Saving Sara (Redemption #1)

by Nicola Marsh

  Tam never admitted to any weakness. Never showed a flaw. She was tough, resilient and fiercely independent. A ballbreaker, she’d said they called her at work, and Tam was proud of it.

  So for her to admit to jealousy . . . Cilla had heard the loneliness in her daughter’s voice and it made her want to jump in her car and drive to New York City.

  Neither had ever tried to breach the yawning gap between them. The fact Tam had called back to apologize was huge and gave Cilla renewed hope they could mend their fractured relationship.

  In the meantime, she had a handsome young man cooking her dinner tonight and she’d dithered long enough. Her makeup application took forever. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time on her hair and had changed outfits four times, eventually settling on a beaded black skirt that skimmed her calves, a silky cobalt top and suede ebony ankle boots.

  Time to pull up her big-girl panties and see where this thing she’d started with Bryce could go.

  As she stepped out onto the back porch, Olly came tearing around the corner, Jake in tow.

  “Aunt Cilla, guess what? Sara invited me to do art classes with her at the school. And she let me look at her stuff. And I explored her backyard. It was awesome!” Olly hopped from one foot to another, his enthusiasm endearing. “But Uncle Jake’s no good at art—he can only fix things. But he said he’ll take me. Isn’t that cool?”

  “Very,” Cilla said, locking gazes with a bemused Jake over Olly’s head. “I’m heading out now so you can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I have to go inside and wash up because Uncle Jake’s making me sausages for dinner. Yum.” Olly tore inside and Cilla waited until the screen door slammed before approaching Jake.

  “That’s one excited little boy,” she said, observing that Olly wasn’t the only one who had benefitted from Sara’s company.

  She’d never seen Jake look so relaxed. Gone was the tension that raised his shoulders slightly and made his neck muscles bulge. Gone was the perpetual frown that, while faint, was ever-present.

  “He likes Sara.” Jake shrugged. “He’s having a good effect on her too.”

  “And you.”

  Jake glanced away, but not before she saw a tell-tale flare of awareness.

  “I’ve already said this, Jake, but be careful.” She touched his forearm. “You’re all vulnerable right now. Getting too attached may end in heartache.”

  His frown returned and Cilla silently cursed her bluntness.

  “Did it ever occur to you we all need to heal, and that spending time together could facilitate that?”

  With that, Jake stalked inside, leaving her feeling like an ogre.

  Maybe Jake was right. She’d lectured Tam on the phone about needing to find happiness after her past. Jake and Sara and Olly needed the same.

  She poked her head back inside and saw Jake braced at the sink, his back slumped like he struggled with some huge invisible weight. “Sorry.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, stony-faced. “Don’t worry about it.”

  When he didn’t seem inclined to speak further, she managed a terse nod and backed away, wishing she’d kept her big mouth shut before.

  Wanting to put things right between her and Jake, she decided to make a stop before heading to Bryce’s.

  Less than a minute later, she knocked on Sara’s door, hoping she was doing the right thing. When it opened, she knew she was.

  Sara looked years younger, like a weight had shifted from her shoulders. Her expression was softer, more relaxed, than the other times Cilla had seen her.

  “Hi, Cilla.” Sara’s gaze swept her from head to foot. “You look lovely.”

  “Thanks. I have a date,” Cilla blurted, feeling like a fool.

  “That’s wonderful. Hope you have a good time.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Did you want something?”

  Cilla sent a silent prayer to the karma gods that pushing Jake and Sara together was a good thing. “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? Nothing fancy.”

  Sara smiled. “I’d love to. Thanks. Can I bring anything?”

  “Just yourself. See you then.” Cilla waved and headed back to her car.

  If spending an hour or two together could make Jake and Sara look like that, and infuse Olly with excitement, she should be all for it.

  Thirty minutes later, she hoped those karma gods were still looking down on her as she fiddled with her handbag strap outside Bryce’s door, stalling.

  What on earth was she doing here?

  A minute later, after she’d plucked up the courage to finally knock and Bryce opened the door, looking incredible in khaki slacks and a white polo top, she knew.

  She wanted to feel good about herself and this man had the power to do that for her.

  “Hey, Gorgeous.” He snagged her hand, pulled her inside and shut the door with a kick. “You look sensational.”

  She didn’t get a chance to thank him because he kissed her. On the lips. It didn’t last beyond a few seconds, but long enough to addle her wits.

  That was the only explanation for her total capitulation when he tugged her into his arms and hugged her so tight she could feel exactly how glad he was to see her.

  Her first instinct was to pull back but when he nuzzled her neck and inhaled her fragrance, she gave herself over to the pleasure of being embraced by a man.

  When he released her, he appeared unfazed by his obviously aroused state, whereas she could’ve fried eggs on her burning cheeks.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” he said over his shoulder as he strode toward the kitchen.

  “Starving,” Cilla said, staring at his taut butt, knowing it wasn’t for food and feeling foolish because of it.

  “Good. Take a seat at the table and I’ll dish up.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” He moved about the kitchen with the confidence of a man used to cooking.

