by Shirley Jump
She swiped at her face, her lungs heaving with the spent energy. She thought of leaving, but curiosity nudged her forward and she peeled away more of the wall. Beneath it she found a large white box, lodged to the side of the bruised walls, just out of the reach of the water. It must have fallen down when the shelf and walls caved in, and gotten wedged in the nook between the framing and the drywall.
A box? Where had that come from? She didn’t remember ever having seen that before.
Alex hesitated, simply staring at it for a solid minute. Then she reached out, grasped the fragile cardboard and tugged it out, along with a generous pile of dust that scattered in a cloud. Coughing, she stumbled back, waving away the dust from her face with one hand, clutching the container to her chest.
When she could see again, Alex sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. The box was nothing out of the ordinary, an oversized one department stores handed out at Christmas for wrapping robes or coats. When Alex tugged off the lid the old glue gave way and the sides popped outward.
Inside, the contents appeared nearly the same as the day they had been tucked away, except for one corner that had mildewed, turning the edges of the papers green. At first, Alex didn’t recognize what she was seeing, then the images before her and the ones in her memory began to connect, linking like Tinkertoys.
The construction paper might have faded, but the crude crayon drawings had kept their color. On the first paper, a black and yellow scribbled oval with two little black lines drawn on the top. Alex flipped over the paper, and in her mother’s loopy scrawl were the words ALEX’S DRAWING OF A BEE, AGE 3.
“She kept my drawings,” Alex said aloud. To the room, to herself, her voice filled with wonder. “She kept my drawings.”
Beneath that picture, another of a pumpkin with a toothy smile and two triangular eyes. Alex turned over the page, and again found her mother’s handwriting. ALEX, A JACK-O-LANTERN, AGE 41/2.
And so it went, all through the box, every drawing Alex could remember making, from the first scribbles that she must have told her mother were a dragon—but looked more like a squiggle—to the last one she’d made in this house: a picture of another house, not this one.
Alex put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. That day. The crayons in her hand. The images she’d wanted so badly to translate from her mind to the paper. A child’s means of communicating everything she was feeling.
The house was big, with ten windows in the front. In one of the windows, a stick figure of herself. In another, a tinier stick figure of her baby sister. A long driveway, several trees and a dog. Alex chuckled. She remembered drawing that dog, because that had been the one thing she’d always wanted so badly, had asked Santa for a hundred times, but never received. Not until she’d gone to live at Grandma Kenner’s house, because her grandmother had a fenced-in yard and the time to take care of a puppy. There were flowers in front of this perfect house, little pink and yellow dots. And over all of it, a big orange sun shining with its drawn-on smile.
A Utopia, far removed from the one she sat in now.
Alex flipped over the thick paper, her hand shaking. The handwriting had faded—this time, her mother had written in pencil instead of pen—but the letters were still legible. “What Alex wants most of all. Lord, help me be a good enough mother to give it to her and Brittany.”
Her mother had noticed. Her mother had cared.
A single tear ran down Alex’s cheek and dropped onto the picture, puddling in the green of the grass. Alex swiped at her face, then started digging through the box, pulling out picture after picture. Something bulged beneath the pile. Alex shoved the papers aside, her hand lighting on four leather items. Two pairs of white baby shoes. Hers, and her sister’s.
She clutched them to her chest. They were so small, so tiny. One pair nearly worn through, the other still pristine. Little sneakers, their laces fragile now after so many years of being tucked away. But she could still imagine them on her feet, on Brittany’s feet.
And someday, maybe, on her own baby’s feet. If she decided to do this, to keep the baby.
She thought of the fliers she’d been looking at, all of them covered with images of happy, smiling two-parent families, in front of perfectly manicured homes, playing catch with the dog, or swinging in the backyard. Just like the picture she’d drawn. Always two kids, clean, well dressed, well fed. Everyone living the perfect life. Not a single mom in sight.
Would she be giving this child the best life if she raised it alone? Or would this be a better option? A two-parent family, something she had never had.
“You lied to me.”
Alex spun around, and found Mack standing in the doorway, his face filled with hurt. In one hand, he held the papers from downstairs, the stark evidence of her pregnancy in bright multicolored pamphlets.
“I…I didn’t want to involve you,” she said.
He crossed the room in three short strides and knelt down beside her. “Involve me? Alex, if you’re pregnant with our—”
“It’s not yours. It’s Edward’s.”
The information hit him slowly, filtering into his features a little at a time. He opened his mouth, shut it again, then she could have sworn she saw disappointment flicker in his eyes. “What’s he going to do about it?”
Alex let out a bitter laugh. “What he does best. Send me some money and hope I go away. Leave him and his wife alone.”
“That bastard.” Mack muttered a few other unflattering curses under his breath. “I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I can handle this on my own.”
“Handle it, how? Alex, this is a huge deal. I mean…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t understand why you didn’t say anything. How could you keep this from me?”
“How could I keep it from you? It’s my body, not yours. I’m the one who would be raising this child, if I keep it.”
