long moment, debating on whether or not to push this right now. Her lids were puffy and faint shadows tinged the skin under her eyes. She was tired, and upset. A reprieve was in order. “Okay. Okay.” He leaned back against the wall, then urged her to him with a hand to her shoulder. She snuggled down then rested her cheek against his chest. God, but she felt good beside him. What did he do with his hand? It wanted to fall naturally, to circle around to her back and rest against her warm skin, but . . . Why shouldn’t it? He buried yet another disloyal-to-Meriam pang of guilt and let it happen—then tensed, awaiting Cally’s reaction.
She let out a soft sigh and settled against his side, her arm flat against his ribs, her hand dangling and fingertips brushing his side. “Bryce?”
She expected him to talk? Now? When feeling so much? Sounds. Sounds would be infinitely easier to form than words. “Hmm?”
“I like you, too.”
His heart swelled. “I know, Cally.”
“Even if you are a little on the stuffy side.”
He gave her a solid frown. “Am I really that stuffy?”
She cocked a brow at him, let her gaze slide down to his crisp shirt and knife-creased slacks.
“Hell, I guess I am.” He curled her closer, let out a mock sigh of frustration, then smiled above her head. Her hair felt soft against his bearded jaw. Silky. “I think I’m flunking on this impression bit in a bad way. But at least I’m honest.”
“I like that, too,” she said softly. “A lot.”
Yeah, after Gregory, Bryce guessed she would rate honesty even more important.
“I don’t like liking anything about you, though.”
He could take that to the bank; no doubt about it. And why that had him grinning like a fool instead of miffed at her didn’t seem wise to ponder. “I know that, too.”
“Do you dislike liking me as much as I dislike liking you?”
This conversation sounded ridiculous. But it wasn’t. It cut close to the bone. For both of them. Meriam would have laughed at him for that. She’d have said or done exactly as she pleased and given him her in-your-face “So there.” One thing about her, she never failed to back up her words with her attitude. He’d liked that about her. And yet Cally’s softer, more vulnerable response affected him on a deeper level. Gut deep. Maybe because Meriam never had needed him and, if only for the moment, Cally did. He liked the way being needed made him feel. Necessary. Important. Valued. “Yeah, I do,” he confessed. “I dislike liking you every bit as much as you dislike liking me. Maybe even more.” She hadn’t been content in her marriage. But he had been—hadn’t he?
As if relieved to hear his grumpy response, Cally sighed deeper, then toyed with the third button on his shirt, scraping it with her nail. “Being lonely royally sucks.”
“Yeah.” Staring at the baseboard, he felt his chest go tight. “It really does.”
They fell quiet, and Bryce slid into memories of living alone. BM: before Meriam memories. AM: after Meriam memories. Some were pleasant. Many were not.
Had she ever needed him? Really needed him? Valued him and thought him necessary? He’d mattered to her; of course, he had. But had he been essential, or merely convenient?
Uneasy, he forced himself to open his mind and remember, though what he found hardly comforted him. A dull ache throbbed in his chest. He shut down the memories. Later, he’d think about them. When he wasn’t feeling soothed by holding Cally in his arms.
After a while, they talked in spurts. Bryce loved the feel of that. The comfortable silences. The whispered sharing of everything, and all kinds of little nothings. Talking freely about their troubles, his fears about Suzie and the other kids, and even daring to share an occasional secret or dream; things he’d not dared to think about, much less to talk about, ever before.
Cally lifted her head from his shoulder. “If you could have anything in the world—anything at all—what would it be?”
He looked deeply into her eyes and spoke straight from his heart. “Peace.”
She frowned.
“You don’t like liking that, either.”
“No.” She lay back against his shoulder, sounding as grouchy as Wiggins when flaunting her infractions list. “I surely don’t.”
He cocked his head, rested his cheek against her hair. It smelled of coconut shampoo. Lyssie would love it. So did he. “Why?”
