Sweet Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  For him to do right by Jezebel, whatever that meant, he first had to paint Charlotte, for only in facing her would he be able to finally let her go.

  She was past needing him, but he’d clung to her, had crawled into a hole with his memories of her and become a cave creature.

  Somehow, Jezebel had looked at the pale imitation of the man he’d once been and seen something she liked. Had refused to let him seek the soothing darkness but had, instead, dragged him toward the light.

  He’d let her down tonight; there were so many other ways he could have played that scene, but he’d been so caught up in the hamster wheel of his guilt and grief that he’d reacted badly.

  She was innocent of blame and deserved better.

  He would have to fix that. He headed his truck down the road to see if he could exorcise a ghost.

  * * *

  JEZEBEL COULDN’T SETTLE, so she made lists. Find a doctor. Buy vitamins. Get a book on being pregnant.

  Locate a place to make my baby a nest.

  But every other item on the list was invisible: How is Gamble? What’s he thinking? Is he all right?

  In between, she paced. If only Three Pines were bigger, she could hit a bookstore. Peruse the want ads. Go to a twenty-four-hour grocery and read the labels on baby food. Comparison-shop for diapers.

  Despite the disaster of the evening, though, a steady flame of joy burned within her. She might never get the cottage now, had probably lost whatever affection Gamble felt for her, definitely had a fight on her hands to find a better way to support a child.

  But she was having a baby. She did a little skip. She would be someone’s mother, maybe by Christmas. For a moment, visions of Christmases to come whirled like dancing maidens.

  Then she sagged to the sofa, head in her hands.

  She missed her mother tonight worse than anytime in her life. The woman she remembered would understand. Would be happy for her, no matter what. Would help her find her way. Grab her close and celebrate.

  But she had no mother, no one to teach her the thousand and one things she desperately needed to learn in order to be the parent her baby deserved.

  It was all up to her, terrified or not. She had a chance now at her dream; the only price for this part of it was the centerpiece: the man she loved. Gamble’s stricken face was never far from her thoughts.

  Maybe not. Her inner optimist admonished. You don’t know.

  But she did. He would probably do the right thing by both of them and contribute to the child’s care; he was a good man, after all, of that she had no doubt.

  But they hadn’t had time to seal the bond between them before it was sundered. Now they never would.

  Talk to him. Go to him.

  No. He asked to be alone.

  The argument continued so loudly that at first she didn’t hear the phone.

  “Ms. Hart? Assistant D. A. Lansing here. I have to have you here tomorrow. I found money in the budget. Here’s the number for your flight.”

  * * *

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, she’d lined up everything she could. Louie and Chappy would keep tabs on Skeeter; Darrell would mind the bar and feed her dog and cat. She hadn’t told a soul about the pregnancy and wouldn’t, not until she and Gamble agreed to make it public.

  She did plan, however, to look for a book on babies at the airport, to read on the plane. And she had already found a doctor in Tyler and made an appointment for next week.

  She hoped to return day after tomorrow, but the prosecutor had warned her that trials didn’t always go as expected, so she packed five days’ worth of clothes.

  There was only one item left on her list: seek out Gamble. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk yet, but she could at least let him know she was leaving and when she would be back.

  She drove by the nursery but didn’t see his vehicle and wouldn’t stop to ask Lily unless she had no other option. Instead, she headed for the cottage.

  And there she found his truck.

  But no sign of Gamble, even though she called out his name. She only had an hour left before she had to drive to Dallas.

  Then she heard the music and followed it to its source.

  Gamble was in the only place he’d put off-limits to her: his studio. When she neared the door, she understood why he hadn’t answered her.

  Music rolled out from the speakers in bountiful waves, so lush and rich with drama and heartache as to wrench tears from a stone. Now dirge, now weeping strings, swelling to a crescendo—then a voice sweet enough to tear out your heart.

  And inside the music stood a Gamble she’d never met.

  The artist whose mammoth talent had captivated a city full of cynics, on his face a concentration so complete that a nuclear blast would not have fazed him.

  He was staring out of eyes so haunted and wounded that it was all she could do not to cry out.

  Then she spotted the painting on his easel.

  And Jezebel’s last hope shattered.

  For it was Charlotte he painted, a woman beautiful and ethereal beyond any mortal. Spun-gold hair, soft hazel eyes. Lovely and delicate as an angel’s wing.

  And in her lap was the child she had tried to give the man she loved more than life.

  Through her tears, Jezebel smiled at the baby, chubby cheeks and tiny fists, swaddled in a blanket that seemed to be woven from a cloud.

  The painting was at one and the same time the saddest, most uplifting thing she had ever seen. It wept with the love Gamble bore them both, the guilt and grief that dogged him still.

  But he’d found joy there, too, and Jezebel was glad for that, even as she accepted that the price of that joy and grief was her own chance for a future with him.

  She was transfixed by Gamble, by the naked emotion on his face. By the stunning power of his talent. Here was the man he was intended to be, someone much bigger than Three Pines, far beyond her small dreams.

  Someone who understood love better than she ever would.

