Who was watching his son with an I got your back, kid expression Wes found both gratifying and annoying as hell.
* * *
As if dinner itself hadn’t been bizarre enough, between watching Wes do the whole Who is this kid? thing with Jack and trying to ignore the zzzzap! to her girl parts every time the man looked at her, afterward ventured dangerously close to Twilight Zone territory.
Blythe would have imagined, given Jack’s obvious resentment over his father’s frequent absences, and his equally obvious excitement that Wes had come home, that the kid would have commandeered Wes’s attention for the rest of the evening. Not so. Instead, the moment he’d dispatched the last molecule of caramel sauce from his sundae glass, he pointedly dragged Quinn off to finish up their game. Which, in turn, had produced another flash of that lost look in Wes’s eyes before, after thanking his mother for dinner and giving her a kiss on the cheek, he also vanished. Leaving Blythe feeling equally at sea, especially when Candace refused her offer to help tidy up.
“That’s my job,” Wes’s dad said with a wink as he carted over stacked plates from the table. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to put an old man out of work now, would you?”
And the odd thing was, Blythe thought as she gathered her things, it was clear she would have usurped the older man’s position. Because, listening to the couple’s easy chatter as they scraped and rinsed the dishes and filled the dishwasher, it was obvious this was one of those little rituals that kept the couple’s love alive and kicking. It wasn’t what they did, but that they did it together, the act of sharing the moment turning the mundane into the sweet.
Jeez. What had the woman put in that pot roast, anyway?
Because this whole cozy-family thing wasn’t her thing. Seriously. Sure, she loved hanging with her cousins and all. But they were more like gal pals than relatives, you know? Yeah, yeah, April and Mel kept going on about how they were more like sisters, and Blythe had to admit there’d been the occasional moment during the past several months when she could see where they were coming from. But that didn’t mean she was coming from the same place. Or any place, really. Family...that’s what other people had.
Some other people, anyway. Hey, from what she could tell, this was one of those things that looked a lot better on paper than it did in practice. Because in her experience, people were far more likely to screw it up than make it work.
At least, people who didn’t have decent examples to follow. Say what you will about no man being an island, making connections with other human beings wasn’t nearly as innate as “they” would have you believe.
“Why don’t you go take a tour of the rest of the house while you wait?” Candace shouted over the grinding of the garbage disposal.
Blythe nodded, even as she wondered, Wait for what? A question soon answered when she found the kids in the family room, intent on conquering aliens. Or something.
“Oh. I thought you’d be ready to go,” Blythe said to Quinn’s back as she slipped on her sweater.
“Mom doesn’t get home for another hour,” Quinn said, not even missing a beat as her blurred hands commanded the remote. She spared Blythe the sparest of glances, her hair electrified around her shoulders. “When Ryder’s not there, Jack’s grandpa takes me home around nine.”
“What about homework?”
“Did it,” she said with a distracted shrug. “So it’s cool. Really...” She bit her lip as the green critter on the screen did something apparently awesome, given Quinn’s “Take that, suckah!” in response.
Talk about feeling old.
Figuring that self-guided tour was as good a way to waste time as any, Blythe poked around downstairs for a few minutes, even as she realized the house was larger than it appeared. Not ostentatiously so, but definitely not a shack, the formal living room leading into a lovely, large sunroom facing the water. And off to one side, a double-paneled door stood half open to what she assumed was an office or library.
Office, she realized, peeking into the very manly room, all dark wood and striking mid-century art against burgundy walls, a massive wooden desk adjacent to the bay window, a twin to the one in the living room. An add-on, she thought, destroying the colonial’s original symmetry but well enough done, from what she could tell. She pushed the door farther open to smile at the ubiquitous leather furniture...her smile fading when she realized Wes was slouched in a corner of the tufted sofa, watching her, amusement dancing in his tired eyes.