“Because that’s my dream. I want peace. More than anything, I want peace.”
“And courage.” He smoothed a wrinkle from the shoulder of her robe. The fabric felt soft, touchable, like Cally herself.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “That, too.”
“You’ll get them, Cally. Both of them. I know you will.”
“Thank you.”
“Why do I have the feeling that ‘thank you’ isn’t because you believe me, or because you appreciate the support?”
“Because it wasn’t, I didn’t, and I don’t.”
More riddles. “Then why are you thanking me?”
“Because being condescending and offering me platitudes gives me something to hate about you. For that, I am grateful.”
“Ah, the not liking, liking list again.” He loosened his limbs; now that he had a grasp on this, he could relax. Finally, he was getting a fix on how her mind worked. Not an easy task since Gregory had effectively tossed in a few wicked twists. “You’re welcome, then.”
“You’re smiling.” She frowned up at him. “You shouldn’t smile when someone says they hate something about you, Counselor. Didn’t they teach you that in Law 101 or wherever they teach you how not to tick off clients?”
“I cut class that day.” He rubbed their noses, then sat back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“But? Go ahead. I hear it lurking, so you might as well say it.”
She’d be riled for the rest of the night. Still, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her a little. “But that someone has to look to find something to hate about you is darn nice.”
“It’s not nice.” She grunted. “It’s godawful.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I say, it’s godawful.” She snatched at the quilt and tugged it up under her chin. “And it is.” Sliding closer, she fitted herself snugly against his side, laid her cheek against his upper arm, then curled her fingers around his sleeve, just above his elbow. “Terribly godawful. And don’t you dare dispute me on that.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He tried his best to sound serious, but he couldn’t wipe the smile from his lips. He wanted to kiss the upset right out of her but he couldn’t. She’d given him that one-kiss rule and he had to turn things around so she was the one who broke it. So instead, he closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the wall. Her stewing might do her some good. Especially if he taunted her a little to coerce her to change her mind and kiss him again. That was a pleasant thought that conjured patience. And her having to look for something to hate about him was wonderful, worth savoring, and that was that.
The morning settled over them, and a gentle awareness warmed inside him. It baffled him at first, then he finally identified it. The lack of dread. With Cally in his arms, he didn’t dread the morning, or the night.
That was a first, and he both blessed and cursed it. Grateful and guilty didn’t mix well in a man’s emotions or rest easy on his soul. Since Meriam had died, he’d gotten through the days—working, taking care of the kids, keeping up with the house, the office, and Mrs. Wiggins’s resignations—but the nights had been difficult. They’d been hell, pure and simple. Meriam hadn’t been home many nights, yet he’d known she’d be coming home eventually, and that had made them different. After her death, the nights just seemed to stretch and yawn before him. Endless. Empty. He’d hated each of them a little more than he’d hated the night before it. Until tonight.
Until Ca
lly.
“Bryce?” She whispered against his chest, sounding as if she half hoped he was asleep and wouldn’t answer.
“Hmm?”
“I swore I wasn’t going to tell you this but . . . well, what does it matter? You already know most of my flaws from Gregory, so what’s one more?”
Bryce started to interrupt. Gregory was the one flawed. Not Cally.
She plowed on, as though if Bryce stopped her, she wouldn’t be able to start again, to say what she wanted said. “I do avoid mirrors.”
He couldn’t believe she’d admitted it. Humbled, he forced himself not to react emotionally and unnerve her. “Why?”
She stared fixedly at his shirt button. “Because when I look in them, I don’t like what I see. Gregory used to . . . make me look, and he’d say . . . awful things. I learned to hate them.”
Gregory had done even more damage than suspected. Swallowing his anger at that, Bryce managed to keep his tone soft and nonthreatening. “If you don’t like what you see, then you have to change it, honey. Not avoid it.”
