"I do," he said with a grin. "Haven't figured out all the whys and wherefores, but I don't know if love works like that." He traced the line of her brow, ran his finger lightly down her nose. "I just know that with you, I feel complete. Whole. Alive."
She bit her lip at his declaration.
Tell him. Tell him. You know you love him too.
"I wish I could think of something poetic," she said with a self-deprecating laugh, pushing aside the dangerous urge. "Something I can put in my journal."
"I didn't know you kept a journal."
"I keep a lot of things. Old shoes. Single mittens. Grudges."
David laughed again as he leaned back, his rough finger tracing the curve of her ear. "Those are hard to get rid of."
"I've tried. But no one wants them." She sighed lightly. "I know I can give them over to God, but I have a hard time letting go."
His finger slowed. Came to rest at her neck as his expression grew serious. "What kind of grudges do you hold?"
She hesitated, wondering if she should go for the joke or let this be a moment of revelation. He had just told her he loved her even though she hadn't returned the declaration. She owed him more than a glib comment.
"I have a lot of resentment with my mother."
"Was that why it was so hard to make the decision to visit her?"
Tracy nodded, wondering how much further to go. "There's a lot of stuff, history between us. I wanted to see her, yet . . ."
"Is that why you didn't?"
Tracy's heart jumped. "What do you mean?"
David stroked her neck lightly, his gaze on his fingers, avoiding hers. "I didn't have a chance to tell you until now, but your mother came by on Monday afternoon. When you were gone."
"What did she want?" Please don't let her have been drunk. She couldn't have David see the truth. That was how she lost Art.
"To see you. To find out why you didn't stay on Sunday." His deep voice was quiet, but Tracy heard a faint condemnation in it. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and then looked directly at her, his gaze piercing.
Please, Lord, she thought. Not this. Not from David.
She folded her arms across her chest. So now what? Tell him the truth? Watch him run the way Art had? Or introduce the serpent of a lie into their still-fragile relationship and be forever trying to make sure he never found out?
"What did she tell you?" She wasn't going to defend herself. Wasn't going to reveal more than she had to until she had no other option.
David slipped his hand around her neck, as if ignoring her retreat. "She told me that she wanted a relationship with you. And she seemed sad."
Tracy closed her eyes, focusing inward. She didn't want to hear sympathy for her mother in David's voice. He was supposed to be on her side.
"She told me that she wants to change," he continued. "That she's been trusting in God to help her with her struggles."
Tracy pressed her fingers against her eyes. Why wasn't she surprised? Her charming mother was always one step ahead of her. One step ahead of well-meaning neighbors who heard Tracy's side of the story, who saw her alone so often. One step ahead of teachers, social workers, and anyone with authority who sensed a problem and wanted to help.
The only struggle her mother had was trying to find someone to pay for her drinking.
"Did she cry?" Tracy asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"As a matter of fact, she did."
"She's good at that." Tracy looked up at David as the first chill of fury crept around her consciousness. "I used to envy her ability to cry on command, drunk or sober." She didn't mean to come across as unfeeling and harsh. But the surprise on David's face showed her she had done exactly that.
"I think she was sincere." David moved across the seat, drew Tracy's hands into his own. "She said she misses you."
Tracy looked down at his fingers with their blunt tips, the long white scar that ran down from his thumb to his wrist. He'd told her he'd gotten it when he and a friend were playing soldiers with his mother's steak knives. When he'd come stumbling into the kitchen, blood pouring from his hand, his mother had nearly fainted. Still feeling shaky, she had driven him to the hospital, weaving all over the road. David chuckled when he'd told her, saying that his mother's driving scared him far more than the cut had.
After he was done, he looked at her with a sense of expectation—as if it was now her turn to tell him something from her childhood.
Tracy did have stories similar to David's. Only her mother's erratic driving was because she was drunk. Not the kind of thing she wanted to share. Any other stories were best left where they were. She'd pushed them into the past, and they were better left there. It was the only way she knew of keeping herself from becoming too bitter.
"You don't have other family, do you?" he pressed.
"Not that I'm aware of." Tracy aimed for a light tone. Tried to move away from the dark place of her childhood.
"No grandparents. Uncles?"
Why was he pushing so hard? She didn't want to talk about the past. When a man and a woman expressed their love for each other, there were better things to discuss. Future things.
The earnestness of his gaze pulled a reluctant confession from her. "All I know was that my grandma was a single mom as well . . ." She paused there, thinking of the one time she and Velma had visited her. Her grandmother was also drunk and had been angry with Velma and ignored Tracy. Three years later, she was dead. "My mother didn't even know who my father was. Not for certain anyhow." What a legacy. With each sentence, each question, the difference between her and Heather was growing more pronounced. And she was coming off badly indeed. She forced a light laugh. "Can we please not talk about my mother? Or my lack of family? It's . . . well, a painful subject." The comment sounded slick and insincere, but she had to keep him away from her past. Had to keep herself away from it as well.
"I know so little about you, Tracy. You don't tell me much."
"I just need some time, okay?"
