Rather than protest that he hadn’t gotten dirty, Danny happily fell into step beside her, leaving him standing there, watching the two of them walk off. Just as he’d once walked off with Jane.
Caleb tried to remember the last time he’d seen his son smile like that and couldn’t.
It suddenly dawned on him that Claire knew where the downstairs bathroom was. That made her entirely too familiar with his house. While she had been the “woman of his dreams” for probably half a dozen years, now that he was no longer a wide-eyed, innocent adolescent, he didn’t want this woman—or anyone else—barging into his house and his life.
So why the hell did you let her stay?
There was no doubt in Caleb’s mind that she had somehow orchestrated the situation in order to coax the words out of his mouth. And she had snapped the invitation up like a hungry baby bird at mealtime.
So she’d eat and go, he reasoned, walking to the table. What harm could it do?
He learned the hard way.
Claire didn’t just eat and go. She ate and talked. And talked. And talked. Fashioning conversations that pulled him in, that forced him to contribute. He tried to keep his responses to monosyllabic yeses and nos, but he was badly out-gunned.
As for his son, well for once, Danny sounded closer to the way he’d been before Jane died, something he hadn’t been for the last year.
Caleb knew that was a good thing. He didn’t want Danny to suffer, didn’t want the boy to endure the kind of pain that he did. And if he couldn’t reach out to the boy, Caleb was grateful that at least Claire could.
The Chicken à la King was almost gone, as was the flavored rice she’d made to accompany the main course. She tilted the serving spoon, ready to press it back into use.
“Thirds?” she asked, looking from father to son and then back again.
Danny shook his head, his small hands pressed against his aching abdomen. “Uh-uh, I’m going to explode.”
She grinned. He’d eaten well, she thought with a feeling of triumph. The boy was decidedly too thin. “Can’t have that.” Her eyes shifted over toward Caleb. “What about you? Want another helping or are you going to explode, too?”
Several cryptic responses materialized in his mind, but he let them go. She’d worked far too hard to deserve a sarcastic remark, so he merely shook his head in reply. “No.”
The single word didn’t exactly answer her question in full. This was like pulling teeth. She missed the boy she remembered, the one who used to like to talk to her.
“Does that mean no you’re not going to explode and that you want more?”
“If I’d wanted more,” he informed her evenly, “I would have taken more.”
She looked at his empty plate. He’d had two servings. Had that been prompted by some reserved politeness? He’d made no comment about the dinner. She drew her own conclusion.
“Then you didn’t like it?”
Caleb’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t say that.”
“No,” she agreed, speaking as slowly, as deliberately as he did. She found it quickly tired out her jaw. He was too rigid, she thought, but knew there was no way she could get him to relax. “You didn’t.”
Her expression was a mixture of wistfulness and disappointment, Caleb realized. Watching those emotions pass over her face did something strange and unsettling to his insides. He didn’t like it.
“You didn’t say much of anything,” Claire went on to note.
He could have sworn she was about to add something to that, but then, the next moment, she had turned her attention toward his son, relieving him of the obligation of having to make some sort of response.
“Would you like to help me wash the dishes?” she asked Danny as she brought the last of the dishes to the kitchen and placed them on the counter next to the sink.
Danny eyed her, a bit confused. “We’ve got a dishwasher for that.” He pointed to the stainless-steel appliance that was comfortably seated between the oven and the cabinets below the sink.
“So do I,” Claire told him. “Two of them.” To illustrate her point, she held up her hands. Looking at Danny, she nodded at his hands and added pointedly, “So do you.”
The small, innocent face scrunched. “No, we have a machine.” This time, he opened the dishwasher door, showing her the racks meant to hold the various plates, glasses and utensils.
Very gently, Claire moved aside his hand and closed the door again. “That uses up electricity.” She seated the rubber stopper over the drain, pushing it down to secure the seal. “Besides, I like doing dishes.”
This was obviously something Danny had never considered before. “You do?”
“Yup.” Claire began shifting the dishes into the sink. “Washing dishes gives people a chance just to stand around and talk while they’re getting something accomplished.” She glanced over her shoulder at Caleb. He was standing off to the side, his arms folded before him as he took the scene in silently. As before, the expression on his face locked her out. She hadn’t a clue what he was thinking. “You’re welcome to come join us,” she told him cheerfully.
Danny raised his eyes to his father’s face. He didn’t say a word, but it was clear that he was waiting for an answer. A positive one.
“No” hovered on Caleb’s lips, but a trace of amusement, its roots in a long-ago yesterday, forced it back. He straightened and left the shelter of the doorway. “You’re still bossy, aren’t you?”
Claire examined his question for a moment, giving it honest consideration. She was the soul of innocence when she answered, “I never thought of myself as being bossy. I just take charge.”
Caleb laughed shortly, shaking his head. He walked back into the dining room, then returned bearing the all-but-depleted serving dish. He placed it on the counter, leaving it up to her to dispose of.
“Same thing.”
Her amusement never wavered. Danny’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.