“I—I want to change it. That’s why I came up here. Well, actually not here, but it’s how I wound up here instead of in Nova Scotia.” She let out a sigh reeking of frustration. “I wanted to change. That’s what counts. I wanted to, and I’ve been determined to try. But now, well, I don’t think I can do it.”
She sounded so fragile. Helpless. Hopeless. “Honey, why?”
Rocking back, she looked up at him. Sadness and tears that dwelled soul-deep glimmered in her eyes. “Because the me I loved . . . died.”
She had to mean her feminine side, her spirit and sensuality. Damn Gregory Tate for doing this to her. Just damn him.
Problem was, how did Bryce fix the problem?
You can’t just tell her. She won’t believe you.
The man’s voice. Bryce swallowed hard, slid his gaze to Cally. She hadn’t stiffened or reacted.
She can’t hear me.
Oh, great. Bryce cringed. Now I’m psychotic.
No such luck. The man harrumphed. You don’t get to slip into insanity. You’re doomed to toughing out life sane.
Why that response eased Bryce’s mind when he should be scared stiff, he didn’t know. Maybe because T.J. had warned him. Maybe because Bryce sensed the man really had come to help. Or maybe because Bryce knew he needed help . . . desperately.
He glanced down at Cally. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady. Clearly, she was sound asleep and not hearing any of this. How had she dozed off so quickly?
I, er, assisted her a wee bit.
You didn’t hurt her.
Of course not.
Though he couldn’t see the man, Bryce blinked, then blinked again. You’ve got to be Miss Hattie’s soldier.
Ah, T.J. was thorough in briefing you on me. Ordinarily, I’d oppose, but—
He thought I had enough worries. I didn’t need to add to them, trying to figure out you’re a ghost, friendly, and I’m not crazy.
I’m inclined to agree.
I’m grateful. The temperature had dropped substantially. Cally still slept; her chest lifted and fell in a smooth rhythm. Bryce tugged at the afghan and tucked in her shoulder. You’re sure she’s okay?
Positive. How about you?
How was he? Bryce was afraid to really think about it. Talking with a ghost, for God’s sake. I’m okay.
And you accept what I am?
I suppose I have to accept it. Unless you’re of a mind to change.
I wish I could, but I’m afraid I can’t.
Genuine regret. Boy, did Bryce recognize the sound. Empathetic, he lowered his gaze to the floor. I’m sorry, for both you and Miss Hattie.
Me, too. But fate has its own design and we just have to accept it.
I guess we do. That, or let it drive us crazy.
I’m rather partial to sanity. It has its down side, like everything else, but it beats the socks off its alternative.
I agree.
I am Miss Hattie’s soldier, but for ease, you can call me Tony.
Tony? Suzie’s Tony? Surprise zipped up Bryce’s backbone, shot through his limbs.
Guilty.
How did she react to hearing you? The kid must have been scared witless.
She was fine about it. She heard and saw me. Tony chuckled. Children are wonderful. Everything is strange to them so they don’t often get upset at seeing someone they can see through, so to speak. Don’t worry, Bryce. Suzie was totally accepting, and I have to admit I was more than grateful for that. Sometimes acceptance is elusive, if you know what I mean.
I’m glad she was okay about it. She’s suffering through some challenges and she really doesn’t need to be upset.
She’s not upset. You have my word on it. If she had been, I’d have pulled a cease and desist immediately. I’m not into scaring kids. Or anyone else, for that matter.
I’m glad to hear it. With Suzie it’s hard to tell, but she hasn’t seemed rattled. Actually, she’s seemed happy, and kind of secretive. She’s mentioned you—
A million times in the past three days. Yes, I know.
Are you responsible for her not dreaming?
She is dreaming, Bryce.
But—
She’s dreaming, but she’s not alone. That’s the difference.
You’ve been there with her.
Yes, I have.
Bryce’s eyes stung and tight bands of gratitude cinched down around his chest, making it hard to pull in breaths. Thank you.
You’re welcome. Tony cleared his throat. Now, we’ve got a dilemma to resolve with your Cally Tate.
