Emotions not dissimilar to what he’d just heard in Blythe’s voice, it now occurred to him. To have Kym taken—no, stolen—from them... Wes hadn’t known a person could feel that much pain and still function. But to a child, would a parent’s abandonment hurt any less? Or be “gotten over” any more quickly?
“Do you know if that website still exists?” he asked, earning him a sharp frown.
“Uh, yeah. In fact, I’m one of the moderators. But—”
“Do you think it would help Jack?”
The frown didn’t budge. “That’s not for me to say, Wes.”
He crossed his arms. “You moderate it, but you wouldn’t recommend it.”
A slight smile cracked the tension. “Obviously I think it’s a great place. Since it saved my butt and all. But I was in my mid-teens. I’m not sure it’s right for an eleven-year-old.”
“Fair enough. But I’d still like to check it out.”
A laughing couple walked by, diverting Blythe’s attention for a moment. Then, on yet another sigh, she dug in her purse for a notepad, wrote something, tore off the paper and handed it to Wes.
He stared at the address for a moment, then looked at Blythe, caught the compassion in her eyes. For his kid, he assumed. Even so, he suddenly wanted to grab her by the shoulders and say, Do you have any idea how great you are? “What’s your moderator name?”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Like I’m going to tell you?”
“You don’t play fair.”
She gave him a quizzical look, then said, “I hear the kids are off next week for spring break, so I’ll call Jack, set up a time when we can get together to start his room. Deal?”
“Sounds good to me,” Wes said, wondering if she realized the kids’ break coincided with his. Not that he’d be in residence full time—his campaign manager was already on his case about getting things rolling for reelection—but he would be around. For Jack’s sake, if nothing else. And right now, as Wes watched Blythe walk off, her bright purple umbrella snapping open as a light drizzle began to fall, he found himself wondering...if things were different...if she...if he...
Sighing heavily, he flagged down a taxi, refusing to let the loneliness choke him.
* * *
As it happened, most of Blythe’s other clients had kids off the next week as well, meaning they’d gone to wherever the well-to-do went for spring break. As a kid, she’d been lucky to get packed off to Nana’s. Although since her cousins’ vacations rarely jibed with hers she was usually left to her own devices, the same as she would have been in the Maryland suburb where she’d grown up. At least in St. Mary’s there’d been the beach. And the boardwalk, with its shops and food stands, then as now the air spiked with the scents of grilled hot dogs and fried clams, a hundred different sunscreens, the ever-present tang of the bay. On which she now walked with Jack and Quinn, slurping down soft-serve ice cream cones and plotting out the Great Redesign project as the sun beat down on their heads and arms and backs.
The day was weirdly warm for April, enough to bring out shorts and sundresses, showcasing winter-pale legs and freshly varnished toes in flip-flops. Across the estuary, humidity smudged the demarcation between sky and water into a colorless blur. Even the gulls were lethargic, only a few with enough oomph to see if there was anything worth getting excited about. A few hardy souls, though, skirmished over a piece of soft pretzel somebody had dropped, squabbling like toddlers until a golden retriever rushed them, barking, gobbling up the pretzel when they flew away.
“So have you decided what you want to put in the room?” Blythe asked, taking a napkin to a glob of chocolate ice cream that had found its way to her white capris. Of course.
“Actually,” Jack said, sucking a dribble of ice cream off his wrist, “now that it’s empty? I’m thinking of keeping it like that.”
Quinn gave him a horrified look, Hermione Granger to Jack’s Ron Weasley. “Even though the walls look like they’re diseased?”
Blythe chuckled. It was true, that wallpaper border had not given up without a fight. And by the time they patched up all the holes, the space did have a certain leprous vibe going on. “If you want to leave it, we certainly can,” she said, not missing Quinn’s you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “But the sleeping bag on the hard floor will get old after a while.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Jack stuffed half the cone in his mouth, swirled it around, then popped it back out, not caring that ice cream now sheened half his chin. Blythe dug in her giant tote bag for another napkin, handing it over. Kid took the hint. “But I like sleeping on the floor. How about a mattress instead of a whole bed?”
