Gentle On My Mind

by Susan Fox

  “I think I liked you better as Jake.”

  “God, I hope so!”

  She rested her chin on a hand. “We moved around Canada, changing places at least once a year. Mo would lose his job, get in a fight or some other kind of trouble. He couldn’t afford to get arrested because his prints were on record, but that didn’t keep him out of trouble; it just kept us on the move.”

  She raised her shoulders and lowered them. “He was drinking a lot. Me too. Sometimes we partied, and drinking was part of that. But a lot of the time I was so unhappy, and I basically drank to drown my sorrows. I lost my family, and so did Mo.”

  “Lost them because . . . ?”

  “If we stayed in touch with them, the Army might have traced Mo that way. Besides, I was so embarrassed by what a mess we’d made of things.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Not so much for Mo—he and his parents didn’t get along—but yes, for me. It was just the two of us. And Evan.”

  Brooke sighed, and her eyes were sad. “The worst thing was, I didn’t know how to look after a child. I was a spoiled kid and, uh, moody. Evan would have been better off if I’d left him with my mom.”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes I’d be supermom. I’d buy Evan new clothes, play with him all the time. But then something would happen. I’d go out drinking with Mo and forget about Evan, or I’d get depressed and neglect him. He became so well-behaved—probably trying to win our attention, our love—but it had the opposite effect. We were relieved he was self-sufficient, and left him alone.”

  He hated seeing the sad, guilty expression in her pretty eyes.

  “I honestly did love him to bits,” she said quietly, “but sometimes I hated the fact that he existed. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant I could have been a happy, normal girl, back in L.A. Having fun, dating, finding a nice man to marry.”

  That might be true. He’d read that people who had the genetic predisposition for bipolar disorder didn’t always end up getting the disease. Environmental influences like stress could precipitate its onset. He wondered when Brooke was first diagnosed. And whether she’d ever tell him about her illness.

  “One thing I’ve learned as a cop,” he said, “is how a single action can have huge, life-altering repercussions.” He thought of Anika’s parents telling her that if she didn’t obey their rules she wasn’t welcome in their house. They’d take that back in an instant if they could go back in time.

  Brooke nodded quickly. “Sleeping with Mo, not insisting he use a condom. Stupid.”

  “If you’d only known, right? That’s what people always say.”

  “The worst part is how it affected Evan.” She fidgeted with her fork. “It was so wrong of me to blame him, but I wasn’t a well-balanced person. I was erratic, irresponsible, sometimes so desperately unhappy that I thought about killing myself.” She shoved her plate away, her meal only half finished.

  “Anyhow, we came to Caribou Crossing. Mo got worse. Year by year the drinking, the violence, escalated.”

  She sucked in a noisy breath and let it out slowly. “He hit Evan. And I didn’t stop him. I didn’t usually see it happen and I told myself Evan was just clumsy. And he was. Clumsy, not athletic, but super smart. Yet on some level I knew what was happening. I didn’t know what to do and took the easy way out, pretending everything was okay. There’s no excuse for my behavior.” The pain in her eyes reflected a level of sorrow he’d never experienced.

  “You were an alcoholic.” And alcoholics were experts at denial.

  “I was. And I should have realized it,” she said firmly, “and sought help. I had other problems, too, that medication would have helped, but I was such a mess that it never occurred to me to ask for help. Evan survived thanks to the kindness of Jessica Bly’s parents.”

  “Jessica? The woman he married?”

  “They were best friends from the day he started school here. They lost touch after high school and only found each other last year, when Evan came back.”

  “Came back?”

  “He left town right after twelfth grade. Got a scholarship to Cornell, then a job as an investment counselor in New York City, and then he built his own company. He’d always believed he didn’t belong here, and he worked so hard to get out. But then he came back to check out an investment for a client, met Jessica again, and they fell in love. He decided to stay.”

  “That’s quite a difference, Manhattan to Caribou Crossing.”