"You can trust me, you know."
As she held his sincere gaze, she knew it was true.
"Then trust me to tell you that my life was not pretty. My mother was an alcoholic. She was gone a lot. She was drunk a lot." Tracy took a deep breath. "There are times I miss her, but mostly I truly . . ." She paused, thinking of Heather. Perfect, loving, Christian Heather. But he had to know. "I didn't have a cozy childhood with parents and family. I spent a lot of time alone. Afraid. And whenever I tried to tell anyone what my life was like, they would talk to my mother and she could charm their concerns away. Of course, I can hardly blame those people. I was charmed by her too. And again and again, I gave her another chance. There were many times I imagined myself as an orphan. Still do. Because then I wouldn't have to deal with her coming in and out of my life. Making me hope that this time it would be different." She stopped again, gathering her emotions and trying to find solid ground. "That Sunday you took me to Freeman, she showed up at the door drunk. Another broken promise. I am not going to let her do that to me again. If I do, then I'm the idiot, aren't I?"
David closed his eyes, as if denying what she had to say. She bit her lip. Looked away.
The high-pitched warble of his cell phone was her deliverance. But he ignored it.
"You should get that," she said, still looking sightlessly out the window.
He waited as it rang again, but shame kept her eyes averted.
So he answered it. She listened to his deep voice speaking curtly to whoever had called. He sounded angry, and she felt as if she was to blame.
But what else could she do? Surely he would understand that she couldn't let her mother hurt her again. She had given everything she could.
Seventy times seven?
She figured she was at least up to four hundred. She didn't know if she could absorb ninety more disappointments.
David ended the call and dropped his cell phone on the seat beside him. Without saying anything to Trac
y, he put the truck into gear and pulled back onto the highway.
The trip to the clinic was quick and silent. Tracy kept her face to the window, resentment slowly burning within her.
You did it again, Mom. Once again you've come between me and a man I love.
Her heart stuttered as hot tears gathered at the back of her throat.
Though she had fought it, she knew she was falling in love with David, after all. And, thanks to her mother, David had gotten to see exactly what kind of unforgiving woman she really was.
When they got to the clinic, she barely gave David time to stop the truck, trying to get out as quickly as possible, but David caught her by the arm. "I'm sorry, Tracy," he said. "I was out of line. Please forgive me."
Tracy turned to him, taken aback first by his apology and secondly by the sad look on his face.
"I'm sorry. For pushing you. It was just that . . ." He reluctantly let go of her. "I feel like it's taking too long to get to know you."
"There's not a statute of limitations on this," she said, his apology giving her the courage to look directly at him. "We won't run out of time."
She couldn't say anything right then, but she didn't want to leave either. Not like this. So she closed the door. Let David pull her to his side. And she rested against him, the security of his arms surrounding her.
He sighed lightly, his breath warm on her hair. "I want you to be happy."
"You make me happy." She laid her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under her fingers. "I don't need much more than that."
And she hoped he would be content with that.
His chest lifted in a long, slow sigh, and then he brushed a kiss over her forehead. "Then that's where we'll leave it."
"And how do you work at resolving problems?" Phillip Measures clicked his pen again, his head bent over the ten-page form lying on the table in Tracy's kitchen.
It was late Tuesday afternoon. Tracy had begged off work early to pick up Kent and to practice for this very interview. But Phillip had shown up early.
Phillip worked with Danielle and, according to her, was a kind and considerate social worker who wouldn't put Tracy on the spot.
But how to answer the question when she had so many problems in her life right now.
Instead, Tracy glanced over at Kent, who lay on his stomach in the adjoining living room, his chin in his hands as he stared at the television. She hated parking him in front of the TV like this, but until she was done with Mr. Measures, she had no choice.
"Miss Harris?" Philip prompted.
"Sorry. Just checking on Kent." Her excuse for her distraction gave her the added benefit of sounding concerned. "I come across problems every day in my work," she answered, focusing her attention on the paper in front of Phillip, scrambling for an answer that sounded good. "I usually pull back from the emotions of the situation and look at my options. Change the things I can and adjust to cope with the things that I can't, or I try to find innovative solutions that will result in a harmonious situation." She sat back and folded her arms across her chest, well-satisfied with the bafflegab she was spewing.
And how did you apply that to your particular problem with your mother?
The faintly accusing inner voice slipped past her veneer of self-satisfaction.
But I did follow my own advice, she countered. My mother won't change. I adjusted to cope with it by deciding not to let her be a part of my life. After all, I have Kent to think of now.
Phillip nodded. Clicked his pen six more times. "I think we've covered most of that section," he said, flipping the paper over.
Tracy glanced at the remaining papers. Two more. In about ten minutes, Kent would be bored and would come into the kitchen to pester her and Phillip. She hoped they were done before that happened.
"We're going to talk now about support systems." Click. Click. Click. "Foster parents are under an enormous amount of stress. Stress from the children and from the natural parents. What I'd like to know is what kind of support you have in place."
Tracy leaned back, her mind suddenly blank. This was where most people would say parents, spouses, kids, that kind of thing.