“Don’t see why not,” Blythe said, shoving the rest of her own cone into her mouth, wondering why that last bite was always like a burst of happiness on her tongue. She’d grilled her younger cousin about Jack’s behavior during the past week, but Quinn seemed to think the crisis had passed. Or at least had abated while his dad was home. Blythe took that to mean she’d been let off the hook as far as, well, whatever “everyone” expected her to do. And thank God for that. Since, as badly as she felt for the kid—for any kid in that much pain—there was a big difference between her anonymous work on the website and knowing what to actually say in real life.
Hey—she’d given Wes a heads-up about her and Quinn’s concerns, and that she could be a friend to Jack, if he was cool with that. But while, for Jack’s sake, she’d felt impelled to come clean with his father about her “lost” years, she kept her work on the website, which not even her cousins knew about, a secret for a reason. Maybe she’d conquered her past, but it was still a dark period of her life she’d just as soon forget. And frankly, it wasn’t anyone’s business but hers. And Wes’s, now—
Whoa. Hottie, dead ahead, ambling toward them in an Orioles ball cap and khaki shorts displaying muscled calves, a slightly wrinkled white polo showing off equally ripped forearms, and dimples just a’twinkin’ away underneath a pair of badass sunglasses—
“Dad! You’re back!”
“Hey, guy,” Wes said, swinging one of those forearms around his son’s shoulders and that smile in Blythe’s direction, and she sent up a short prayer that ice cream wasn’t dribbled all over her chin. Or chest. Not that she was holding out much hope for either. “Meeting ended early, Grandma said all of you were down here. So what’s up?”
“Still trying to decide on the room,” Blythe said, pretending to blow her nose in one of the napkins in order to clandestinely wipe her chin. Although there wasn’t a darn thing she could do about the splotch on her pants.
“Got paint yet?”
“Next on the list, actually.”
“Good,” Wes said, holding her gaze. Or so she assumed. Hard to tell through the Ray-Bans. “Because I’ve cleared the calendar for the next couple of days to help.” He slid his fingers into his shorts’ pockets, the wind plastering the polo to his pecs, and all manner of things Blythe had willed to shut up and go to sleep woke up with a start.
Gasping.
“Then, well...let’s go choose some paint,” she said.
Whether or not Wes had checked out the website or mentioned it to Jack, she mused as they trooped out to the parking lot and her car, she had no idea. Nor was that the point. The point was getting Jack over this hump. And from what she’d been able to tell since they’d been back in St. Mary’s, the man was trying. She had to give him that. Yes, he still had business to tend to that didn’t include Jack—the same as any working parent—but when he was home, he was there. And watching him try...well.
Flutters, she had them. Unwelcome though they might be.
When they got to her car, the kids piled into the back and Wes got into the passenger seat up front before anyone could discuss seating arrangements, so Blythe decided to play along like this was all perfectly okay before the weird feeling in the pit of
her tum-tum found its way to her face. Not exactly panic, but close. Because, ohmygoodness, didn’t they look like the perfect young family, traipsing into the Home Depot, the kids yammering at each other and Wes touching her elbow to steer her toward the paint section. Like, you know, she might somehow miss the ginormous PAINT sign overhead.
Then—then—he stood close enough as they riffled through the blue and green paint chips to encroach on her personal space, which her poor little brain had no idea what to do with. Especially the part that processed scents, sending them either to the “ewww” or “mmmm” receptors in said brain. Because right now, those receptors were “mmming” their little hearts out.
“How about this?” Wes said, holding up a blue paint chip to his son that was a tad on the bright side. Like, eyeball-spinning bright. No wonder he’d let his wife do all the decorating.
Jack made a face—thankfully—and held up a very nice muted slate blue that Blythe might have chosen herself. Kid had taste. And had, also thankfully, given up on the idea of painting all four walls different colors. The palette was coming together—soft, underwater colors the boy said “made him feel good” with white and bright orange accents.