* * *
“Oops, didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, stepping back, exactly as he’d expected her to. Even though Wes sensed that her reticence had more to do with her being caught off guard than having breached his privacy.
“You’re not,” he assured her, even though he definitely felt intruded upon. Had, from the moment he’d seen her sitting at his table. Yes, despite his having initiated the intrusion to begin with by asking her to do Jack’s room. Logic had nothing to do with whatever was going on in his brain.
Jack’s brush-off after dinner, however, did.
Despite his exhaustion, Wes forced himself to sit forward. To stifle what had to have been his hundredth yawn since he’d arrived home. Not to mention some strange, unsettling impulse to use Blythe’s obvious discomfiture to his advantage. Play the power card, in other words.
As if he had clue one how to do that. No, change that: he was as well-versed in charm and manipulation as the next politician. He could even be cunning, if push came to shove. But that wasn’t what he was about. Never had been. And if that made him a wuss, too bad.
“I thought you’d gone.”
“Can’t leave until Quinn and Jack have saved the universe,” she said, and Wes chuckled.
“You’re returning to D.C. tonight?”
“Actually, since it’s so late I might crash at Mel’s. Haven’t decided yet. And you look like a man who can’t believe he’s still awake.” When he gave her a thumbs-up, she smiled. “So why don’t you go to bed?”
“Before my son? That would be beyond pathetic. And why are you standing in the doorway?” He waved her inside. “Come keep me company.” The yawn finally escaped. “Or at least awake.”
“I—”
“You got anything better to do?”
“Here? No.”
“Well then?”
Sighing, she entered the library-slash-office to dump her bag and computer on a side table before wriggling out of her sweater, plopping it on top of everything else. “Impressive,” she said, taking in the room before bestowing a careful smile in his direction. “You should be nursing a lowball. In cut glass.”
“Don’t drink,” Wes said on a tired smile. “Never did much, but after Jack was born...” He shrugged, then felt one side of his mouth lift. “Makes me hugely unpopular at social events. Although it is reassuring to know the kid isn’t going to get into my liquor cabinet while I’m gone. And you’re not sitting.”
Finally she did, in a wing chair across from him, leaning back with her hands draped loosely over the arms, her legs crossed. But the set to her jaw gave the lie to her relaxed pose. Not that she felt trapped, he didn’t think. But she looked obligated to play along when she didn’t want to. Part of him wanted to release her from the obligation. Or at least give lip service to it, since he didn’t doubt for a moment that if she wanted to leave, she would. And yet, perversely, he wanted her to stay. Just to have someone to talk to who didn’t have an agenda.
Then again, maybe she did.
“I take it Jack has some ideas for his room?”
Her lips stretched. Slightly. “We’re getting there. At first he didn’t want to change anything. Which is understandable,” she said gently. “Given the circumstances. Then he said he might want to paint all four walls different colors, but he has no idea what those colors might be. It was a bit like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”
/> “Sounds about right.”
“So you’re okay with four different wall colors?”
“If that’s what he wants, go for it.”
“Has he always been this quixotic?”
Wes shook his head, thinking of his son’s reaction to him that night. The rejection stung, no doubt about it. “I don’t think so. I mean...” He leaned back, his eyes closed, realizing she was once more sucking him into a conversation he wasn’t sure he should be having with a virtual stranger. And yet, wanted to.
He opened his eyes, faced Blythe’s. Wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Did know, however, that it was weird, seeing her sitting where Kym always had, at the end of a long day, her legs tucked up under her as she laughed, regaling him with stories about their son’s antics. There’d always be a cup of tea in her hands, her slender fingers curved around the ceramic, her long, dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, exactly the way it had when she’d been a teenager. As though she’d been caught in time, like a beautiful, delicate insect in amber. As the memory was now, in his head.
“I don’t remember Jack’s being so moody before. When he was younger, I mean. But then, Kym was around him more than I was. She was the go-to parent. I was...” he sighed “...the auxiliary. I didn’t mean it to work out that way,” he said to Blythe’s slight frown. “It just did.”