My Cally Tate? She’s not my— Bryce halted mid-sentence. The woman lay sleeping in his arms. It sounded ridiculous even to him to deny that at the moment she was his. And, as guilty as he felt in admitting it, there was a tiny flicker inside him that kind of liked the idea.
He squelched it. There was no place in his life for a love interest. He’d been there and done that. What he needed wasn’t a love interest, but a mother—for the kids.
Yet he couldn’t not care about Cally or her plight. What kind of man could?
One like Gregory Tate.
Bryce squeezed his eyes shut. Can you hear my every thought, Tony?
I’m afraid so. And before you get on a high horse and think it’s rough on you, let me tell you that it’s no picnic for me, either. If a body is inside this house, then I hear every whisper, word, or thought.
You can’t turn it off?
No. And typically, that’s okay. But there are times—like with the battleaxe and her views on discipline, and with Batty Beaulah Favish, the nosy woman next door—I’d give my eye teeth for the ability to shut down.
Acceptance, right?
Right. Beats insanity. Now, about Cally.
Do you know how to fix the problem?
Maybe. Maybe not. Women are tough to figure.
Hell, I was hoping I could look forward to that getting easier.
Tony chuckled. Sorry to shatter your dreams, but not understanding women is universal.
The worst of it with Cally is that she is desirable. But I agree with you that I can’t just tell her.
She wouldn’t believe you, or any man. Not about that.
Why should she? For fourteen years, Gregory Tate’s pounded it into her head and heart that she’s not desirable—or lovable.
True. True.
So what do I do, then?
Do you really want to help her?
Bryce looked down into her sleeping face, resting against his chest. Her lips parted, her cheek red from pressing against his shoulder. Protective feelings surged from deep inside him to the surface. Like the kids, she was fragile, vulnerable. Unlike the kids, she was a beautiful woman who rallied memories in him that he was more than a father. He owed her for that. And more. Yeah, I really want to help her.
To get her to believe it, you’re going to have to show her.
Vulnerable. Oh, God. Wait a minute. I kno
w you’re not talking an affair here.
No, I’m not.
Then what exactly are you asking me to do?
Let her see how she affects you. Tear down your internal guard rails and just let her see. Women have this sense of knowing things. Cally needs to see your reactions and run her sincerity check on them. When she does and she sees you’re sincere, then she’ll know she’s lovable because you’ll have shown her.
You’re asking me to love her? Crazy. Impossible.
I’m asking you to let her see the truth, whatever it is.
I can’t. I would, I want to help her, but I can’t do that, Tony. I just can’t.
Don’t panic. You can handle it. If you couldn’t you wouldn’t be here.
It’s not handling it that worries me.
What is it, then?
It’s liking handling it.
Meriam’s gone, Bryce. She’s content. And she wants you and the children to be content, too.
She’s content? With—without us?
Acceptance.
Bryce let that truth settle in, not sure what he was supposed to be feeling, but sure as hell certain anger wasn’t it. Yet he was angry. He missed her, envisioned her to get through his days, relived their lives together to get through his nights. And she was content without him? Without any of them?
How was your life together? Really?
Bryce’s mind whirled, slipped back to a celebration dinner years ago. One with Meriam and the kids at the Court of Two Sisters, Meriam’s favorite restaurant, down in the French Quarter.
Suzie nicked her glass and splashed milk onto Meriam’s cuff. Her face mottled red. Suzie’s bleached white. “I’m sorry, Meriam,” she’d said, her voice trembling, her eyes wide with fear.
Bryce hated seeing and hearing both, and interceded. “It was an accident, sweetheart. Meriam knows that.” He looked over, silently prodded her to give their daughter a soothing word.
She didn’t. Meriam blotted at the spot, then tossed her napkin onto the table. “I’ve got to go.”
She always had to go. Whenever anything was less than perfect, whenever there was the slightest ruffle. She’d just . . . leave.
