"Oh, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"All because of a few damned unimportant changes to a script that probably would never have made it to the screen anyway."
"Why are you still torturing yourself with it?" she asked quietly, going right to the heart of the matter. "Why do you keep it around when it gives you such pain?"
Jack gave a harsh laugh. "I'd think someone like you would know the answer to that."
"Someone like me?"
"You understand the principle of penance, don't you? Making amends? Offering up an act of contrition?"
"By keeping this script around as a constant reminder of something you can't ever change?" She touched the date on the cover page. "By carrying it around the world with you for the last twenty-five years? That isn't doing penance, Jack. That's self-flagellation. It's martyrdom. You might as well wear sackcloth and ashes. Or sew a big red M for murder on your chest to remind everyone of what you think you've done. Or why don't you just set yourself on fire down there in the courtyard, the way I've read some Hindu penitents do? Or jump off of the balcony and end it the way Eric did? It would be kinder than what you're doing to yourself now."
"I haven't been carrying it around with me for twenty-five years. I'd actually almost forgotten all about it," Jack said, meaning the script itself. He'd never forgotten, not for a single minute, his part in his brother's death.
"Then what—"
"Mueller gave me a couple of boxes of stuff when I moved back into Wilshire Arms. Apparently, some things had been left behind after Eric died and nobody claimed them, so Mueller boxed them up and stuck them in a storage locker down in the basement."
"And the script was in one of those boxes."
"The script. My old portable typewriter." He ran his finger over the platen. "Some books and old bills. A few pictures."
"It must have hurt," Faith said, wishing she had been there to somehow soften the blow, wishing she dared reach out to him now. But there was something about him that told her he wouldn't accept her offer of comfort. Not yet.
"No, actually, it didn't hurt much at all," he said as if that fact had surprised him. "It was kind of comforting, in a way, like seeing an old friend from the past. It gave me a kind of—" he shrugged self-consciously "—a kind of hope for salvation. A way to make amends and maybe, finally, put it all behind me. I was going to rewrite it, make all the changes Eric wanted me to make twenty-five years ago. But I can't."
"Can't make the changes?"
"Can't write. At all. I haven't written a word since Haiti."
"What happened in Haiti?"
"That's the irony of it. Nothing happened in Haiti." He spoke with his head down, his finger tracing back and forth over his and his brother's name on the cover of the script. "Not a damn thing that I haven't seen happen in other parts of the world a thousand times over, a thousand times worse."
Faith reached out and touched his hand, stilling it. "Tell me."
He turned his hand in hers, clutching her fingers in his. "I'd been there about three days, not long, and I was out in the streets, gathering background information for the story I was working on." He didn't look at her as he spoke but his grip was almost tight enough to break her fingers. "A gang of little boys ran up to me, a half dozen of them, eight, nine, maybe ten years old. Dirty, ragged little boys. I couldn't understand much of what they were saying but they looked hungry. All the kids down there look hungry," he told her, his voice low and stricken.
Faith ran her free hand up his arm to his shoulder, rubbing it comfortingly.
"I gave them each one of the granola bars I always carry in my pack, handed them out until I didn't have any left. One of the kids didn't eat his right away, like the others. He ran across the street, holding it close to his chest and calling for someone. Another little boy, younger, about four or five, I think—it's hard to tell when they're so malnourished—came out from behind a corrugated metal wall. The bigger boy showed him the granola bar and then broke it between his hands. He gave the biggest piece to his little brother and then stood there, protecting him from the other kids while he ate it."
His cheeks were wet when he finished telling the story, but Jack didn't seem to notice. Faith reached up and brushed at the dampness with her fingers. He didn't seem to notice that, either.
"It's funny," he said musingly. "I didn't remember that until just now. And I still don't remember anything that happened after that until I woke up in a Miami hospital, two days later."
"A Miami hospital?"
"I lost it," he said, not looking at her. "Went completely off my rocker and turned into a blithering idiot. One of the other American reporters got me out of there and back to a hospital in the States. I guess he figured Miami was the closest."
"You had a nervous breakdown," Faith said softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"It's nothing to be proud of, either," he ground out harshly.
Unable to bear his misery another minute, another second, Faith stepped forward and took him into her arms. He stiffened but she held on, hard, until he gave in and collapsed against her. She put her hand on the back of his head, then, drawing him down to her shoulder, rocked him like a baby, despite the fact that she was so much smaller than he was. He held on tight, clinging to her like a wounded child while the grief poured through him. She could feel the wetness of his tears on her neck, feel his big, hard body shaking against hers, feel his hands gripping the fabric of her dress as he fought for control. He succeeded, finally, after long terrible minutes, quieting against her. She felt him rub his face against her shoulder, like a little boy surreptitiously wiping away the evidence of his tears against his mother's dress. He was one of those men who would believe it wasn't manly to cry, no matter how much you hurt.
She loosened her arms when he did and stepped back. "Ready for that omelet now?" she said brightly, and turned toward the kitchen.
Chapter 10
"I need two plates, right now," Faith said, cutting the omelet in half with the side of her spatula. "Another second and it'll be overcooked."