  “He fits here, now that he’s willing to give the place a chance.” She smiled a little. “And, thanks to Jessica’s intervention, he’s also given me another chance. Before last summer, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in ten years.”

  Ten years. She really must have been a dreadful mother, to drive her son away like that. It was so hard to believe, as he looked at her now. “The mother he came back to must have been pretty different from the one he’d left behind.”

  “Lord, I hope so.”

  “What happened to Mo?”

  “When Evan was ten, the Blys figured out that he was being beaten, and notified the authorities. The RCMP came to question Mo. I was out shopping and when I came back, he was packing. He didn’t tell me about the cops—I only found out this past winter what the Blys had done—he just said we had to move again.”

  “But you didn’t go with him?”

  Her elbows rested on the table and she dropped her head into her hands as if it were too heavy to hold upright. “I said Evan needed to stay in one school, be with Jessica, make some other friends. I’d told Mo that before—it’s why we’d been in Caribou Crossing longer than anywhere else—and I guess he knew I wouldn’t change my mind. But he wasn’t about to stay and straighten out.”

  Brooke hadn’t been completely insensitive to her son’s needs. But nor had she straightened herself out once Mo was gone. She’d said she’d been sober for less than five years.

  Her face pale, strained, almost tortured, she stared into his eyes. “I hate telling you this. It’s harder, much harder, than doing it at A.A. There, they understand. They know what it’s like; they’ve been there themselves.”

  “I’ve got some idea, Brooke. I’m not judging. But why are you telling me?”

  “Because Caribou Crossing knows. They saw me when I was like that. If you’re going to be my cousin—and more importantly, if you’re going to trust me to help you—you have to know who I am.”

  Looking at her face, he could for the first time believe she was old enough to be a grandmother. And yet he wasn’t put off by that, nor by her confession. Instead, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. “That’s not who you are, Brooke. It’s who you were.”

  Her throat muscles rippled as she swallowed. Her eyes glistened, and when she spoke her strained voice revealed her battle with tears. “Who I was is part of who I am. The people of Caribou Crossing have been generous about allowing me a second chance, but there’s no forgetting who I was. Like, with the fence. I told Mr. Barnes and Sergeant Miller I backed into it, and so, automatically, they wondered if I was drinking again.”

  “Why did you stay here? Wouldn’t it have been easier to move when you got yourself turned around?”

  “Yes and no. On the surface, it would have been easier. But don’t you see, Jake? Staying here, the entire town is my conscience. If I ever slipped, everyone would know.”

  “You’re not going to slip.” He said it with certainty.

  Her mouth tilted up at one corner but there was no warmth behind the smile. “Thanks. But I’ll never be sure. I live every day with the knowledge of how easy it would be to slip. Thank heaven for Evan and Jess and Robin. They’re my true motivation.”

  He frowned, again thinking about the timeline of her story. “You said Evan didn’t move back until last year. But by then you’d been sober roughly four years. He and his family weren’t your motivation to stop drinking.”

  Her brow began to wrinkle and he reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Wh
y did you stop, Brooke?”

  Her hand twitched under his and he squeezed it gently. “Tell me.” He needed to know—not because of their cover story but because he had a powerful desire to understand what had turned this special woman’s life around.

  She glanced down at his hand, then back up, and he realized something else about Brooke. She was one of those rare people who wouldn’t lie to make herself look good.

  “I’d been at the pub, drinking too much, partying way too hard. As usual. I drove home. As usual. I’d had one DUI but so far—heaven knows how—I’d managed to avoid having an accident. But that night I was really flying and I crashed the car into a stop sign. It was the luckiest night of my life, in two ways. I didn’t hurt anyone else, and I did hurt myself. I wasn’t wearing a seat belt and I cracked my head. They kept me in the hospital for several days.”

  “It forced you to dry out.”

  “Which hurt even worse than my head. But the really amazing thing was—” She broke off and her eyes widened anxiously.