“Dad. Seriously?”
Frowning, Wes looked at the swatch again. Through, Blythe realized, his sunglasses, which he hadn’t removed. Clearly puzzled, he glanced up again. “What’s wrong with it?”
Chuckling, Blythe tugged off the glasses, belatedly realizing how intimate the gesture was. Especially when Wes’s eyes met hers and...
Dropped right back to the swatch. “Oh. Wow. Yeah, buddy, I see your point. This one—” he nodded at Jack’s pick “—is much better. Much more like something your mother would have chosen.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” the boy said, sliding his gaze to Blythe, and she thought, Got it.
Yeah, she needed to remember that nobody here was interested in wedging a new person into their lives. Wes and Jack, because their hearts were still sore. And her, because she had way too much self-respect to go that route again.
Flutters be damned.
* * *
“Here,” Blythe said, handing Wes his glasses, her smile a little crispy around the edges before she said to Jack, “Good choice. Go tell the guy at the paint counter we need three gallons of satin finish, then meet us over there—” she pointed “—for brushes and rollers and stuff.”
Jack and his trusty sidekick took off for the mixing counter as Blythe yanked the cart around and started smartly toward the painting supply aisle. Wes considered taking the cart from her, then decided she looked like a woman who definitely needed something to hang on to right now. “It almost sounds as if you’re going to do the painting yourself.”
“With Jack’s help, yeah. I am.” Not looking at him, she snatched up a package of rollers, tossed them into the cart. Wes noticed her cheeks were a mite on the pink side.
“I assume that’s not your usual modus operandi.”
An edging tool, roll of blue masking tape and three cutting brushes followed. “Nope.”
“Then why—”
“Because this isn’t only about changing Jack’s room, it’s about...” Finally, she met his gaze again, the smile a little less brittle. Even though caution filmed her eyes. A reaction to that funny business with the glasses, he guessed. Although truth be told he hadn’t found it all that funny. Pathetic, is more the word he’d use, considering his sucker-punched reaction to the easy familiarity. How, for that breath of a moment, he’d wanted...
He’d wanted his old life back. Wanted, he thought with a savage stab to his chest, Kym back, wanted the teasing and the laughter and that deep-seated peace that comes from knowing someone else had your back. Always. Except that wasn’t possible, and indulging such musings was not only pointless, but would only keep both him and his son mired in grief. In the past.
“It’s about helping Jack move forward,” Blythe said, as if reading his mind. Although the caution was still there, it seemed to have stepped to one side enough to let compassion take center stage. “You wanted my help, this is how I decided I can best give it. Not by talking, but by doing. And I think Jack will feel more connected to the room if he’s part of the process. More connected to...”
“What?”
“The present,” she said, then added two drop cloths and a couple of roller pans to the growing pile.
Wes hadn’t been on the website five minutes before he realized it wasn’t really geared to kids as young as Jack. But even if it had been, he and his son needed to work through this together. In person. Because as Blythe had pointed out, at least he and Jack did have each other.
And Wes was determined not to let his son forget that.
“How did you get him to change his mind? About wanting to keep everything the same in his room?”
“I didn’t. And I never do.” Her mouth canted, the smile more relaxed this time. “I just plant the seeds. Then back off and let them germinate.” Her shoulders—bare, pale, a little bony, truth be told—bumped. “But the worst thing a designer can do is impose his or her own ideas on a client. Because, ultimately, if the end result doesn’t feel like them, they’ll hate it in a few months. And blame you for it. But...” A groove dug into the space between her brows. “But it just seems to me,” she said gently, “Jack needs to feel in control. Responsible for his own decisions.” Those astute blue eyes grazed his. “But with the support and guidance to make the right ones. Which I never had.”
Oddly, they were the only ones in the aisle. And, yes, Wes took advantage of that, crossing his arms and holding her gaze captive. “We’re not talking about paint colors anymore, are we?”