Jack held the plates out, one in each hand as she expertly lifted each half of the omelet out of the frying pan.
"Take those to the table, please," she ordered, turning to put the pan in the sink. "I'll be right behind you with the coffee and the bagels."
Jack did as she asked, still a little shell-shocked by all that had gone on before. He knew he'd made a complete fool of himself, but he hadn't been able to do anything but hold on to her and ride it out. She'd held on as long as he had, silent and steady as a rock, her body soft and warm and comforting against his. She hadn't said a word, hadn't whispered empty platitudes or assurances that things would be all right. She was just there. And when he finally drew back, embarrassed by his loss of control, she was completely matter-of-fact, as composed as if she were used to having men blubber all over her like babies.
Without knowing quite how it had happened, Jack found himself clearing off the table, moving his typewriter, packing the script back in the cardboard box while Faith bustled around the kitchen, looking for a bowl to mix the eggs in.
She followed him to the table now, carrying a plate of toasted bagel halves and his coffeepot. She set them down in the center of the table, the coffeepot on the pot holder she'd already placed there to serve as the trivet he didn't have, the bagels next to the little saucers of cream cheese and blackberry jam. She'd set out the silverware in the approved manner, with mismatched glasses of orange juice arranged just above and to the left of the knife and spoon. Folded terry dish towels were tucked neatly under the forks, pressed into service as napkins. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but it was more than he'd ever done for himself.
"This is incredible," he said, as she filled his coffee cup. "You're incredible."
She smiled at him. "Better wait until you taste the omelet before you go making rash statements like that," she said, but his simple praise warmed her. Back home in Pine Hollow, her services to the
men of the house had been considered her duty and nothing more. "Eat," she ordered, slipping into the seat across from him.
Sitting there, eating the omelet she'd made as attractive as it was delicious, at the table she'd taken pains to make pleasant, Jack had a hint of how it might be if she was in his life permanently. Already she had cleaned his apartment, cooked his food, warmed his bed—and held him while he'd bawled all over her, all without asking for a thing in return. He suspected she would give and give and never ask for one thing for herself. And he was so needy, he would take and take, until there was nothing left.
"Why in God's name are you still here?"
Faith looked up at him over a forkful of her Mexican omelet, a question in her hazel eyes.
"Why are you still here?" he said again. "Now, with me, after everything that's happened?"
"Because I love you."
Jack felt his insides knot. Hope, fear, excitement, dread. He hadn't thought she would say it so soon. He hadn't thought he'd have to find an answer this quickly. He stared at her, stricken. "I don't know what to say."
"It's all right," she said. "I don't expect you to say anything." She'd hoped, of course, but she hadn't expected. She'd learned, long ago, never to expect people to feel what she wanted them to. "Remember what I said about decisions? About how I'm responsible for my own? That goes for feelings, too. My feelings are my responsibility and I'll deal with them. I don't expect you to validate them or return them. I'd like you to, of course," she admitted, incurably honest, "but I don't expect it."
Jack shook his head in amazement. "I don't understand you at all, Angel. With what you know of me, you should be running as fast and far as you can by now. Not sitting there, calmly telling me you—" he couldn't even say it without feeling a tightening in his gut "—that you love me. I'm not the man for you, Angel. Not by any stretch of the imagination."
"Age is a matter of mind," she said, quoting a bumper sticker she'd seen somewhere. "If you don't mind, it doesn't matter." She smiled at him. "And I don't mind."
"It's not just the years."
"Then what? The fact that you had some kind of... of stress-induced breakdown?" She shook her head. "That doesn't frighten me."
"It should, dammit."
"Why?"
"God, you're stubborn, aren't you?"
Faith lifted her coffee cup to her lips, giving herself a chance to think about that for a moment, seriously, as if he'd really meant it as a question. "Yes, I guess I am," she decided, and put the cup down. "So you might as well answer my question now instead of later."
Jack couldn't help but grin at her. She was polite and sweet, intractable and implacable, all at the same time. And she wasn't going to let go of it until she got an answer that satisfied her. Jack sighed and reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. His hand stilled as he caught Faith's frown.
"Sorry," he muttered, dropping his hand back to the table.
"No, go ahead," Faith said automatically, unused to having her wishes considered. "It's your apartment. You can smoke if you want to."
"But you'd rather I didn't."
"Well..." She bit her lip. "They're really not good for you."
"I know," he agreed. "And I've been trying to quit." He took the half-full pack out of his pocket and crumpled it in his fist. "There," he said, tossing it down on the table. "I've quit."
"You didn't have to do that," Faith said, inexpressibly touched by the gesture.
"Yes," he said seriously. "I did." It was the least he could do for her.
They smiled across the table at each other for another moment. "That's not going to get you out of answering my question, you know," Faith said gently.
Jack sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "It isn't just the... breakdown," he said, stumbling over the words. "Or the years. It's how the years were spent. It's the kind of man those years have made me. They've been empty years, Angel. Hard years. Devoid of warmth or compassion, or evenings like this." He gestured with his hand, indicating the properly set table, the home-cooked food, her. "And what they've made me is the kind of man who'd take advantage of a woman like—"
"You didn't take advantage of me," Faith interrupted, a warning in her eyes. "What happened between us was my de—"
"Your decision. I know. All right," he agreed, mendaciously. "I didn't take advantage of you. That doesn't negate the kind of man I am."