  Considering the only time Vernon had entered the kitchen was to grab a beer from the fridge, Bryce’s culinary capabilities turned her on even more.

  “Wine?” He placed a pasta dish piled high with steaming fettuccini carbonara in the middle of the table and she didn’t know what made her mouth water more: the delicious aroma of the food or the smell of his clean skin, fresh from the shower.

  “No thanks.” She needed to keep her wits about her—what little of them was left.

  Wine always made her mellow. She hadn’t minded having a glass when they were eating together at the restaurant, but in the intimacy of his home, she couldn’t afford to let down her guard too much. Not when she had no idea how far she wanted to take this.

  “You don’t have to drive home, you know.” He pulled his chair closer to hers and she silently cursed the small table for two. “You’re welcome to stay over.”

  He placed his hand over hers, and for one insane moment she considered it.

  What would it be like to feel his firm body against hers? To run her hands over his skin, his muscles? To have sex for the first time in decades? To wake up in his arms, to find herself naked and vulnerable and feeling every one of her sixty years?

  No, she couldn’t go there yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  “No pressure,” he said, removing his hand and reaching for the pasta.

  Easy for him to say. That’s all Cilla felt whenever she was in his company: pressure. The pressure of expectation. The pressure of not living up to his expectations. Considering she’d reveled in not having to meet anyone’s expectations since Vernon died, she didn’t want or need that kind of pressure. It made her a little crazy.

  She blamed him. This forty-two-year-old suave charmer who’d breezed into her life and turned it upside down.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he said, heaping a healthy serving of pasta onto her plate. “Is being here making you uncomfortable?”

  “Partially,” she admitted, reaching for her fork. She figured if she stuffed her mo
uth with pasta, she wouldn’t have to talk. Or admit how much she liked his intuitiveness.

  “Don’t be. I didn’t invite you here to jump your bones.” He winked. “Not ’til later.”

  “Stop it.” She swatted his arm, her fingers lingering on his biceps a few seconds longer than necessary.

  “Do you really want me to?” He glanced at her hand, still on his arm, and she snatched it away.

  “I’m out of my depth,” she said, her appetite vanishing as she realized they’d need to have this conversation at some point and it had come around sooner rather than later. “So far out it’s not funny.”

  “How about we eat dinner and leave the hard stuff ’til later?”

  Cilla looked into his guileless dark eyes, knowing that later might never come if it were up to her.

  But she found herself nodding and devouring the delicious pasta with renewed gusto. They made small talk. About the hospital mostly. The upcoming fair she was organizing for Sergio. A whole range of innocuous topics that did little to settle her rampaging nerves.

  Because all she could think about throughout the entire dinner was what she would do if Bryce put the moves on her.

  Ludicrous for a woman her age to feel so jittery, but Bryce was confident and gorgeous and skilled, three things she wasn’t in the bedroom.

  If she could remember back that far.

  “Was there something wrong with my cooking?” His eyes twinkled with amusement as if he could see straight through her. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

  “No, I’m just nervous,” she blurted, feeling like a fool as she bustled about, cleaning the table, rinsing plates and stacking the dishwasher.

  “Stop.” He came up behind her and placed his hands on her waist.

  She yelped and spun around, dislodging his hands.

  “Cilla, this is ridiculous. I said I wouldn’t pressure you and I won’t.” He propped against the island bench. “We’ve had a lovely dinner, and I’ve just engaged in the most interesting conversation I’ve had with a woman in years.”

  He took a step closer and gripped her upper arms. “I’ve been completely honest with you right from the beginning. I like you. I want you. But we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  Cilla sighed. That was the problem. She did want to, but had no idea how to go about it.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” she said, so softly it almost came out a whisper.

  He swore. “You could never do that.”

  Their gazes locked and the blazing lust in his made her knees go weak, a second before his mouth slammed onto hers. Commanding and demanding. Compelling and challenging. All she could do was go along for the ride, clinging to his shirt in a world turned topsy-turvy.

  He tasted divine, a heady combination of the pinot noir and spicy undertones of the chilies he’d liberally sprinkled on his pasta. His hands skimmed her back, caressed her hips, grabbed her butt.

  When he started grinding against her, she whimpered, his hardness pressing against her sweet spot. She wanted more. Craved it with every cell in her long-neglected body.

  But when Bryce’s hand slid between their bodies to palm her breast, his fingers rolling her nipple, she froze. Pushed him away.

  And lost it.

  “I can’t do this. I don’t ever think I’ll be able to do this. And having you sweet-talk me over dinners and pay me compliments and pretend like our age difference is irrelevant isn’t helping.” She was shrieking now and didn’t care. She had to get through to him. Had to get him to leave her alone.

  “See this?” She gestured at her body. “Closed up shop over twenty years ago. I don’t need sex. I don’t want sex. And I sure as hell don’t need some young guy pressuring me into feeling worse about myself than I already do.”

  Stricken, he stared at her in wide-eyed shock. “Cilla, please—”

  “Please what? Please don’t go? Please don’t speak the truth?” She held up her hands and backed away. “Just leave me alone.”

  She snagged her bag and made it to the door. “I don’t want to see you again. It’s not you, it’s me. And that’s not some trite line from a rom-com, it’s the sad truth.”