Blythe laughed, a low, chesty sound Wes found extremely...appealing. And a trifle on the melancholy side, though she probably didn’t realize it.
“I’m sorry. I’m...” She bit her lip.
“Going to finish that thought.”
She lightly rapped her knuckles on the cart handle, then sighed.
“When my father left, and my mother withdrew, I felt like a dog who’d been dumped in the woods. Abandoned to fend for myself. Emotionally, anyway—I was never in danger of starving, even if dinner consisted of frozen pizza more often than not. But it was as if my mother didn’t have the resources or stamina to deal with her own heartbreak—or regrets, whatever—and mine, too.” Another shoulder bump. “Hence my drift to the dark side.”
“What about your grandmother? Your cousins?”
“Nana wasn’t much better, off in her own world. And my cousins...they were kids, too. Not that I didn’t feed off them—heck, now that I look back, we fed off each other—but...”
Turning away, she gave the cart a shove, pushing it down the still-vacant aisle. Wes followed, grabbing the gallon of white semigloss paint off the shelf when she went for it. His bare forearm grazed her shoulder, cool and smooth, and longing spurted through him. But not, he realized, for what had been, but for what could be. A future, he thought that was called. Because suddenly the thought of spending the rest of what he hoped would be a long life alone was not sitting well.
Setting the paint in the cart, he noticed Blythe leaning heavily on the cart’s handle, her forehead slightly creased as she regarded its contents.
“But...?”
She straightened, then let out another rough laugh. “I’m not being overly dramatic when I say that it’s a miracle I survived at all. Guess I’m made of sterner stuff than I realized. And I also guess my experiences made me who I am, so I can’t completely regret them. However...” Her eyes shifted to take in the kids, staggering toward them, laughing, the paint cans dangling from their hands. “There are times when I wonder, if I’d had the kind of support Jack has, in you and your parents—”
She shook her head, then started to steer the cart toward the kids. Wes grabbed the side, stoppi
ng her, getting a puzzled look for his efforts.
“That you’d be different?”
The gaze that tangled with his was completely devoid of self-pity. But not, he didn’t think, of pain. Scabbed over though it may have been. “Yes.”
He glanced over, gauged how long he had before the kids reached them. “Look, I’m sorry for what you went through,” he said quietly. Hurriedly. “I truly am. No kid should have to deal with that. But as you said, your experiences made you who you are now. And that person, from everything I can tell, is pretty damn amazing.”
She was still gawking at him like he’d sprouted an extra head when the kids clumsily hefted the paint cans into the cart.
Chapter Six
Dad’s laugh made Jack whip his head around, then jump when he spattered white paint all over his shirt. He muttered a bad word, trying to wipe off the paint with his wrist, but it was too late.
“What’s wrong?” Quinn said, sitting a few feet away, painting her own section of baseboard. She’d pulled her hair into this ponytail or something, making her look like she had curly orange seaweed growing out of her head.
“Got paint on myself. Hand me that rag.”
“Please.”
“Please. Jeez.”
She tossed it over, then shook her head, making the seaweed-hair jiggle. Sometimes he wondered if it was weird—if he was weird—because his best friend was a girl. Then again, Quinn liked playing video games and football and skateboarding, even though she wasn’t very good at it. In other words, not a normal girl. Except then she said, “Blythe told you to put on something you didn’t care about,” exactly like a girl, and Jack glared at her skinny back. He dumped the rag, not sure what was bugging him more—that she was right, that he’d ruined his favorite shirt or that Dad was laughing again.
At Blythe.
Jack dipped his brush into the paint pan, sneaking a look across the room at her. She’d changed into a pair of messy overalls over a sleeveless shirt, and her hair stuck up all over her head—it had blue paint in it, too, in places. She wasn’t even pretty, really. Not like Mom. So why Dad would even like her—like that, he meant—it didn’t make sense. But he obviously did.
The Marriage Campaign Page 8