  And with these realizations, she let Gamble Smith go. She would not cling or attempt to grasp more than they had shared. They would be friends, perhaps; they had experienced an intimacy that was like many of life’s most precious gifts. Not meant to be captured or replicated, forced or made to stand still. Its beauty was precisely because it was ephemeral, beyond the scope of ordinary life. Impossible to pin down or make routine.

  She would have a piece of him with her forever, and that would have to be enough. She would never forget him or this time they’d had together, but he was too extraordinary to try to contain.

  Jezebel watched him for a second longer, even though it seemed an invasion of a communion too private to view.

  Then she turned away.

  And left her illusions behind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT WAS FINISHED.

  Gamble stood back from the easel, within him a stillness so profound that his ears pounded with the weight of the hush.

  Emerging from a painting was always like climbing to the surface after untold hours passed deep in a cavern. In the best moments, he and his art became one, his arm an extension of his mind’s eye, tapping into a dark, shimmering lake. At those times, there was no Gamble Smith, no world beyond the vision that gripped him.

  Sometimes the experience was misery; at its best, it was salvation.

  Still inside the rim of his cave, Gamble hovered between earth and beyond, seized by a bittersweet understanding. He wanted to move on with his life, yes. Needed to. But when he fully emerged, Charlotte would truly be his past.

  I’m sorry. I forgive you. I wish you could forgive me.

  I loved you. The boy inside me always will.

  I’ll never forget you.

  His throat thickened. For an instant, he was tempted to go back. To retreat into the safe arms of his grief.

  She needs you now.

  Charlotte’s voice. He’d nearly forgotten the sound of it.

  He focused on the painting. Looked into the eyes he’d loved
for so much of his life.

  There was nothing to forgive, Gamble. You only sought to protect me.

  Suddenly, the hazel eyes glowed the way they had so often, and he was reminded that Charlotte had always understood him, often better than he himself did.

  He shifted his gaze to the depiction of the baby they’d lost. Ours would have been a beautiful child, sweetheart. Then looked back at her. And you would have been an amazing mother.

  Inside Gamble, something eased as he, at last, talked to the woman he’d cared for since he was ten years old. He’d lost that in his mourning, the simple pleasure of conversing with her. Cut himself off from that most necessary communion.

  I’ll always be here to listen.

  He smiled.

  But you have someone else now. You’re going to be just fine, Gamble.

  He bowed his head as tears stung his eyes. Her voice seemed so real.

  Be well, my love.

  He looked up. You, too. He found a grin. I hope you’re running footraces up there. Dancing and leaping and…whole. Strong as you never got to be down here.

  “Gamble?”

  He jolted. Lily stood at the door, worry creasing her face. Behind her was Cal, holding her hand.

  Gamble blinked. “What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me. You’ve been gone since—” In the midst of crossing to him, she halted. Put her fingers over her mouth. “My God. You did it.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s as if she could walk right out of that painting.” Tears spilled over her lashes. She approached the easel, her hand out. Brushed the air over the infant’s face. “Hi, baby,” she murmured.

  “It’s absolutely stunning. Charlotte would be so proud.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I think she would.” And the knowledge swept through him like a cooling wind.

  Lily stared. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  He regarded her with surprise. “Actually, I am.” His head was light and his stomach growling. He was torn between sleeping for a week and running cross-country.

  But what he wished for most was to see Jezebel.

  At the thought, urgency clutched him. He’d made a hash of things. He had to get to her. Tell her that he was finally free.

  That she was the reason.

  And he was happy about the baby.

  “Lil, I have to go.” He only did a cursory cleaning of his hands. All at once, nothing in the world mattered but reaching Jezebel.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “I have someone to find. Listen, can you run the nursery without me for a little while?”

  “You mean like we already did today?”

  “Huh?” He peered outside. Darkness was falling. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven. You’ve been missing since last night. Cal drove by this morning, saw your truck and heard the music, so he didn’t bother you, but I got worried when another night began.” She took one glance back at Cal.

  Cal grinned at her, and Lily blushed furiously enough to draw even Gamble’s distracted notice.

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Lily Belle here broke down, at long last, and went out with me last night,” Cal explained. “And fell for my fatal charm.”

  His words were brash, but naked tenderness was on Cal’s face. And the usual tension was missing in Lily.

  “You okay, Lil?” Gamble asked.

  “Yeah. And Calvin is, as ever, full of hot air.” But she colored again, watching him.

  Gamble observed, bemused, but his thoughts kept returning to the woman he’d hurt.

  Then, with obvious effort, Lily drew her attention back to her brother. “Mom will be so thrilled. That’s where you’re going, right?”

  Gamble’s mind raced ahead, wondering what Jezebel was feeling after he’d abandoned her with a test kit in her hand.

  “Earth to Gamble.”

  He tore himself from his musing. “What? Listen, Lil, tell Mom I’ll be by later. I’ve got to talk to someone else first.”

  He covered the painting to protect it, then charged out the door, leaving his sister and the man who, it seemed, had captured her at last, gaping after him.