  He didn’t stop her when she flung open the door and made a run for her car.

  He didn’t come after her.

  After the monumental fool she’d just made of herself, she should be thankful for small mercies.

  Instead, she cried the whole way home.

  25.

  Sara stood at the front of the classroom, trying to quell the rising dread that was making her gut burn.

  She should never have agreed to this.

  She risked a glance in the direction of Andy, who stood to the right of the class alongside the windows. His thumbs-up sign of approval did little for her riotous nerves.

  Twenty pairs of curious eyes were fixed on her, like she was about to impart the secret of the perfect artwork.

  She swallowed, wondering what she could say now that she’d already introduced herself, when a hand shot up in the back row.

  “Ms. Hardy, is working with fire and wood dangerous?”

  Just like that, her first art class at Redemption Elementary started.

  The next hour flew by in a blur of questions and demonstrations. She didn’t have time to doubt herself; the kids didn’t let her. They bombarded her with insightful questions and were patient when lining up to try their hand at pyrography. They were polite and sweet and genuinely lovely. And for the first time since Lucy’s death, she found the sound of children’s laughter comforting rather than appalling.

  When the last child filed out of the classroom, Andy perched on the desk she was tidying up.

  “They loved you,” he said, crossing his arms, a speculative gleam in his stare. “Which was great, considering you looked like you were ready to bolt before the class started.”

  “My three-year-old daughter died fourteen months ago and I’ve avoided kids ever since,” she blurted, not to make him feel bad, but because she could finally articulate the truth without it choking her.

  “Hell. I’m sorry.” Bug-eyed, Andy covered his shock with a nervous step forward, like he was about to hug her, before resuming his seat on the edge of the desk. “Just tell me to shut up.”

  “It’s okay.”

  And it was. Because she’d faced one of her greatest fears over the last hour and had come out unscathed. Being around happy children didn’t make her resent them as she’d been afraid it would. Her initial fear of being around kids—how dare they be happy and alive when Lucy wasn’t?—had been replaced with a sense of joy, as though their warmth and vitality could help heal her.

  “If these classes are too tough, we can cancel the rest and—”

  “No, I want to do them,” she said, surprised by how much she meant it. “I enjoyed it and I think the kids did too.”

  He nodded. “I’ve never seen them so animated.”

  “I’m glad.” She continued packing her tools. “I may have another candidate for the class. A six-year-old who’s had a rough time being separated from his mom, and is in town for the summer. Can he join?”

  “Sure. Get his guardian to call me and I’ll email the forms.”

  “Thanks.” Sara slung her portfolio bag over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her wheelie suitcase. “I’ll see you next class.”

  “See you then.”

  Sara felt Andy’s curious gaze boring into her back as she left. He’d been more circumspect than most, not asking how Lucy had died. She’d never gotten used to that, people’s blatant curiosity for the macabre. Apparently no question was off-limits, even for a grieving mother.

  Buoyed by the success of her first art class, she spent the afternoon working on new pieces, losing track of time until she happened to glance at the clock and realized she was due at Cilla’s for dinner in ten minutes.

  After the quickest shower on record, she donned jeans, a pink sweater set and beaded flip-flops. A da
sh of mascara and a slick of gloss added color to her face, but she didn’t have time to do anything with her hair so she snagged it into a ponytail and pinned it loosely at the nape of her neck.

  As she glanced in the hallway mirror on the way out, she halted briefly in surprise. For the first time in a long time, she looked . . . carefree. Young. Stress-free.

  She could attribute her glow to Redemption’s fresh air and organic produce but she knew better. Coming to terms with Lucy’s death, being around children again without falling apart, had done more for her today than anything else.

  Or the faint pink coloring in her cheeks could have something to do with her excitement at seeing Jake over a dinner table, but she preferred her first explanation.

  Humming a song that one of the kids had been singing today, she strolled along her driveway and up Cilla’s, the light spilling from every window in the cottage a welcome sight.

  She liked the peace of the country and the inky darkness that would descend in a few hours. New York City had never been dark, the constant glow lighting the roof of her apartment even when she’d lain in bed, listening to Lucy’s soft snores through the monitor.

  She hadn’t minded it so much then, but not until she’d moved out here did Sara relish nightfall and the certainty that when she closed her eyes, darkness would prevail and the glow of city lights wouldn’t be yet another contributor to her often sleepless nights.

  Wondering if she should’ve brought more than a bottle of wine, she knocked on the door, smiling when she heard the stampede of footsteps signaling an excited kid.

  When the door flung open, Olly grinned at her. “Hi, Sara. Guess what? Aunt Cilla’s made pot roast and veggies.” He screwed up his nose. “I don’t like the veggies so much but I have to eat them or I don’t get any dessert.”

  She adored this little boy with his big brown eyes so earnestly fixed on her. “Want to hear a secret?”

  His eyes widened as he nodded. “What is it?”

  She crooked a finger, smiling when he came closer. “I like dessert much better than veggies too, but if Cilla’s gone to the trouble of cooking for us, we should eat everything on our plates.”