  She’d been going to tell him she’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He’d bet his Harley on it.

  She slid her hand out from under his and jumped to her feet. “I’m going to make tea. Do you want some? Or coffee? There’s apple crisp for dessert. Would you like ice cream with it?”

  Why was she so scared? How did she think he’d react? He gave her the respite she sought. “Coffee sounds great. And definitely ice cream. Everything tastes better with ice cream.”

  When he got up to help, she said, “Let’s have dessert in the living room. You go put your feet up. I’m sure you’re worn out by now.”

  Yes, though the beer helped, he felt every single bruise and scrape, not to mention the bullet wound. He limped into Brooke’s cozy living room and sprawled gratefully on the couch. Sunny followed him and jumped up to settle beside him. It was peaceful. Damned peaceful.

  But Jake couldn’t relax. How was he going to persuade Brooke to open up? And why did it mean so much to him—to Jake the man, not Jake the cop—that she do so?

  Chapter Nine

  Being alone in her kitchen brought Brooke little relief from anxiety. She clicked on the radio, to hear Merle Haggard singing “I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.” How many times had she drunk beer in The Gold Nugget Saloon, listening to good old Merle sing drinking songs?

  She turned the radio off again and got to work preparing coffee and tea and dishing out apple crisp. Jake knew about her drinking. Should she tell him about her bipolar disorder?

  She was embarrassed to admit to it, and particularly to him. Not just because she was attracted to his sexy good looks but because he was the kind of man she respected. A man like Evan and like Dave Cousins, Jessica’s ex-husband. A person with a quiet strength, a soul-deep integrity, the conviction to follow through on what he believed in. She wanted him to think well of her.

  Brooke gave a snort. Keeping an important secret was just as bad as telling a lie. If she didn’t tell him, she wouldn’t think well of herself.

  She took the bowls of apple crisp from the microwave, spooned ice cream on top of Jake’s, then put the lid back on the container of ice cream. She watched the ice cream melt at the edges of the dessert, trickling into the cinnamon-scented apples. Then she yanked the top off the ice cream again and served herself a spoonful. This was not a time to worry about her healthy diet.

  She loaded up a tray, marched into the living room, and dumped it down on the coffee table.

  Jake, lounging on her couch like he belonged there, tilted an eyebrow at the clatter. Sunny, who’d been dozing beside him, shot her a quizzical gaze.

  Brooke grabbed her bowl of apple crisp, took a deliberate bite, chewed and swallowed, then announced, “I have bipolar disorder.”

  Jake swung awkwardly to a sitting position, favoring his injured side, and reached for his own bowl. “I know.”

  “You—” She gaped at him, then slumped down in a chair.

  “Your Eskalith. I checked it out.”

  “How dare you!”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to know everything about you. To know if I could trust you.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again when he said, “When you were at your meeting last night I called Jamal and got him to do a background check on you.”

  “I know. And you searched my house and found the gun.”

  “Oh.” He gave a snort of laughter. “You know my secrets and I know yours.”

  She shook her head, knowing it wasn’t the even match he’d suggested. She barely knew anything about the man.

  He scooped up some dessert, then paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Eat it before all the ice cream melts. It’s better that way.”

  Automatically she took another spoonful, trying to enjoy the taste while she thought about what he’d said. Not only did he know how much she spent on hydro, what kind of underwear she wore, and what brand of tampons she bought, he knew about her condition. Amazingly, she wasn’t as offended as she might have expected to be. Perhaps it was because she understood the need that had motivated him.

  He’d known she was bipolar when he’d pressed his hard, aroused body against her. Not only did he know she was a grandmother, but he knew she was an alcoholic and bipolar, and he still wanted her. He wanted her physically, and he trusted her to help him with his cover.

  She smiled down at her apple crisp and took another spoonful. It really was delicious.