“What do you mean, if? Are you…” Mack swallowed. Then he realized what she was implying and knew he had to ask the question, even as saying it seemed to take something from him. “Are you thinking of getting rid of the baby?”
Alex got to her feet and crossed to the window, her arms wrapped around her midsection, every ounce of her body language telling him to stay away. “Mack, this isn’t a question about installing cabinets or rerouting the plumbing. I don’t need you to make this decision with me. I can handle it alone.”
He wanted to shake her. Scream at her. Tell her she was crazy, that no woman should go through something like this alone. Instead, he reached out and drew her into his arms. “I’m not letting you push me away.”
She wriggled out of his grasp. “And I’m not letting you take care of me this time. You’ve done it all my life. You’re not doing it now. I’m a big girl.”
“Alex—”
She shook her head and backed up, putting distance between them that seemed like miles. What had happened to them? How had their relationship fallen into this crevice that he couldn’t seem to close? “No, Mack. Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t support you? Don’t be your friend? Because I’m telling you, Alex, lately it’s getting pretty damn hard to read you.”
“And what about you? Every time I turn around, we end up in bed, or somewhere close to it. What do you want from me?”
He caught her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? I want you.”
“For what, Mack? For a night? A week? A month?”
He took in a deep breath. God, he missed her. Missed having Alex close to him, having her to talk to, to be with, to laugh with. Maybe if he could find a way to recoup that, they’d be able to rebuild what they had lost. Because if there was one person he couldn’t stand to lose, it was Alex. “What if I said…forever?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t rescue me again just because I’m pregnant.”
“Is that what you think this is?” He scooped her into his arms and kissed her, hard and sure. One fast, sea
ring kiss that rushed heat through his veins and ignited sparks in every ounce of his body. Enough to remind her of what had happened that night in the pool, but not so much to distract them from what was important right now.
Mack broke away from her. Alex’s green eyes had darkened, her breathing had roughened. “Do you think that’s about rescuing you?” he asked. “Or wanting you so badly I can’t even see straight every time you walk into a room?”
“Mack, don’t play with me—” She shook her head, turning away, tears welling in those eyes that seemed to want him just five seconds ago. What was he doing wrong?
“Is it that hard to believe someone would love you, Alex, really love you?”
“No, Mack. It’s just hard to believe anyone would love me…and be there tomorrow.”
He took her hands again in his, clasping them tight, his thumbs tracing a pattern over the backs. “Alex, if anyone would be there tomorrow, it would be me. I’ve loved you since first grade.”
“You’ve never committed to a long-term relationship in your life, Mack Douglas. Why should I think it would be different this time?”
He let out a gust of frustration. Why did she keep pushing him away? “Is it really that, Alex? Or are you just coming up with a convenient reason to avoid making a commitment? Because I wouldn’t be calling this kettle black, until you’ve taken a look at the color of your own.” He tipped her chin, and peered deeply into her eyes. “You’ve never settled down with anyone, not really. And here I am, offering a lifelong commitment, and you’re running like a jackrabbit on the first day of hunting season.”
“Because you don’t love me that way, Mack. You just think you do.” She touched his face, her hand gentle against his cheek. “You love me as a friend, not as a man really loves a woman. I don’t want a man who marries me because he wants to take care of me. I want a man who marries me because he can’t live without me, because he is head over heels in love. Because he can’t imagine anything better than spending the rest of our lives together.”
“What if I said I wanted that, too?”
“Did you want to marry me five minutes before you walked into this room?”
“What does that matter? I want to marry you now.”
She let out a long breath, and her eyes filled with a sad wisdom. “Thank you for wanting to play Prince Charming,” she said, drawing her hands out of his grasp and pulling away in ways that went far beyond physical distance, “but I’m holding out for the real thing.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Renee stood in the motel room, her shirt on the floor, her mouth on a man’s mouth, his hand kneading her breast through the lace of her bra—
And hated herself.
She kept waiting for that spark to light. For the fire of desire she had felt a hundred times with Bill Rhinehart to roar to life, but her gut remained as cold as a ball of ice, and no matter how much she kissed him back, no matter how many times his hands roamed over her body, she felt…
Nothing.
She broke away from Bill and backed up two steps. “I can’t.”
He let out a huff of impatience. “Renee, what’s wrong?”
The implied words he left off: this time.
“I can’t do this. I can’t sleep with you.”
His mouth worked, as if he was chewing his impatience. “Why?”
Renee grabbed her sweater off the floor and pressed it to her chest. She suddenly felt more naked than she had five seconds earlier. “I thought I wanted you, Bill. I really did. But what I wanted…” She inhaled, trying to find the words, to capture the last three months in a single sentence. “Was simply to feel wanted.”
He moved closer, smiling, and for the first time, Renee noticed how big his teeth were. Almost bucktoothed.
“I want you, Renee. Believe me, I want you.”
One glimpse at the bulge in his trousers proved that. All Renee would have to do was put her hand on that and she could have a man making love to her. But she didn’t want just any man making love to her. She wanted a man who loved her. A man who knew her, faults and all.