"Well, I have a close relationship with Danielle, her father, and her brothers." Even though they were guys, they were still supportive. "As a teen, I spent a lot of time there."
Phillip frowned. "Why was that?"
"My mother was gone a lot. When I was alone, Alice became my second mother, the Hemstead home my second home."
"I see."
And what, Tracy wondered, did he see? And why was it that her mother was now popping up in every aspect of her life when Velma had spent so many years blissfully unaware of Tracy's very existence?
"Danielle is my best friend," Tracy continued. "In the time she has worked with child welfare, I've grown aware of what she has had to deal with both with foster parents and with natural parents. She is someone I can depend on for help."
She gave Phillip a chance to write that down. "I belong to a strong church community. I know that if I have any problems, I can turn either to my pastor, my fellow church members, or . . ." She hesitated, feeling self-conscious. She didn't often speak openly about her faith, so this was a little harder.
"Or . . ." Phillip prompted.
"Or I pray about my problems. Bring them before the Lord."
Phillip darted her a quizzical look, which wasn't reassuring. Should she have said that?
"I depend on my Lord for strength," she said, speaking the words aloud with renewed conviction and determination. She crossed her arms, trying to still the flutters in her stomach. Yet a deep peace slipped through her, calming her. To minimize her faith would be to minimize God's love for her. And to minimize her dependence on God would be more pride than she dared indulge in.
Thankfully, she watched Phillip give her a careful smile. "That's good." He looked back down at the paper. "And your parents. I take it they are deceased?"
"No. My mother is still alive."
"What is your relationship like?"
Tracy blinked, taken aback by this line of questioning. She thought she had deflected him from her mother, but obviously not.
"Is this important?"
"It's not essential, but it is part of the information I need to gather from you."
Tracy took a deep breath, reminding herself that he was just doing his job. "My mother and I have a complex relationship. She wasn't supportive when I was younger." Translation—not around. "I haven't seen her for a while, though she has just moved back to Freeman. I don't see that as relevant."
Phillip just shrugged. "Maybe not." He wrote something down, but Tracy couldn't read his handwriting.
"She's not a part of my life. I mean, she has had a few problems, but I'm thankful I've overcome that."
And if she didn't stop talking, she'd be giving him a play by play of a typical evening in the Harris household after one of Velma's many drinking binges.
You're not a criminal, Tracy reminded herself, pressing her arms tighter against her chest as Phillip clicked and wrote. You're not on trial. It's just a bunch of questions. Formality.
But it still brought out a latent anger with her mother and, as she looked at Kent, who was giggling at the cartoon he was watching, also with Kent's mother.
"Would you have a problem working with Kent's mother?"
"Yes, I would." The answer had jumped out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
"I mean, I wouldn't normally," she amended hastily, her thoughts and words tripping over themselves in her rush to clarify. "Though right now, his mother is in the hospital, so of course that would be a problem. I mean, a problem in terms of working with her." Oh boy. She was digging herself in deeper.
Phillip just nodded and wrote, and Tracy slumped down in her chair.
She had to learn to separate her disappointment with her own mother from her disappointment with Kent's mother.
&n
bsp; "And you are employed full-time?"
This was more neutral territory. "I work at the vet clinic. I've supplied my bosses there as a reference."
"And you understand you'll have to undergo a criminal-record check?"
"Yes."
Phillip folded the last of the papers over and tucked his pen into his pocket. He glanced over at Tracy, giving her a quick smile as he got up. "I'll pass this on and we'll let you know what happens."
She returned his handshake, gave him what she hoped was an appropriate smile. As soon as the door closed behind him, she dropped against it, her bones feeling like overcooked spaghetti.
It was done. She had said what she could. The rest she'd have to leave in God's hands.
For a moment, she wanted to call David. To talk to him. She even pulled her phone out of her pocket. But then she changed her mind. Right now she just needed to decompress.
On her own. Just like she always had.
Chapter 15
"Do you remember what Helen said about the specials?" Tracy glanced at David over her menu.
Without skipping a beat, he said, "On Thursdays, it's tomato and rice soup with chicken quiche." He caught Tracy's puzzled glance and shrugged. "I eat here a lot, okay? Terra is a good cook."
"I'll start worrying about you when you get your own table like Cor and Father Sam over there." Tracy hitched her thumb over her shoulder at the table where the two older men usually sat.
It was early afternoon, and they were killing time between a difficult caesarean section on a Holstein cow and their appointment with Danielle to discuss Kent's case and his future. Tracy couldn't stop the roiling of her stomach. When David had suggested lunch, the only thing that made her agree was the idea of catching a little bit of private time with him, something Tracy found she couldn't get enough of with David.
Every day they spent together, every conversation proved again that what she shared with David was much more than she ever had with Art. The thought made her both immensely happy and immensely frightened.
Vulnerable again.
She looked at David, smiling as his eyes caught hers. It was different with David. He was the kind of man who would be there for her.
A Silence in the Heart (Holmes Crossing Book 4) Page 16
