A Promise to Keep

by Susan Gable

“That’s right,” Hayden murmured to her as the color drained from her face. “Head up. You’re doing great. Ignore them.” Once she was in the Camaro, he circled around the front. Seeing some of them heading for their own vehicles, he backed onto the street and stomped on the gas.

  Three blocks later, he made an abrupt right turn onto a side road, and started weaving through neighborhoods. Ronni braced herself against the dash. “Easy, Speed Racer. Let’s get to the nursing home in one piece, huh?”

  Hayden made another turn. “Yeah, we will. First, though...” He gestured to his tank top and running shorts. “I need a quick shower and change.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Thought it was some dirty gym clothes in the back that smelled so ripe.”

  “That’s the smell of man, babe. I know it’s been a while, so I understand why you don’t recognize it.”

  She snorted, a small smile playing on her lips.

  Immensely satisfied by what felt like a huge victory, Hayden checked the rearview mirror. From what he could see, no one had followed them.

  Which was good, because he certainly didn’t need them finding his place.

  ###

  They pulled into a condo complex near the mall. Ronni stared at the maze of cookie-cutter brown buildings. They drove around to the back. Hayden jabbed a button on the visor, and the garage door of a unit toward the end went up. He steered the car into it. “Don’t get out until the door closes. I don’t think anyone followed us, but still...”

  “Okay.”

  Once the door shut out the morning sunlight, they both climbed from the car. In the forward right corner of the basement garage, Hayden’s white-and-silver motorcycle glistened under the overhead light. A far cry from Ian’s dusty bike she’d seen in the garage at the Hawkins’ home yesterday. Several empty storage racks stretched across the front wall, along with a washing machine and dryer. Hayden yanked his tank top over his head and dropped it on the floor beside the washing machine, then immediately started up the stairs.

  Leaving her to follow, staring gape-mouthed at the muscles in his back. Not to mention the play of his glutes in the formfitting spandex running shorts.

  Not an ounce of fat on him. The devilish urge to pinch his butt had her reaching forward. At the last second, she controlled it, withdrawing her hand. The door at the top of the stairs spilled them out into his kitchen. He leaned into the fridge, grabbing a bottle. Guzzling the blue contents, he turned to face her.

  A black band encircled his left bicep, accentuating the ripped muscles there. Prominent veins ran down his arms.

  A bead of sweat broke loose from his collarbone and traveled south over an eight-pack washboard stomach so fine women undoubtedly wept at his feet.

  Reasonably fit as a teenager, he still hadn’t looked like that the last time she’d seen him shirtless. “The Marines really agreed with you, huh?”

  He looked confused, followed her gaze down. A slow, predatory smile made the dimples on either side of his mouth appear. “Think so?” He flexed, making his pecs jump.

  She shook her head. Oh, yeah, he personified the boy your mother had warned you about. Her mother had, anyway. Had warned her about both rowdy, good-looking Hawkins boys. She’d reminded Ronni of that repeatedly after the pregnancy confession.

  And while Ronni might change how it had turned out, especially losing her relationship with her parents, she wouldn’t give up getting involved with Ian for the world.

  “Make yourself at home,” Hayden said. “Give me ten minutes.” He strode from the kitchen, his feet pounding up another set of stairs. A minute later, running water gurgled through pipes overhead.

  Curious, and with nothing better to do, she opened cabinet doors. He apparently owned dishes only for two—two white bowls, two square plates, two rocks glasses. The silverware was the same, thrown loose in a drawer. Not a pot, not a pan...

  The refrigerator held mostly bottles—sports drinks, orange juice, water and dark ale. Foam containers bearing Finn’s restaurant name, Fresh, sat side by side with Tupperware bowls.

  Other than the packaged leftovers—not junk food by any means, but various veggie and meat combos—little resembling actual food besides a jar of all-natural peanut butter and a loaf of whole wheat bread could be found in the kitchen.

  A small square table, its surface marred with scratches, occupied the far wall. Neither chair matched its dark wood—or each other.