  * * *

  IN THE END, though, Gamble made a hasty detour to his mother’s house, showered, shaved and dressed. He spent too much time in the greenhouse, debating over what flowers to bring to Jezebel to begin his apology for the way he’d left her. Dread skated down his spine as he contemplated, then discarded, word after word. Argument after argument.

  Her face rose in his mind, lit by purpose, alive with optimism that appeared to override his complete lack of welcome for her news. It’s not your burden. I’m fine on my own.

  He didn’t doubt that.

  But he needed her. Freed from the weight of his guilt, from the constant crowding of sorrow that had filled every inch inside him, he felt both years younger and light of heart in a manner he had never before experienced. The world seemed full of possibilities.

  The one he wanted most was Jezebel.

  And the child she carried inside her. His child.

  For a small, still moment, he murmured to the one he had lost. I’m sorry. It was never you. My fear ruled me. I couldn’t see past it, couldn’t breathe for the thought of losing Charlotte.

  But Charlotte, he saw now, had only been on loan to him, too frail to survive a lifetime together. He would have to live with his regret for squandering their last months.

  Too rushed to make a decision, he grabbed a rosebush, some daylilies and an azalea, all peace offerings he would plant at Jezebel’s new cottage.

  Their cottage, if he had anything to say about it.

  And charged into the night to find her.

  * * *

  SHE WAS GONE. Vanished into thin air. Darrell knew something, Gamble suspected. He was not, however, sharing or planning to share.

  “You just get on back to New York City. I can’t say exactly what you did to her, but I recognize a broken heart when I see one. That woman is too fine for the likes of you. Don’t care how many write-ups you get. They can call you genius in every paper on earth. It don’t change what you done to that girl.”

  Gamble had no defense to offer. Apparently, Jezebel hadn’t revealed her pregnancy yet, but this was not the audience to appreciate what a shock the news had been for him, how it had thrown him. Persona non grata, he was. Even Chappy wouldn’t meet his eye.

  He couldn’t blame them. He left the bar, its abrupt silence brimming with hostility. He walked around behind the building. Scanned the surroundings, every inch of them painted with memories. Jezebel laughing, tickling. Moaning, sighing.

  Crying.

  Then, from inside, he heard Rufus’s whimper.

  Rufus. He brightened. She wouldn’t leave the dog for good.

  He placed one hand on the knob, tempted to go inside if it was unlocked and seek comfort in her belongings.

  Except a sudden vision of her face intervened, tight with strain as he demanded that she forgo her privacy and—

  Get it over with.

  What a bastard he was. Too caught up in his own pain to notice hers. To recognize how violated she must have felt.

  He withdrew his hand, dropped his forehead to the wall. He would violate her no more.

  At least she was coming back.

  Then a stark fear seized him. Why had she left? To get rid of the child he was so clearly unready to accept?

  Do you want me to?

  No. Oh, Jezebel, no. Please.

  It’s not your business what I do.

  But it is. You can’t—

  I always swore that one day I’d have a real house with a white picket fence and babies and puppies and kittens.

  Some of his tension eased. This was Jezebel, after all. Saint of strays. Defender of the weak.

  Maker of families, however unconventional.

  Still, he would not draw a deep breath until he could speak to her, make her see that he—

  His eyes pop
ped wide.

  Loved her.

  He paused, tried the idea on for size. Found in it a rightness that resonated clear to his bones. Gamble Smith loved Jezebel Hart, all of her, not just her stunning body but her sweetness, her bounteous heart. Her spunk in standing up to a world that had knocked her down again and again.

  Her stubborn insistence on believing the best in people when so many of them—himself foremost—showed her so much less.

  Sweet mercy, that was Jezebel’s appearance in his life. A mercy he hadn’t earned, but granted to him nonetheless, despite all his mistakes.

  He’d been itching to leave since the moment he’d landed in town, but now he realized he wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he and she could talk this out.

  Still unsettled by the requirement to take it on faith that he would get another chance with her, Gamble departed, in search of the wisest person he knew, hoping she could help him stack the deck.

  * * *

  AFTER TALKING TO HIS MOTHER, he painted the rest of the night, using acrylics so they’d dry faster, but promising himself to render this image in oils with his very next effort. Oils were the only way to do her vivacity true justice.

  He’d asked his mother to keep their talk in confidence, not ready yet to share with his siblings the mess he’d made, not until he had a chance to work things out with Jezebel.

  Once more, his stomach jittered. He had a fleeting thought that he should call Kat, so that she could enjoy him getting his just deserts.

  But he would prevail in the end, he resolved. Jezebel had every right to be furious with him; she could ignore him or rain down curses on his head. She was entitled to make him suffer.

  But he had the ace in the hole: the cottage. And he would win.

  He secured Lily’s indulgence to manage the morning without him only by promising that she would be the first to hear why. He left her and Cal grinning at each other like a couple of kids. At some point, he’d be asking hard questions, but for now, all he could think about was Jezebel. Somehow, he’d passed beyond the need for sleep and food, fired by an energy unlike any he’d felt before.