After a pause, she said, “He wants you to help him with his room, you know.”
“Me? I don’t know a damn thing about design.”
“That’s not the point.”
No, it wasn’t. And he knew it. Knew, too, that whatever problems he and Jack were having were his fault, not the kid’s. That, being the grown-up, he was supposed to be able to fix this. That he couldn’t—
Frustration trumping exhaustion, Wes heaved himself off the couch, almost wishing he did have that drink. Instead he crossed to the French doors leading to the side yard, shoving them open to let in the damp breeze, soothing against his heated face. “This parenthood gig ain’t for wusses,” he said, his back to her.
“Precisely why I don’t think I’d make a very good mother.”
Frowning, Wes turned. “Really?”
“Really. I’ve finally reached the point where I’m happy with my life. I love what I do. Who I’ve finally become. What can I say?” She smiled. “Autonomy is the bomb.”
“And yet you get along so well with Quinn. Jack, too, for that matter.”
Something dimmed in her eyes. The truth, Wes suspected. Especially when she said, “Relating to kids doesn’t automatically translate into wanting my own. For one thing, I’m not sure I have the courage to be a parent. And for another, shoehorning a child into my life...it wouldn’t be fair.”
Wes pushed aside the tailored drapery flapping alongside the open window before focusing on Blythe again. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Shoehorning Jack into my life?”
He saw her suck in a tiny breath. “I’m talking about myself. Not you.”
“You sure about that?”
She returned his gaze for several seconds, then sighed. “I’m not questioning your skills, I swear. Or how much you love your kid, because that’s obvious. But...” Frowning, she briefly rubbed the heels of her hands against the chair arms before clutching the ends. “In some respects, I see myself in Jack. At that age, I mean. So I empathize with him. What he’s feeling.”
Curiosity overrode his reaction to her first comment—that she had every right to question his skills, since God knows he did. “You lost your mother, too?”
One side of her mouth hitched up. “The question is if I ever really had her. But my father...yeah. He removed himself from my life when I was a little older than Jack.” Sympathy flooded her eyes. But for whom? “I know you haven’t abandoned Jack, and my mother’s continued detachment in no way compares to what Jack’s suffered. But to a child, I’m not sure the loss feels that much different—”
“Bly-ythe!”
At Quinn’s yell, Blythe stood and called back, “In Jack’s dad’s office,” then gathered her things again. “It’s obvious you’re trying to make the best of a complicated situation, Wes. And if I was smart,” she said on another slight smile, “I’d simply do my job—if you still want me to, I don’t think Jack would care one way or the other—and keep my big mouth shut. But it kills me to see him hurting so much—”
Wes grabbed her hand, clearly startling her. And himself. “Then help him. If you’re seeing something I can’t, for God’s sake, help him.”
It clearly took a moment for her to find her voice. “But...there are therapists,” she said, reclaiming her hand.
“And he’s clammed up with every one I’ve taken him to. And he trusts you—”
“Ready!” Quinn burst through the door, Jack right behind her.
“Good.” Blythe jerked away to dig inside her gargantuan purse. “Here, Jack—” Her smile brighter than necessary, she handed the boy her business card. “Anytime you’re ready to talk ideas, give me a call. Leave a message if you get my voice mail, I’ll get right back to you.” Then she smiled up at Wes, and he saw I’ll do what I can in her eyes.
A cautious promise though it may have been.
Seconds later, they were gone. His hand clamped around the back of his neck, Wes crashed back onto the leather couch, releasing a huge sigh of what should have been relief—that maybe, somehow, Blythe could mitigate some of the yearning, the distrust in Jack’s eyes that seemed to intensify every day.
Except...by asking Blythe to help heal the ever-widening gulf between him and his son, he’d also given her easier access to his life.
And, astoundingly, his heart.
So, that sigh? Relief, no. Sheer terror, however...
