He gestured toward a chair. “There’s something you wanted?”
Hands crossed, her eyes met his gaze. “I’m going away for a week with some women from church. A human interest piece for my show about a women’s retreat in northern Michigan. I’m anxious for the time to relax. The problem is, I won’t be able to sit in on classes while out of town, and I leave in less than a week. Could someone take notes for me on the women’s reactions to the classes?”
Dr. Reinholdt tapped his lip. “There is a young woman here named Brooke Kirnan who might help out. In fact, I think she’d be happy to. She’s a fountain of questions.”
“If you wouldn’t mind asking her, I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem.” The doctor glanced at his watch and rose, signaling an abrupt end to their exchange. “So tell me, what do a bunch of women do away on a retreat?” As he spoke, she noticed he had moved the album to the bookshelf behind his desk.
“Well, getting closer to one’s faith is the idea.”
He raised a condescending brow. “What class have you chosen for today?”
“Mid-Century Music Comprehension. I’ll enjoy this class very much, whether or not the babies do.”
“Because you like the beginning of rock and roll?”
“Because I absolutely love music,” she said, admitting it to herself as much as the doctor.
“You have a musical background. I think I remember reading about that on your bio.”
He had done his homework. How much more about her had he researched? Perhaps he had read some articles from her show which laid bare all of her education and interests. A sudden quiver slithered through her stomach.
“Yes. I began as a music major and then switched to communications in my third year. But you must already know that.”
Dr. Reinholdt nodded, his half smile once again in place.
“I guess that’s all then.” Heading toward the door she snapped her fingers, remembering. “Excuse me for bothering you again, but is Ms. Lange here today? I had a couple of matters—”
“What?” Dr. Reinholdt stopped, paled.
He rested a hand on her arm as if he had to decide what to say. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“What happened? Did she go into labor?”
“I assumed you had been apprised of the situation.”
“What situation?”
He patted her hand like a father patronizing an ignorant child. “We received word last evening that Lindy Lange committed suicide yesterday. I wanted to be clear about that so you wouldn’t think of blaming yourself.”
Her hand flew to her chest and pressed hard. “Blame myself?”
“Why certainly. I’m told she was on the phone with you when she took her life.”
CHAPTER 42
“REINHOLDT HAD NO RIGHT to say that to you this morning.” Ed frowned, and she wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead. His anger seemed out of place as he sat on her sofa, legs crossed, appearing relaxed.
“I’m sure he didn’t intend to sound malicious. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking that if I’d known it was Lindy, I might have stopped her. I was sure I recognized the voice.”
“They saved the baby?”
“No. Dr. Reinholdt said he was told she fell forward. Was alone for two or three hours. They couldn’t save it.”
“I can’t imagine what her family must be going through.”
Rochelle could imagine. “Her poor husband. Lost them both.”
After standing, stretching, and smoothing stress from her neck, Rochelle cleared the remnants of apple crisp from the old trunk that served as her coffee table. Ed should have the contented look of a man full of comfort food, but worry frowns covered his face—a zigzagging network of creases.
She choked back guilt and questioned her hospitality skills. Here she wanted to thank him for staying last night, and instead, she’d given him the impression once again that she wasn’t dealing well with the stress in her life.
Time to do dishes, but more importantly, time to wipe away the crabby face and smile.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Absolutely.”
Ed rose and followed so close his spicy breath blew gently on her neck. Goose bumps dimpled the length of her arms. If she stopped in a hurry, he’d run right over her. She continued into the kitchen in spite of the fact the warm feeling in her stomach tempted her to stop and turn into his grasp.
“I can’t pretend to understand your loss, but I’m here for you. Can I help carry those dishes to the sink?” He reached around her, his touch waking intimate feelings, but she hung tight, keeping her hands busy.
“I’ve got them.” She set down the armload and drew hot water even though cold would be much better. And too quickly, she spun around and could barely speak through the emotion she saw in his eyes.
She blinked. “It wasn’t an easy time. I confess.” Please back up, if you don’t I’m going to wrap my arms around your neck and forget I’m afraid to fall in love. Oh, please step back.
He didn’t move an inch. Was he feeling the same, daring her emotions to open up?
After a few seconds, he took one small step closer. “What I find so amazing is the way you’ve handled all the tragedy in your life.”
She shivered. The breath caught in her throat. He had said he cared like a brother, hadn’t he? Rochelle whirled away, distance her only ally, and put her mind back on topic. So, he thought she’d recovered. Was that even possible? Breathing a tad too fast for doing dishes, she drew air slowly through her lips, willed herself to keep her mind on task.
She slid the dishes into the hot water and squeezed in soap. Then she froze. She couldn’t stand there all night like a statue, so she slid to the right and covered the rest of the apple crisp with foil. A trip across the floor and she placed the dessert in the back of the fridge. Still, his questioning eyes targeted her back. She could feel them.
Rochelle needed a distraction. “Grab a dish towel.” She smiled even knowing it probably looked phony. “You don’t eat for free here.”