  The water stopped running overhead as she wandered into the living room, which featured a gas fireplace in the corner. As for the rest of the room... “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  His “furniture” consisted of a wall mounted widescreen television, a zero-gravity lawn chair and a rickety TV tray that held the remote control and an empty dark brown bottle.

  Stereo speakers perched in each corner of the room near the ceiling. Beneath the television, a small black shelving unit held the cable box and stereo.

  This wasn’t a condo. It was a man cave all the way.

  She was still standing in stunned amazement when he barreled down the stairs, dragging a polo shirt over his head. She swung her attention to him. He pulled to an abrupt stop halfway to the kitchen. “What?” he asked, looking down at his clothes. “Is my fly open?”

  Which, of course, made her check the zipper on the snug, faded jeans. Her cheeks warmed. She snapped her gaze upward. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Please tell me you’re not sleeping on a mattress on the floor.”

  For a split second, his expression grew somber. Then he gave her a half grin, shrugging. “Hey, I’ve only been here a month. And no, I’m not sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I have a bed and everything.” He raised both eyebrows, leaned toward her. “You wanna see?”

  A wave of warmth flowed over her. Idiot. Don’t be flattered. Mr. Flirt would say that to any female. “Pass, thanks.”

  “Your loss. If there’s one room in a house I know my way around, it’s the bedroom.” His blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

  She shook her head. “You’re so bad.” And yet he’d managed to make her forget all her problems if only for a few moments.

  “Bad boys have more fun.”

  “Bad boys get into more trouble.” And she had enough of that. She checked her watch. “Let’s get going, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Her husband and son were both waiting for her.

  ###

  “I’ve never lived by myself before,” he found himself blurting to her halfway to the nursing home. They’d spent the rest of the time in silence. He’d mulled over a variety of topics, but that hadn’t been one of them.

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Just that...” The quiet made him crazy? Being alone had turned out to be something he wasn’t very good at? A month in his own place and he was seriously considering asking Kyle to move into the second bedroom now that the squirt had finished law school. But did Hayden really want to confess those things to her? “I never had to furnish a place before. My sisters offered to swoop in and take care of things, but I didn’t want to end up with pink curtains and crap, you know?”

  “Pink curtains would definitely clash with your TV tray.”

  “Yeah. It’s just...” He twitched one shoulder. “I guess I don’t spend a lot of time there. Not so far, anyway. It serves its purpose.”

  “It looks like a college kid lives there. Actually, college kids usually have more furniture than that.”

  “A college kid couldn’t afford my electronics.” Hayden turned the Camaro onto the road leading to the nursing home.

  She lifted the oversize black bag from the floor, cradling it on her lap as she stared out the window. Then groaned, slumping down in the seat.

  “What’s— Son of a...” He tightened his grip on the wheel as they cruised by the line of media people now camped outside the nursing home.

  Hayden pulled into the parking lot, bypassing the driveway that led to the portico at the front entrance, and whipped a
round the back of the building. When he found a green door near a Dumpster, he stopped alongside it, underneath the No Parking sign. “Call them,” he ordered. “Get someone to open this door for us.”

  “Us? You’re coming in?”

  It hadn’t been on his to-do list that morning, but now... “Yes. I’m coming in.”

  Her eyes widened. She looked down at her hands, laced together over her bag. Then she glanced back at him, offering him a tiny smile that seemed more sad than happy. “Thank you.”

  Once again he realized just how alone she was. He might be officially living alone, but he had his entire family at a moment’s notice. Sometimes when he didn’t want them, but still...

  He cupped the side of her face in his palm, brushed his thumb across her cheek, which flushed beneath his caress. “You’re welcome.”

  When she shifted her face to look down again, he removed his hand, let her go. “The call?”

  “Oh, right.” She rummaged in the purse—how the hell could she find anything in there?—finally retrieving her cell. After a short conversation with the staff, they slipped into the nursing home.