Bam.
Chapter Four
“So did you and your mom pick out your junior bridesmaid dress yet?”
Quinn, who normally chattered like a squirrel to anyone who’d listen—or not—had been uncharacteristically subdued on the drive from the Phillipses house. An only child’s need for downtime to recharge after being social all day, Blythe had initially assumed, all too clearly remembering her own preteen years. But after ten minutes of the child’s brain waves crackling between them, she’d decided that wasn’t it. Although directly asking, “Is something wrong?” would in all likelihood get a “No, I’m fine,” in response. Or an eye roll. So Blythe took a more oblique approach.
Especially since she needed to talk about something, anything, to take her mind off Wes’s plea to do whatever she could for Jack. And by extension, him. The very real worry in his eyes—sucked her right in, it did. Maybe she’d finally accepted that saying “no” on occasion didn’t make her mean, unfeeling or, according to one jerk she’d briefly dated, a frigid bitch. But she was incapable of turning her back on a hurting child. Not when she knew what that felt like—
“Yeah, we did,” Quinn pushed out on a sigh.
“What’s it look like?”
“Blue. Ruffly. I look like a baby in it but Mom loves it, so whatchagonna do?”
Thinking of her own dress—also blue, also ruffly, something Blythe wouldn’t have willingly put on her body in a million years—she smiled. “You’re a good kid—”
“Can I tell you something?”
Intuiting that the conversation was about to sharply veer from horrid wedding attire, Blythe glanced at the girl, slumped in her seat.
“Sure,” she said lightly. “What’s going on?”
In the months since the cousins’ reunion, Quinn had quickly figured out that she could vent to Blythe or April without dragging her own mother—along with Mel’s inclination toward overreacting—into it. And Mel, apparently, was more than cool with letting her cousins share the load that was her über-smart, verging-on-drama-queen daughter. Apples, trees...’nuff said.
“I’m worried about Jack,” Quinn said, and Blythe thought, Why am I not surprised? Especially given her younger cousin’s propensity for picking up when something wasn’t right...an intuition that had been on full alert well before the secrets surrounding her birth had come roaring to the surface the September before. If anything, that event seemed to have left the child even more sensitive to changes in the mental atmosphere.
“Worried?”
“Yeah. He’s been acting weird lately.”
“Weird, how?”
“Like...I don’t know. Like one minute he’s okay, and we get along like we always do, and the next minute he practically bites my head off. Only before I even have a chance to get mad, then he’s okay again.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“You’re telling me. It’s like...what’s that story where the crazy doctor has like two personalities, one good and one bad?”
“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“That’s it. Mom and I watched it one Halloween. Seriously strange movie.”
Blythe chuckled, then sobered. “I take it this is something new, then?”
“Newish. I mean, when Jack and I first met, he’d get all mopey about his mom sometimes, but I could usually kid him out of it, you know? But this seems...I don’t know. Like he goes someplace way deep inside himself and gets mad when I try to follow.”
“I think everybody feels that way sometimes,” Blythe said carefully, not wishing to put her own concerns about the boy on a ten-year-old.
“This is different,” Quinn said, giving her head a quick shake. “Especially since...”
They pulled through the black wrought-iron gates leading to Ryder’s parents’ magnificent waterfront house, then around to the caretaker’s cottage at the back of the property, where Mel and Ryder were temporarily living until they found a house in town they both liked. “Especially since, what?” Blythe prompted.
“Ohmigosh, Jack would kill me if he knew I was saying anything, but...” Her gaze touched Blythe’s. “I’m not the only one he snaps at—he’s been doing it to kids at school, too. And at first—well, since I’ve been there, I mean, I have no idea what went on before—the other kids gave him a wide berth because of his mom, you know? But now they’re getting tired of it. Never knowing if he’s going to give them attitude or whatever. And I’m afraid one day, something bad’s going to happen.”
The Marriage Campaign Page 5