He lifted a towel from the counter. “You know what I’m saying. Your trip to the prison and actually confronting the man who killed your family is noteworthy. That caliber of forgiveness is amazing in anyone’s book. Especially mine.”
Forgiveness. Did it mean the same to everyone or was the topic multi-faceted like so many other emotions?
Like love.
“Initially, I didn’t have forgiveness on my mind. And don’t kid yourself, forgiving and forgetting are two entirely different emotions. I won’t ever forget. And, to be honest, there are days I still wonder if I’ve truly forgiven.” So many situations in her life she couldn’t forget. Laherty, Danny, and, of course, the man who had attacked her.
She scraped the roasting pan into the garbage, filled it with water, and set it to soak before resuming her work with the remaining dishes. When she spun back around, her hands full of clean plates, she said, “You are about the best man I’ve ever known, Ed. And I’m glad you’re here.”
To maintain the safe distance between them, she passed him two plates to dry.
“There are far better, but I love that you think so.” He hesitated, and she wondered what he was about to do. She didn’t wait to find out. Instead, she stepped away, and he took the cue to start talking again. “Are you comfortable enough to tell me what happened to your family? I have noticed you dodge the topic whenever I mention them.”
She leaned against the counter and sucked back air like a balloon being filled. It flew out again as she decided to share. “You were paying attention.”
“I was.”
She smiled, but crazy emotions were barely under the surface.
“I know Donna told you they were killed by a drunk driver.”
“She did.” He pressed closer, but she backed a safe distance away.
“A lot of tough emotions go hand-in-hand with the way I feel about that man now. Donald Laherty. The day I me
t Laherty was without a doubt the second hardest day of my life. He was a drunk. Even sitting in the courtroom he looked as if he’d been drinking. Maybe he had.
“But I know for a fact that today, he’s a totally different man. I realized the difference at the first visit after he wrote, begging me to come to the prison. Oh, I planned to visit, all right. I had plenty to say to him. When I traveled to the prison to give him a piece of my mind, he touched me emotionally.” Rochelle tugged at the towel in her hands. “Though I didn’t admit it to myself then. I was so busy fighting the fact my parents and brother had died. The fact he had been the cause. And then, for good measure, I fought God.”
He skimmed the plates with a towel and set them on the counter to be put away. She recognized the busy work that allowed him time to think, digest what she was saying. “You were so young.” He placed the dishtowel across the back of a chair. “Just a kid, really. Seems like you expected a lot from yourself.”
True. She had been a kid, albeit a tough kid.
“Nineteen. His apologizing and saying he had something special he wanted to share with me overwhelmed every fiber of my being. There I was. Wearing anger like a fashion statement. And my hate ate at me from the inside out. But when he talked to me about forgiveness and my needing Jesus Christ…” She turned to see how the words affected Ed. “Well, it inspired to say the least. Not at first, of course, but in the end—”
“So, he’s the one.” He reached out.
And for some reason this time, she didn’t move away. Couldn’t if she’d wanted to since the counter was right behind her. Rather, she welcomed Ed’s arms.
“I can only imagine what you went through.” He brushed damp hair from her forehead. “And yet, I was there, wasn’t I? I drove home drunk a dozen times, probably more. Luckier than Laherty, that’s all. Fortunate I didn’t hit anyone. Rochelle, is he in there for the rest of his life?”
She leaned against his chest and tangled her fingers in his shirt, taking in his masculinity a second before answering.
“One more year. Just one more if he makes parole.” She pressed closer, drowning in the safe haven of strength and tenderness he offered so freely.
As Ed spoke, his lips brushed her hair and she shivered. “Why did you go see him in the first place?”
“Why did I go see him?” Rochelle pressed against his chest. Yet, she let her gaze roam his face. “Many reasons. To hate him, to get even. Maybe because in the courtroom there had been so many character witnesses who spoke about an entirely different man until he went overseas. Desert Storm. I couldn’t reconcile the two extremes they talked about.”
“It does change people.”
“I don’t claim to understand war. Or what it does to men and women who serve.”
She whirled back to the sink, picked up a sponge, and squeezed foam through her fingers, then she dropped it back in the water, leaning against the edge for support. “I suppose I only wanted to have my say. And I had plenty to get off my chest. Believe me.”
Had she ever. Twice, the prison guard had come to Laherty, thinking he’d provoked her. And twice, she had run from the prison. Until the day she returned with every intention of insisting he stop calling her, stop writing her.
Ed refused to break the contact, and she softened under the hand on her shoulder. “You had every right to unload on him.”
Being vulnerable didn’t fit in her plan. Why not turn back into his arms and allow the tears to flow like hot lava until she was spent? He would hold her; she was sure. But he had to hold her because he had genuine feelings for her, not because he felt obligated. Danny had done such a thorough job of destroying her self-esteem with men.
“Maybe I had a right to. But he sat and he listened, visit after visit as I told him what a pathetic loser he was. Listened and asked for my forgiveness. I can’t count the times.”
