by Irene Hannon
It tasted like sawdust.
Just when she thought he was going to ignore her, he turned his head and gave her an accusatory look. “You don’t talk to Grandpa.”
Blindsided by his comeback, she fumbled for her milk and took a swig, trying to dislodge the muffin that had stuck halfway down her throat.
“That’s different.” It was a lame response, and she knew it.
The slight curl of Brian’s lips before he refocused on the ceiling told her he did, too. “Right.”
Trying to regain her footing, Heather squeezed a piece of the muffin into a hard, doughy ball. It felt like the lump in her stomach.
How had he managed to turn her words around on her? Refusing to talk to someone was immature—unless there were good reasons. And she had plenty of those when it came to her father. Brian’s refusal to talk to her, on the other hand, was based on guilt by association. He was mad at his mom for sending him to Nantucket, and Heather was her ally. The situations were completely different.
Weren’t they?
Of course they were, she assured herself.
But his comment did give her the opening she needed to try the empathy tactic she and J.C. had discussed.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your grandfather and me.” Somehow, despite her nervousness, she managed to maintain an even, conversational tone.
He didn’t say anything, but he did give her a wary look.
“When I was fourteen, my mom and dad split, just like yours did. Not only that, but Mom and I moved here, which turned my whole world upside down. I left behind the house I’d always lived in, all my friends and all the places I liked to hang out. I felt like my whole life was out of control, and I was very angry.”
She set the glass back on the table. “My dad did what your dad has done many times. He broke his vow to remain true to his wife. That changed my life forever. Thanks to him, I ended up here, away from everything I knew.”
“But you like it here.”
That was true, Heather acknowledged. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Now. But that was beside the point. “I didn’t in the beginning. The thing is, Brian, it’s normal to be mad when people disrupt your life. I know exactly how you feel, because I’ve been there.”
“Then how come Mom doesn’t get it? Grandpa’s her dad, too. I don’t think she ever felt this way.”
“She was already away at college, creating her own life apart from the family, when everything fell apart. So the breakup didn’t affect her as much.”
He shifted onto his side, propped his elbow on the pillow and rested his head in his hand, a frown creasing his brow. “I guess I should be mad at Dad, like you are at Grandpa. But I don’t want to be mad at him. He’s always been a good father, you know?”
Yes, she did. Walter Anderson had been a good father, too. Unlike a lot of dads, whose business commitments seemed to take precedence over family, he’d always been there for the events in the lives of his daughters. School plays, soccer games, piano recitals. Even report card conferences. He’d never failed to show up.
All at once, a long-buried memory from her eighth-grade father/daughter dance surfaced. The two of them had practiced dance steps in the kitchen for weeks, her father patiently helping her master a few basic moves despite her thirteen-year-old gawkiness. She’d been confident they would impress everyone.
Instead, during the opening dance, she’d tripped in her brand-new first pair of heels and plopped on her bottom before her dad could save her.
She’d been mortified. Had begged her father to take her home. But he’d guided her into a quiet corner, and while she dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief, he’d given her some advice.
“What happened out there isn’t the end of the world, Heather. Most mistakes aren’t. You have to learn from them, let them go and try again. Most of the time you’ll get another chance to make them right.”
And after coaxing her back onto the dance floor, he’d ended up salvaging the evening.
That was the kind of dad he’d been. And Heather had loved him for that. Respected him. Looked up to him.
Perhaps that was why his betrayal had hurt so much.
And why she’d never been able to forgive him.
“So should I be mad at Dad?”
Brian’s question pulled her back to the present. Reminding her that this conversation was about him, not her.
Stuffing the memory back into a corner of her heart, she considered her answer. It would be easy to say yes. And a specific focus for his anger might be helpful. Peter deserved his enmity after what he’d done to destroy his family.
But for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to offer that advice.
“You don’t have to be mad at anybody, Brian. But you need to try to understand why your mom did what she did. When people get married, they promise to stay true. They trust each other to honor that vow. After someone breaks it, the trust goes away. And it’s very hard to rebuild that. Maybe it can be done if it happens once. But it happened more than that with your dad.”
“Yeah. Mom told me.” He traced the pattern on the comforter with his finger. “Why did he have to do that, anyway? Everything was so good before.”
“Some people find temptation hard to resist. I guess that’s what happened with your dad. But getting into trouble isn’t going to make things better for you, Brian.” She leaned forward. “Your mom told me that some of the guys you were hanging around with at home just got busted for marijuana possession.”
His head jerked up, and his eyes widened. “I never did anything like that.”
“That’s good to know. But if you’d been with them when they got caught, you’d be in big trouble. Trouble that could affect the rest of your life. None of us want that to happen. And we’ll do whatever we can to help you get through this tough time. Because we love you, Brian.”
He blinked and once again dipped his chin to study the comforter. “That’s what that cop said last night. Among other things.”
Heather hadn’t heard every word J.C. had spoken to Brian when he’d had the teen pinned against the wall, but she wasn’t surprised he’d given him some straight talk. He wasn’t the type to beat around the bush.