“No, it’s not,” she told Caleb. Taking a smaller bowl out of the cupboard, she transferred what was left of the Chicken à la King into it, then deposited the serving bowl into the sink. “Being bossy is ordering people around for some sort of self-gratification. I just try to get things done in the most efficient way.”
“And you consider washing dishes by hand to be the most efficient?” Caleb asked.
He watched as Danny brought two fistfuls of utensils from the dining room and placed them on the side of the sink. She’d trained the boy with hardly a word, he noted. But then, she’d pretty much done that with him when he was around Danny’s age.
“I do,” Claire said. Swinging the faucet over to the adjoining sink, she turned up the water, testing it. It became hot almost instantly.
She smiled at him, that killer smile that he’d always thought eclipsed everything else. It hadn’t changed, hadn’t faded. He still found himself being pulled in. Just as he had years back. Except that this time around, he recognized it for what it was. Sheer attraction.
And that worried him.
“You know I’m right,” Claire said.
She noticed Caleb’s dumbfounded expression. It was probably going to take him a while before he realized that this little exercise with plates and sudsy water was getting him to interact with his son. But eventually it would dawn on him. Hopefully by then, Caleb would be at least partially on his way to recovery.
Turning her mind to the job at hand, Claire opened the cabinet just beneath. She smiled to herself. In some ways, Caleb was a creature of habit. His mother used to keep the garbage container directly beneath the sink and so did he. She scraped off the plates—although she noted with a sense of pride that there wasn’t all that much to scrape—and then placed the plates into the sink. Finished, she took the utensils that Danny held out to her and then the glasses. The latter, Caleb had gathered.
Progress.
“Where do you keep your dishwashing detergent?” Even as she asked, she crouched down and looked at
the various items stored to the left of the garbage container.
“I don’t,” Caleb informed her flatly. He pointed to a bright green bottle butted up against a spray container of carpet cleaner. “There’s a bottle of detergent for the dishwasher. It’s all I’ve got.”
Undaunted, she nodded. “Good enough. It’s basically the same thing,” she told Danny. He was watching her every move. Impulsively, she gave him a quick, one-arm hug before continuing. He looked surprised, and then pleased.
Which melted her heart.
Taking the detergent out, she turned on the hot water, then poured a capful of detergent just beneath the running stream. Instantly, suds began to form, multiplying at a prodigious rate and spreading out to claim the entire surface within the sink.
She glanced at Danny, who watched the display intently. She caught the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “It’s like a bubble bath for dishes,” she told the boy.
He nodded, mesmerized by the mounting suds that were growing higher and higher by the moment. “Cool.”
This time she did laugh. “You took the words right out of my mouth, Danny.” And then she reached for the sponge. “Okay, assignments.” She looked at the boy. “I’ll wash, you dry.”
Danny picked up the closest dish towel and moved back next to her. He slanted a glance toward his father. “Is Dad going to do anything?”
“Supervise,” Caleb answered. There was finality in his tone.
But Claire had never let a little thing like that stop her. “Supervise is good,” she agreed. And then she eyed Caleb, giving him the benefit of her penetrating green eyes. He would have to have been blind to miss the humor in them. “Putting the dishes away is even better.”
He shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Like I said, bossy.”
Carefully avoiding his father’s eyes, Danny beckoned to her, taking a step back. Inclining her head, she bent down to his level.
“Is he supposed to say that to a teacher?” Danny asked in a hushed whisper, worried that his father had crossed some line. He liked her and didn’t want anything to drive her away. He hadn’t felt this good inside for a very long time and he was bright enough to know that it was because of her.
“I’m not sure,” she told Danny, trying her best to sound as if she was taking his question seriously. “But your dad is also my friend from a long time ago, remember? That makes it okay. Friends sometimes talk funny to friends.”
Danny seemed relieved. His grin crinkled up to his eyes and lit up the room. “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”
Caleb looked from his son to the woman who had somehow invaded his home with next to no effort at all. He couldn’t remember the last time Danny had appeared so relaxed. So like a little boy. He was grateful for that.
“Forgot what?” Caleb asked Danny.
“Miss Santaniello said she babysat you when you were my age.” Danny gazed at him solemnly, as if unable to wrap his mind around the concept. “Were you really my age, Dad?”
Rather than address his son, Caleb looked at her instead. There was something unfathomable in his eyes, something that placed a barrier between them. She felt for him, felt the pain that had caused him to erect these invisible bars that kept everyone, including his son, at bay. At the same time, she promised herself to dismantle them.
“Not that I recall,” he answered.
He meant that, she thought. He was only thirty-four, but his childhood was aeons away, kept at bay because of the tragedy he’d endured. The tragedy that could eventually be the end of him.
Claire turned toward Danny, deliberately keeping her voice cheerful. She could only imagine what the boy had experienced by proxy, having a father who was so emotionally closed off. “He was, and he looked exactly like you,” she told the boy. “Except for the hair,” she qualified affectionately.