  “Brooke? You’re smiling.” He sounded surprised. “What are you thinking?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” How could she feel so comfortable teasing him? He was a powerful man, skilled and familiar with the use of force. Not a man to be trifled with.

  Mo had been a smaller, less powerful guy, but he’d been big enough to brutalize her and Evan. Somehow she knew Jake would never use his strength against her.

  “Brooke?”

  “Wh—” The phone interrupted and she hurried to the kitchen with Jake limping behind.

  It was Dave Cousins, Jess’s ex, the owner of the Wild Rose. “Hey, Brooke, rumor has it you’re under the weather.”

  “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  “Went to get my hair trimmed today and my favorite barber was home sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m fine now, going back to work tomorrow. And don’t worry about the fund-raiser. I’ve made most of the appetizers and they’re in my freezer.” She’d done some on the weekend, and more yesterday, while Jake lay on her couch dozing.

  “I wasn’t worrying about the food. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Why was it so hard to let herself believe that people like Dave and Kate could care about her? For decades she’d distanced herself from the people around her, and now it was difficult to relax the barriers.

  “Thanks, Dave,” she said softly. Seeing Jake’s gaze on her, she took a deep breath and went on. “I’m bringing a guest on Friday. My cousin, Arnold Pitt, from Vancouver, is coming to town tomorrow. He’s an accountant and might be interested in setting up practice here.”

  “Well now, wouldn’t that be great.”

  “Yes. He is my favorite cousin.”

  Jake lounged close by, a hip propped against the kitchen counter, looking very male and very Jake.

  “What’s he like?” Dave asked.

  “I haven’t seen him since he was nine or ten. As a kid he was sweet, and a complete nerd.”

  “Got a wife and kids?”

  “No, he’s single. In his midthirties. Might well be gay.” She winked at Jake.

  “If he’s used to the gay scene in Vancouver, he’ll find Caribou Crossing pretty dull.”

  “That’s why he’s coming up. I mean, not to check out the gay scene specifically.” She paused, her lips twitching as Jake’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “He wants to see the town, meet some people, check with the RCMP about the crime rate, talk to the bank about financing. Get together with some o
f the folks in the town council and chamber of commerce. I thought the fund-raiser would be a good place to start.”

  “Sure would. See you both then. And I’m real glad you’re feeling better, Brooke.”

  “Good night, Dave, and thanks.” She hung up, warmed by his concern.

  Then, briskly, she turned to Jake. “That reminds me, I still have mini-quiches to prepare for the fund-raiser. I’ll do them before I go to work in the morning.” It looked like she wasn’t going to fit in a single trip to the fitness center this week. “We’d better get on with your briefing. I don’t want to get to bed too late.”

  As soon as the words slipped out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Bed was not a subject she wanted hanging in the air between them. How was she going to sleep, with him across the hall in her bed? Naked. She was so sure he slept in the raw that she hadn’t bothered to buy pajamas, though she had purchased a bathrobe.

  She turned on her heel and strode into the living room. “All right, I was telling you about my bipolar. My psychiatrist thinks there’s a genetic component, then environmental trauma made it manifest itself. Having a baby at fifteen, then losing my family, friends, everything I’d known and loved, being dependent on Mo in a relationship that was so dysfunctional.”

  “Yeah, that’d be a hell of a lot for any young girl to handle.”

  “I’d never been depressed in my life until after I had Evan. Once I started cycling, I still tended more toward depression than mania, but I did have manias, too. Then I’d get jobs and be superproductive, I’d be the life of the party, but I’d also drink too much and do crazy things. I was manic when I had the accident, and for the first day or so in the hospital. Really manic. Couldn’t lie still, I was talking so fast no one could keep up with me, I’d invented a cure for cancer.” She broke off, realizing she was talking almost as fast as she had when she was manic. He must really think she was crazy.

  “I skimmed through that Patty Duke book this afternoon.” He nodded in the direction of her bookcase. “I’ve got an idea what it’s like.”