“I’d listen to him if I were you. He’s seen plenty on the street. Before he came here, he was an undercover detective in a pretty tough neighborhood in Chicago. And he’s been responsible for his younger brother and sister since he was eighteen. I know he had some problems with his brother when he was your age. So he knows what he’s talking about.”
Brian digested that. “He told me I needed to get a handle on my anger.”
“That’s good advice.”
“I don’t know how to do that.” He blinked and swiped at his eyes. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my stomach’s in knots. All I want to do is get up and break things.”
Heather reached over and touched his arm. “I’ll tell you what. While you’re here, if you start to feel that way, come and find me. No matter what time it is. And we’ll try a hug instead, okay?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Yeah. I guess.”
“You want to start now?”
“I’m not mad.”
Heather smiled. “You can hug when you’re happy, too.”
Rising, she set her plate on the chair and moved to the bed. Sitting beside him, she held out her arms.
He hesitated. But only for a second. Then he sat up and leaned over to give her an awkward bear hug with his gangly adolescent arms. “I’m sorry about breaking your cups, Aunt Heather. And for shoving you last night.”
The words were muffled against her shoulder, but Heather heard them loud and clear. And the coil of tension that had been building inside her since his arrival began to unwind.
“We’ll make a fresh start, okay?”
“Okay.”
He released her, and she stood to gesture toward the tray on the dresser. “I’d hate for those blueberry muffins to go to waste.”
&
nbsp; “I thought you said no food in the room?”
She smiled. “There are always exceptions.” She picked up her plate and sat back in the chair by the door. “I brought five. And I’ve had a head start.” She took a bite out of her muffin.
Brian grinned and swung his legs to the floor. “I eat fast.”
As he moved to the tray and plopped two muffins on a plate, Heather chewed the bite she’d taken.
And this time she had no difficulty swallowing it.
If all continued to go well, maybe there would be smoother sailing ahead.
J.C. yawned and stretched. He had an hour before he had to report for the night shift. A good opportunity to jot his weekly note to Nathan. Although Marci might be right, and Nathan might be pitching them, unopened, if nothing else their steady arrival would remind him that someone cared. And was thinking about him. That, and prayer, was about all he could do for his brother at this point.
A gust of wind rattled the shutters on his cottage, and rain hammered on the roof. It should be a quiet night crimewise, he reflected as he retrieved some notepaper. Even troublemakers wouldn’t be inclined to venture out into this storm.
Just as he sat down at the café table and picked up his pen, a flash of lightning strobed the sky. The lights flickered, followed by a splintering noise. Moments later, the explosive sound of shattering glass ripped through the night.
And it was close.
Very close.
Springing to his feet, J.C. opened his door and peered outside. Edith’s house looked okay, from what he could see through the darkness and slashing rain. He leaned farther out and checked on The Devon Rose.
As he did so, another flash of lightning illuminated the sky.
The breath jammed in his throat.
A large piece of the towering maple tree in Heather’s garden had been sheared off and had fallen against the house. Her bedroom window had been obliterated. And obviously broken.
J.C. had no idea how the furniture in the room was arranged, but if her bed was anywhere near that window, the broken glass could have…
He cut off that line of thought. Speculation was useless. Instead, he shoved the door shut behind him and sprinted out of Edith’s yard, heading toward the entrance to The Devon Rose.
He covered the distance in record time, yet as he pounded on her door, every second felt like an eternity.
When at last it was thrown open by Brian, the teen’s pallor and panicked greeting sent his pulse skyrocketing.
“Aunt Heather’s bleeding.”
Without a word, he ran past Brian and took the steps two at a time, zeroing in on the only lighted room on the left side of the hall.
When he reached the doorway, the first thing he noted was that the bed wasn’t next to the window. That was the good news.
The bad news was that Heather was standing on one foot at the end of it, clutching the bedpost, while blood dripped past her bare toes and formed a growing red puddle on the hardwood floor.
A sudden gust of wind blew in the window, bringing with it a spray of rain—and galvanizing him into action.
“Brian, go get me a clean hand towel.” He issued the command over his shoulder as he strode into the room, shards of glass crunching beneath his shoes.
Heather blinked at him, her shell-shocked expression similar to ones he’d often seen on the faces of trauma victims. “J.C.…What are you doing here?”
“I heard the crash, and when I saw the tree against the house, I ran over.” He dropped to the balls of his feet beside her. “Bend your knee.”
She did as he instructed, and he cradled the top of her foot in his hand as he examined the sole.
“I was sleeping when the tree came through the window. I g-guess I wasn’t thinking straight when I got up. I should have realized there would be glass all over the floor. Pretty d-dumb, huh?” She tried to joke, but a telltale quiver ran through her voice.
“Is this okay?” Brian appeared at his shoulder and thrust a towel at him.
J.C. took it. “Yeah.”
There was too much blood to assess the cut on her heel, so he wrapped her foot in the towel, tucked the end under and stood. “I need to wash this off and get a look at it in better light. Where’s the bathroom?”
“At the end of the hall,” Brian offered.