She wanted, quite simply, her husband.
The problem was, she’d already ended things with Tony. Either way, she wasn’t going to make a bad situation worse.
“Thank you, Bill,” Renee said, sliding her sweater over her head. She took one last look around the room. Bill hadn’t even splurged on this. The place was cheesy, cheap, just two double beds with scratchy comforters, cheap art deco paintings and threadbare carpet. This was what she’d considered choosing over her marriage? Why? What had she been thinking? Renee grabbed her purse off the nightstand and picked up her high heels.
“Thanks for what?” Bill nearly spat out the words, his face red with anger. “We didn’t even do anything.”
She smiled, then grasped the door handle. “Exactly.”
Before fixing him up with Alex, Mack had liked Steve. Considered him a good friend. The kind he’d grab a couple of beers with, hang out at a game with. But now that Steve was dating Alex, and was, at this very moment out somewhere alone with her, doing God only knew what, Mack hated Steve’s guts with the kind of passion normally reserved for vermin.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad.” Mack sailed the paper plate with the slice of pepperoni across the piece of plywood they were using as a makeshift kitchen table. Their usual Tuesday night dinner, this time served in Alex’s house, with the two of them sitting on overturned five-gallon buckets. Chester lay at their feet, nibbling on the crusts. Not exactly gourmet fare, but considering both of them had all the cooking skills of a monkey, takeout was the safest and tastiest option. The pizza reminded him of the night Alex had brought him two large pepperonis. The same night they had made love for the first time.
Mack pushed away his plate. Damn. At this rate, he was never going to eat again.
“I mean it,” Roy said. “Are you getting any sleep at night?”
“Not much.”
“You could kick her out, you know.”
“And you could mind your own business.” He drew the plate back and took a few bites, if only to avoid the subject.
“I’m your father. I’m supposed to tell you what to do.”
“Until I’m eighteen.”
“That assumes you were a grown-up at eighteen.” Roy gave him a grin, then reached for another piece of pizza.
Mack toyed with his can of soda, weighing whether he should tell his father that he had seen Emma in the True Value. What good could come of that, really? Emma hadn’t come by to see her husband, and telling him that his wife was in town would only reopen a wound that had barely healed. His father would likely retreat to the seclusion of the basement again.
“So, are you ever going to finish this house, or what? It’s the project that never ends.” He gestured at the piles of construction supplies and tools stacked up around the room.
“You could help. Then I’d have a second pair of experienced hands.”
Roy waved him off. “You have a crew. Let them help you.”
“I can’t pull them off a paying job to put them on Alex’s house.”
“Because she isn’t paying you, is she?” His father wagged a finger at him. “I told you, it’s a losing proposition. You shouldn’t get involved. Trouble all around.”
“She offered, but I wouldn’t take the money.” Mack shrugged. “I owe her.”
“For what?”
Mack didn’t answer. Just kept eating his dinner.
“Boy, aren’t you Mister Talkative?”
Mack arched a brow. “Since when did you become interested in conversation? Usually I can’t get more than three words out of you when I see you. And I visit you a lot.” He reached for another piece of pizza. “Hey, where’d all the pizza go?”
Roy patted his stomach. “Gut National Bank, that’s where. You should have bought two. And as for conversation, well, it’s too damn quiet around my house. A man can
only watch Pat Sajak so many times before he starts shouting vowels in his sleep.”
That was as close to an admission that his son had been right that Roy would make, but Mack would take it. “Then get out more. Go on a date or something.”
Roy pushed off from the table and crossed to the coffeepot. He started slamming the pieces together, dropping the grounds into the holder with all the finesse of a bulldozer. “I don’t need a date.”
Okay. Wrong thing to suggest. “Dad, you gotta do something with yourself. This is the second time you’ve been here, so I’m taking that as a sign that you actually do want to pitch in, whether you grumble and moan or not. I’ve got to tile the downstairs bathroom tonight. So, you want to help or just eat all my dinner?”
“I’ll help you.” Roy gave his son a half grin. “Gotta make sure you remember which side goes down.”
“Are you ever going to let me forget that?” The first time his father had left him alone to work on a tile floor—and Mack had screwed it up within five minutes.
“Hey, you lay a floor upside down and it’s a memorable experience.”
“Dad, I was twelve. Cut me some slack.”
Roy grinned, flicked on the coffeepot, then clapped his son on the shoulder. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll cut the tiles for you.”
As they headed off to the bathroom, Chester staying behind to polish off any pizza crumbs, Mack counted his blessings. Finally, his father was smiling. Excited about something. Granted, it was just a box of ceramic tiles, but it was a start.
A few minutes later, they had drawn the chalk lines for the first few tiles, mixed up the mortar and begun the job. Roy had laid enough tile in his career that he no longer used spacers and could fit in the squares entirely by eye. Mack had offered to do the grunt work, the bending over and laying of the ceramic floor, but once Roy got his hands on the materials, he’d seemed anxious to do the work.
“Do you think that was her?” Roy asked as he slid a twelve-by-twelve tan tile into place.