In response, Danny stood a little straighter and dried the dish that he was holding. It was clear, to anyone who bothered to notice, that Danny worshipped his father.
Claire couldn’t help wondering if Caleb was aware of that. Probably not.
Chapter Seven
“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable earlier, talking about your wife.”
Claire and Caleb stood outside his house. She’d intended on remaining only until the dishes were done and put away, but then Danny wanted to show her a science project that was giving him trouble. So, after calling home and talking to her mother, who, she was happy to find out, was entertaining a couple of friends who’d dropped by, Claire had stayed to give Danny a little help mingled with encouragement. Before she knew it, the evening had melted away. Yawning, Danny reluctantly bid her good-night and went to bed. Startled at how quickly the time had flown, Claire commented that she needed to be going herself.
Caleb gave her no argument, which didn’t surprise her. He did offer to walk her to her car, even though it was only parked a few feet away.
Since they were alone, Claire decided that now might be the time to apologize. She didn’t want Caleb to think that she’d purposely barged in.
When she finished, Caleb nodded, as if to say that it was all right. What he left unsaid was that this was a sensitive subject for him, but no words were necessary. She could tell his sincerity by his expression. Questions rose in her head, questions she knew she couldn’t ask. Not yet, anyway.
And then Caleb opened the door a crack. “Exactly what did Danny say when he told you about…losing his mother?”
Claire paused for a moment to recall the exact words Danny had used. “That some ‘bad guys’ killed her.”
They stood on the wraparound porch, the single feature that had sold him on the house. He’d envisioned himself with Jane, facing their declining years, sitting here and rocking, enjoying each other’s company. He hadn’t sat on the porch in a year.
Caleb looked away, his face growing dark, foreboding. All trace of the boy she’d once known had completely vanished. “Yeah, that pretty much describes it.”
His tone told her to keep away and she knew she should, but she was who she was and she couldn’t just ignore the pain she knew was there. “Caleb, I’m so very sorry—”
His face hardened. How many times had he heard that phrase? How many times had he been forced to say it himself to the family of a victim?
“‘For my loss,’” he supplied coldly. “Right.” He turned to see the surprise in her eyes. “That was what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”
The words sounded so very trite, even if they were heartfelt. The depth of real sentiment was hard to convey, even between friends. “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“Then what?” he challenged, unable to curb his bitterness.
“I was going to say that I’m really, really sorry that you’re hurting, Caleb. You have no idea how sorry I am. But I think that you’re letting the depth of your own pain blind you to the fact that Danny’s hurting, too.”
Of course his son was hurting. He knew that. But Danny hadn’t lost the reason for his very existence, for taking a breath, the way he had. Caleb shrugged. “He’s a kid.”
“Kids have feelings, too,” she said gently. “Heartbreak has no age or height requirement.” She could tell that she was annoying him, but she couldn’t make herself back off. Instincts told her there was too much at stake. Danny needed him. And, whether he knew it or not, he needed Danny in order to get through this. “Have you comforted him?”
Caleb looked at her as if she was talking nonsense. “What, held him and said it was going to be ‘all better’ soon? Danny’s a smart kid, Claire. He knows it won’t be.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “No, I mean have you talked to him about his mother, about how much she loved him and that she’s looking down on him now?”
Caleb laughed shortly and she found herself thinking that she’d never heard anything so heart-wrenchingly sad. “You still believe that?”
Just because she’d shed her habit, just because she harbored doubts on one level, didn’t m
ean that she had surrendered her faith. It was just under temporary reconstruction, that was all. She still believed, still prayed, still felt that there was a God who watched over them.
“Yes, I do,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s what gets me through the day. And the night.”
Caleb shook his head. “What gets me through mine is not thinking.” His eyes met hers. “About any of it.”
“You don’t have that luxury,” she informed him, passion entering her voice. “You’re not alone.” She waved her hand toward the house. “That little boy worships you and he needs to know his dad is there for him.”
Where did she get off, coming into his life after a twenty-two-year hiatus and just presuming that she had the right to tell him how to live his life? He felt his temper flaring and struggled to tamp it down. He didn’t want to yell at her, but it wasn’t easy refraining.
“Of course I’m there for him. I put a roof over his head and order takeout to feed him when bossy ex-nuns don’t commandeer my kitchen.”
She wasn’t sure if he was trying to push her away or if that was a last-minute attempt at humor. Either way, she decided that maybe this was a good time to put him on notice.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you want to get rid of me, Caleb,” she informed him. “Just so you know, I don’t push away that easily.”
Caleb shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, glancing up at a sky that was still relatively light. He liked the dark better. It suited his mood.
Using more diplomacy than usual, he tried to choose his words carefully. “Look, I appreciate what you think you’re trying to do, but I’ve got to deal with Jane’s death in my own way.”
“Is it working?” she challenged.
She’d lost him. All he wanted was for her to stop poking at this wound he carried around with him and go home. There was a bottle of whiskey in the house waiting to renew his acquaintance. Alcohol was the only thing that dulled the pain.
The 39-Year-Old Virgin Page 7