Ed brushed her back lightly. “I don’t know that I would have visited even once. Some guy hurts me or mine and he’s gone.”
She shrugged and put her hands back in the dish water, wondering what with his temper he would have done. She pictured the times he’d come by with fresh stitches, bruises. And that was only a game.
“He had something. Something in his eyes. Real compassion for what had happened to my family. And it forced me to return.” Rochelle glanced back toward Ed. “I wanted what he had. Isn’t that ironic? He was in prison. I was free. But that wasn’t true. He was free. I was the one who had imprisoned myself with hate and anger. Laherty simply supplied me with a willing stooge. The one I projected the blame onto. But my true anger raged at God.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m free, too. I gave my life to Christ in the prison family chapel, almost ten years ago.” And to this day she tried through her talk show to bring others to the same knowledge.
“All because of Laherty.”
“All because. Isn’t it amazing how God works?”
“You’re a remarkable woman, Rochelle Cassidy. And I’m proud to know you.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and teased the hair from her neck with his fingers until Rochelle closed her eyes at the contact. Even a deep breath didn’t still her shaking insides. Let go, Rochelle. Let him see how much you care.
She could walk back and forth to the cupboard and keep him away, but her feet didn’t move, and his hands stayed until his fingers moved from her neck to circle her head.
She struggled to draw in a breath. She had to return to the discussion, stop him from causing her insides to melt like this. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m so much.”
That was the lesson Laherty had taught her. It was all about God. He told her the prison system would have killed him just as it had his marriage, but he fought hard using the Word of God. He told her so much personal information that her fight had waned.
And one day after she had sat with her arms across her chest glaring at him like the petulant child she remembered being, she watched while tears washed his hands with remorse. Real tears, and she had been in enough plays in school to know the difference.
That moment had defined the real man to her, whether she wanted to accept it or not. And for some reason, she had.
That was the day. She hadn’t made it out of the prison, but rather, stopped in the small chapel just inside the entrance. There, on her knees, her life changed forever.
“Your faith is really important to you, isn’t it?” Ed’s hand moved to a piece of stray hair as he leaned closer.
She swallowed hard and walked back to the living room. He followed.
“The most important thing in my life.” Just stop walking and run into his arms. You’re acting like a frightened school girl. He isn’t Danny. He isn’t anything like Danny.
He cleared his throat, changed the subject, and dropped to one knee in front of her entertainment cabinet. “Now, what movie’s on the agenda? You have a lot of DVDs.”
Rochelle stopped short. “I don’t sleep well at night. I watch movies to drown out the noises. Eventually, I fall asleep.”
“After all the serious talk, how about a comedy? You can pick a chick flick.”
She blinked at his transparency. “That way you get to call it a date, right?”
He lifted his head and placed a hand over his heart. “And she knows me so well.”
“It’s not a date, Ed. I have issues, and you’re not ready for a real relationship, anyway.”
His gaze roamed her face, hard, and Rochelle thought he could see to the center of her soul, frightening her more than the attacker ever had. The muscle in his jaw twitched.
“I wish, just once, I could be more than the cavalry for you.”
“You are. You’re like a … brother.” Maybe that would make him happy. No strings. “That’s part of the problem. I can’t rely on you forever.”
Ed rose to his feet and dropped the movies down on the cabinet. “Like a brother?”
He grabbed her arms; she didn’t push away. “Don’t
you get it? I care more than a brother. What do you want from me? I can’t make promises, can’t tell you I’m ready for a commitment when I don’t even know what that means at this point in my life. You tell me to leave you alone. Then you have me stay the night. I’m confused Rochelle. I think I should go.”
CHAPTER 43
AFTER ANOTHER TEXT TO Margaret that said he had a high-risk C-section and would be late, Erik drove Tessa to the Renaissance Center for a delectable dinner at Andiamos’ followed by a room at the Marriott. Luxury. Fruits of his labor that Margaret refused to share.
But Tessa was willing. Tessa was always willing.
“You aren’t good for me, you know.” Erik held her at arm’s length. “All I’ve worked for could be so easily lost if Margaret ever sobered up long enough to find out about us.”
She sifted her fingers through his hair. Erik hated his hair played with, but she refused to take the hint.
“You don’t think she has any idea, then?”
He snorted. “If she had so much as an inkling, I’d have been hauled into court years ago. She doesn’t think about anyone but herself. No, I don’t think she has an idea. Suspicion, perhaps, but aren’t all wives suspicious of their husbands?” He narrowed his gaze, changing his attitude from one of admiration to one of chastisement. “And we have to be sure that’s how it stays. We’re in agreement on this, correct?”
She pushed his chest with her palms and turned her back. “Most women have a right to feel suspicious. And you know good and well how I feel. I’m not in agreement. We belong together, Erik. You need a son to carry on your work. Or a daughter.”
“Phfft! A daughter.” He watched her expression change. “You’re serious? Can’t you just see that? Monumental work contaminated with female logic. Come on, Tess, my dear. The last thing I need is another woman in my life.”
Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror. Page 14