"And what kind of man is that?"
"I'm a hard man, Angel. Empty." He stared at her across the table, trying to make her understand. "In all those years, I've never loved anyone. Never wanted anyone to love me."
"You loved your brother."
"And I drove him to suicide," he said, his voice bitter. "Is that what you want?"
Faith bit her lip to keep from crying at the bleakness in his eyes. Crying wouldn't help anything. It would only make him think he was right about her. But she was a grown woman, not a naive, innocent child. Somehow she had to make him see that.
She pushed her plate out of the way and reached for her coffee cup, bringing it to rest on the table in front of her. She wrapped both hands around it to keep them from trembling.
"When I was fifteen," she began, "our church got a new minister. My father is an elder and very involved in all the church activities, so, naturally, Reverend Morrison came to dinner at our house almost every week. After dinner, my father would always invite him to lead our nightly Bible study and prayer session. He came other times, too, because Mama's health was poor and she couldn't always make it to church for the regular services. Usually, he'd stay for a glass of milk and some of my lemon sugar cookies or a slice of banana bread, whatever I'd baked that week. He'd sit in the kitchen for a few minutes, talking to me while I worked, about school and church and what was happening in town. It was just idle conversation, really, but the men in my family aren't much interested in a woman's opinion," she explained, "and Reverend Morrison made me feel special and important, like I mattered."
"That paints a very sweet picture," Jack said, "but I don't see what it has to do with what we're discussing." His eyebrow rose, sardonic and mocking. "Unless you're trying to make my point for me, in which case, you're doing just fine."
The look Faith gave him was pained and patient, making him feel like a heel. "Just listen," she said. "Please."
He nodded, chastised, and gestured for her to continue.
"After a while, Reverend Morrison asked my father if I could be spared once a week to clean for him. I was very flattered, and excited. It was considered an honor at our church, like being asked to arrange the flowers on the altar, or to sing in the choir, or coordinate the menu for a potluck. Plus," she added, wanting Jack to know her motives hadn't been completely altruistic. He already thought she was too sweet and innocent for her own good. "It got me out of the house for an extra afternoon every week. I was allowed to go to school and to run whatever errands I had to for my mother, but that was about it. My father thinks women and girls should be kept close to home."
"Your father is a bully," Jack muttered. "I'm sorry," he said when she flashed him that pained look again. "Go on with your story. You jumped at the chance to clean the reverend's house so you could get out of your own."
"Yes. And because I had a giant crush on him, too," she admitted. "All the girls did. He was young and handsome and unmarried, which was why he needed someone to clean for him. And, like I said, he always made me feel special. Anyway—" her fingers tightened around her coffee cup "—I'd been working for him for about two months, I guess, when—" she took a quick breath, steeling herself to tell him what no one outside of her immediate family knew "—when we began our affair."
Jack choked on his coffee, nearly spewing it out over the table. "Your what?"
"Affair," Faith said. "I had an affair with the minister of our church."
"Lord, Faith! You were only—what?—fifteen years old?"
She nodded, refusing to look away in shame, but she couldn't stop the hot color tha
t suffused her cheeks. "I told you I wasn't a virgin. That I started young. Remember?"
"The man should have been shot!" he exploded. "I hope that sanctimonious father of yours beat him to a bloody pulp, at least."
Faith couldn't help but be gratified by his response. It was so different from what her father's had been. "It wasn't all his fault," she said. "I-"
"Not his fault? He was your minister, for God's sake. And you were just a fifteen-year-old kid, a little girl." He could imagine her at fifteen, more innocent and angelic than she was now. A fragile flower who should have been coddled and protected from all harm. "How could it not be his fault?"
"Because I knew it was wrong. The first time he kissed me, I knew it was wrong but I didn't do anything to stop it."
She hadn't known how to stop it. More than that, though, she hadn't really wanted to stop it. Reverend Morrison had been young and handsome and kind. He'd made her feel special. And she'd been young and curious—and starved for the affection and approval of a man. And it was just a kiss.
"I went back to his house the next week and the week after that and things kept getting more... intense," she said with a shrug. "Deep down inside, I knew it was wrong, of course. But..." this was the hardest thing for her to admit, her own complicity in her downfall "...but I liked it when he held me and kissed me. So I let him. And I kissed him back, too," she admitted, finally looking down as she waited for Jack to condemn her the way her father had done.
When he didn't, she went on. "Finally, though, I started to get a little scared of what we were doing." And terrified that her father would find out. "But the reverend said that as long as we didn't actually 'know' each other in the biblical sense, then it wasn't really a sin. I wanted to believe him but the next time I was supposed to go over, I made some excuse—I don't remember what—and told him I wouldn't be able to work for him anymore. He called my father."
"And told him what, exactly?"
"That since I couldn't come on my regular day anymore, they'd have to arrange another time."
Lovers and Strangers (The Hollywood Nights Series, Book 1) Page 14