  Hayden followed Ronni down the hall. She greeted people by name: Joe, an old man in a ratty blue bathrobe, shuffling down the corridor in his slippers; Helen, a woman with sunken lips, indicating she hadn’t put in her dentures yet that morning; Chris, a staff member pushing a cart laden with covered breakfast trays.

  Beneath the scents of coffee and institutional scrambled eggs, he caught whiffs of cleaning solution.

  He followed Ronni farther into the maze of hallways. The one-story building sprawled in several directions. They crossed through the main foyer, heading down a westward wing.

  He damn near barreled into Ronni when she hesitated outside a door. Her shoulders raised a fraction and her head leveled. She sucked in a deep breath and entered the room. He stayed on her heels.

  “Morning, Scott,” she chirped, dumping her bag on the bed.

  The man strapped into the wheelchair bore only a passing resemblance to the military photo Hayden had studied last night. The eyes no longer carried a hard edge.

  Ronni ruffled Scott’s hair. Not exactly the caress of a lover or a wife. Something more perfunctory. Professional. Detached. But then who could blame her for that?

  “I brought my clippers. You really need a haircut, don’t you? Guess I haven’t been paying close enough attention to it.” She rummaged in the bag, pulling out an assortment of stuff.

  Hayden continued to study her husband. The wide shoulders had shrunk, as had the rest of him. Interesting how they’d both shrunk from their former selves. Scott held his head on an angle, his mouth gaped open at one side. Morning shadow stubbled his chin and jawline.

  And that was where Ronni started. She flicked a button on a battery-powered razor, using one hand to tighten Scott’s skin while she buzzed away his whiskers. Once in a while he made throaty noises, or moved. Not purposefully. More like involuntary muscle contractions, like a twitch.

  Hayden folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, feeling like a voyeur. When she’d finished the shave, she lifted a bottle from the small dresser, dousing her palms with aftershave. The application turned more into a caress this time.

  “There. Now you’re smooth and smell nice. The nurses will appreciate that.”

  Bits of hair fell into the sink in the corner of the room as she shook out the razor’s screen.

  “Why didn’t you go ahead and divorce him, Ronni? I mean...”

  She gestured at Scott. “You have to ask? Look at him. What kind of a woman divorces a man who can’t shave himself? Who can’t even hold the pen to sign the divorce papers? Doesn’t have a clue what planet he’s on, let alone what’s going on in his personal life?”

  Hayden snorted. “Probably a good many of them, especially in your situation.”

  “I’m trying to set a proper example for my son, Hayden.”

  “And prove something to yourself, as well?”

  She shrugged, unfolding a black plastic cape and shaking it in the air. “Maybe.”

  “Doing penance. For Ian.”

  She froze, then turned stricken eyes in Hayden’s direction. Several heartbeats passed. “Maybe.” Fastening the cape behind Scott’s neck, she draped it over his form, hiding the palsied arms, the thin frame. She tucked the edges around his shoulders, then straightened, facing Hayden again. “I’m just trying to do the right thing. After all, he is my husband. I made vows.”

  “Vows he broke. Repeatedly.”

  She shrugged. “For better or worse.”

  “Doesn’t get much worse than this, does it?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t suppose it does.”

  “If he hadn’t been incapacitated?”

  “We’d be long divorced by now.” She ran a comb through Scott’s hair, then picked up her clippers. The tool hummed to life with the flick of her finger, and she raked it over the hair in the comb. In a few short minutes, she’d completed his cut. Wordlessly, she cleaned up her supplies, shaking the cape over a small garbage can, scooping up strands from the floor with her fingers. She washed her hands, then returned to Scott, evaluating her work. “You want to know another ‘worse’ thing?”

  There was more? “Sure.”

  “The only reason I can be sure he’s not cheating on me now is that he’s not capable. Even if he were in this chair because he was paralyzed from the waist down, he’d still find a way to cheat on me. Or at least, I’d suspect it. When trust is broken...”

  “It’s damn hard to repair.”