Heather started to put her foot on the floor, but J.C. restrained her with a touch. “Not a good idea until we see how deep that is. I’ll carry you down there.”
A flicker of panic sparked in her eyes, and she eased back slightly, as she’d done in their early encounters. “I can walk.”
He gentled his tone and tried for a smile. “Be practical, Heather. I’d hate to have you bleeding all the way down the hall, and that’s what might happen if the cut’s deep.” He saw her resolve wavering. “Come on. It’s not every day I get to rescue a damsel in distress.” He winked, trying to put her at ease as he moved closer. “Put your arm around my neck.”
She hesitated, then complied.
Bending, he tucked one arm under her knees and the other under her back as he swept her up against his chest.
Her eyes widened. “You’re wet.”
She was right. His black T-shirt was clinging to him like a second skin. “Sorry. It’s pouring outside, and I didn’t stop for a jacket.”
With her arms looped around his neck, and her face mere inches away, J.C. saw several things he’d never noticed before. She had a very faint but endearing sprinkling of freckles across her nose. There were little flecks of green in her hazel irises. And her lips looked full, soft—and eminently kissable.
Clearing his throat, he yanked his gaze away and strode down the hall. Needing a distraction, he turned his attention to Brian. There were headphones around the teen’s neck, the cord dangling down the front of the T-shirt he wore over his gym shorts. And he was still way too pale.
“Would you get the bathroom light for me, Brian? And find me a clean washcloth?”
The teen hurried ahead and flipped the light switch, moving out of the way as J.C. went through the door sideways and set Heather carefully on a small vanity chair. She was trembling now. From reaction? Shock? Cold?
It could be the latter, he speculated, taking in her attire for the first time. She wore some sort of knee-length peach-colored thing, with a modest neckline and skinny straps that bared her shoulders—and shimmered every time she breathed.
Yeah, that could make her cold.
But it was having the opposite effect on him.
Focus, J.C., focus, he reminded himself sternly.
Brian reappeared with the washcloth, and J.C. moved to the sink to rinse his hands. Toweling them dry, he cleaned the blood off Heather’s foot and assessed the cut on her heel.
“How bad is it?” She still sounded shaky.
“Long but not too deep. We can go to the E.R. if you want to, but I don’t think it will need stitches if I bandage it well. Do you have any first-aid supplies?”
“Yes. Downstairs, in the cabinet next to the kitchen sink. I’d rather try that. I’m not in the mood to spend hours in the E.R.”
“I’ll get them,” Brian offered.
“Thanks.” J.C. gave him a quick smile.
As the teen exited, J.C. raised an eyebrow at Heather and lowered his voice. “Do I detect a change in attitude? Or is it a temporary improvement due to the emergency?”
“We had a long talk this morning.” She glanced toward her foot, which remained cradled in his hand, and swallowed. “I shared how I felt when my parents broke up, and that seems to have opened the lines of communication.”
The sound of someone bounding up the stairs cut off their conversation, and seconds later Brian appeared, carrying a large plastic box with a red cross on the top.
“See if there’s some kind of antiseptic ointment in there,” J.C. instructed. He could do it himself, but he was enjoying the delicate feel of Heather’s foot in his hand. “We also need gauze and tape. And butterfly bandages, if you
find any. They’ll be labeled.”
After rummaging around, the teen withdrew all the items J.C. had asked for, including several packets of the specialty bandages.
“Good,” J.C. praised. “Now wash your hands. I’ll need your help.”
As the teen complied, J.C. applied antiseptic to the cut and opened three of the bandages. When Brian was ready, J.C. eased the edges of the laceration together. “I need you to hold your aunt’s foot like this while I put the bandages on.”
Brian did as instructed while J.C. positioned the bandages. Afterward, he stepped aside to watch as J.C. covered the cut with a sterile pad and secured it in place with roller gauze.
“Is there any aspirin or pain reliever in there?” J.C. tipped his head toward the first-aid supplies.
“Yes.” Heather leaned over to rummage through the box, withdrawing a bottle.
“I’d advise taking some. This may begin to throb.” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled a paper cup out of the dispenser beside the sink, filled it with water and handed it to her. “Do you have any sheets of plastic? I’ll block that window off for you as best I can.”
Heather downed the aspirin. “Aren’t you on nights this week?”
“Yes.” He checked his watch. He was supposed to be on duty in half an hour. “I think I can get a thirty-minute reprieve. It shouldn’t take longer than that to get the window covered if Brian helps. You willing?” He turned toward the teen.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“There’s some plastic in the basement,” Heather said. “Near the furnace. I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble, J.C.”
“No problem. Is there another bedroom you can sleep in?”
“My mom’s room. It’s next to the bathroom, on the other side of the hall.”
“Let’s get you settled before we work on the window.” Leaning down, he once more swung her up into his arms. “No walking on this foot until tomorrow, okay? I’ll check it for you when I get off duty.”
He couldn’t help noticing that the bodice of her gown was shimmering like crazy, thanks to her shallow, rapid respiration. And a man could get lost in those tender, appealing eyes…
“J.C.?”