  A man in blue medical scrubs appeared in the doorway. “Ronni? I’m going to close the door here. Apparently one of those media people got into the building. Mrs. Bernard saw him skulking in the hallway and hit him with her purse. We’re searching for the guy now. We’ll let you know when he’s been removed.”

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  “No problem.” He closed the door.

  Ronni sighed, sinking onto the edge of Scott’s bed.

  “You’re not going to be able to keep avoiding them, Ronni. You’re going to have to make a statement or something. Hopefully that will get rid of them.”

  “What am I going to say?”

  “How about the truth? The public sympathizes with a wronged woman. You’re in good company. And Scott’s in lousy company. Seems like there’s a new celebrity cheating husband crawling out of the woodwork every damn day.”

  She shook her head. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

  Hayden pushed himself off the wall. “Why not? I’m damn near certain that if the tables were turned, this guy—” he gestured at Scott “—or at least, the guy he used to be, wouldn’t hesitate a split second to throw you under the bus.”

  “For Nick. My son loves and looks up to this man. I won’t tarnish that. That’s not what I want him to learn about love and marriage.”

  “Protecting him to protect Nick?”

  She nodded. “You can’t tell him, Hayden. He lost Ian. He’s lost Scott. I don’t want him to lose his respect for the memories he has of Scott, too.”

  “I’m not crazy about keeping secrets, Ronni.”

  “So I hear.”

  “They always come back to bite you in the ass.” But how could he not honor her request to spare her son further pain? Hayden strode around the wheelchair and its occupant to sit on the bed beside her, so close their thighs touched. He took her hand, laced her fingers with his. “Just in case no one’s told you lately—and I’m pretty sure they haven’t—you’re an amazing woman.” Every ill thought he’d had about her since Ian’s death had proved to be wrong.

  “Thanks.” She squeezed his hand.

  “Scott doesn’t know it now, and obviously never did, but he’s one hell of a lucky man. But you deserve better than this, sweetheart.”

  Her thumb slid over Hayden’s, caressing him. Her lower lip quivered, and she looked down.

  “You do.”

  “I don�
��t fold anymore,” she said. “I stay in the game.”

  “I can see that.”

  “That includes dealing with the newly introduced jokers.” She gripped his hand again, then disentangled their fingers. “Fasten your seat belt. I think it’s about to get a little bumpy.”

  “A little bumpy? What the hell do you call the insane turbulence in your life already?”

  “Oh, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She grimaced. “Because I’m about to invoke a Hawkins Family Emergency Meeting.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FIVE DAYS LATER, all the details worked out and everything and everyone in place, Ronni paced the waiting area of the nursing home. Saturday morning. She should have been elbow deep in Mary Martinez’s foils, but no, instead she was here. The week had been just as bumpy as she’d predicted. A number of her regular clients had canceled appointments with her, while other new clients had taken those open slots just to get a look at her.

  She’d caught one woman, who’d turned out to be a reporter, video recording everything using her cell phone propped on the mirror stand in front of her styling chair , for crying out loud.

  The temptation to snip her hair just a little too short had been overwhelming. Ronni had settled for kicking her out with a half-finished cut. Served the woman right.

  After getting his probation officer’s permission, but over her son’s considerable protests, she’d sent Nick to stay with Lydia and Michael, trying to keep him out of range of the cameras. It had been his final week of school before summer break, and his grandparents had been more than happy to haul him back and forth for his finals.

  For this morning, Nick had been farmed out to Finn’s place, where he intended to spend time with Jordan working on some sort of video project. Apparently reporters weren’t the only ones playing with video.

  Vera leaned against the reception desk, toying with the straps on her purse. Hayden’s family, from Alan to Kyle, along with Lydia and Michael, all perched on various seats in the waiting room. From the far side of the space, Judy cast anxious glances Ronni’s way.

  Judy had taken the most convincing, but with her background in PR, had been the most important piece of the plan. After hearing all the gory details, she’d been the one to arrange the press conference for Ronni, and had helped her write the speech.