“Like the two antique mattresses?”
Alec turned his head to look at her. His gaze flicked first to Abby, where she was latched onto Wren’s breast. She was glad she’d carefully lowered her shirt to protect her modesty. Even so, there was something in his blue eyes when they met hers that brought a flush to her cheeks.
But after a moment he smiled crookedly. “I had the dump in mind for those.”
“Good plan. I sat on both of them today. Kind of bounced a few times.” She gave a cheeky grin. “I’m pretty sure I have a bruise on my butt now. Something poked me.”
He laughed. “Dump, it is. If we’re going to clean house, let’s do it. I can tie them both on top of my Tahoe and haul them away Saturday.”
To hide the pleasure his laugh gave her, Wren bent her head and smoothed the soft brown tufts of hair on Abby’s head. “Are you sure you want me doing it?” she asked. “I mean, what if I ditch something that has sentimental meaning to you or your sister?”
Alec made a rude noise. “There’s not a damn thing in there that holds any deep meaning for either of us.” There was a pause, then he said abruptly, “I trust you. I suppose I’ll need to sort the pictures. Otherwise, will you do it?”
Her eyes stung because he’d said I trust you. She retreated into the mundane. “Of course I will. Bring me some boxes. And whole bunches of newspaper, if you can find some, so I can wrap everything breakable. I’ll start tomorrow with what I have.”
“Good.” His face had changed, she saw. Relaxed, as if having made a decision to clean out the house settled something in him. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
“Oh, pooh. Quit thanking me. It’ll be fun. Besides, nothing I can do will ever repay you for the amazing things you’ve done for me.”
She could see he didn’t like that. He hated it whenever she tried to thank him, which she couldn’t figure out.
It was a long time before he said anything. When he did, he shocked her. “I like having you here,” he said quietly.
While she was still staring at him, he pushed back his chair and rose. “I need to make some phone calls.” After rinsing out his mug and setting it on the dish drainer, he left the kitchen without looking back.
Wren waited until she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Then she whispered, “I like being here, too.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WREN WRAPPED a porcelain figurine in newspaper and carefully set it in the box she’d labeled Garage Sale. As she worked, she’d been chatting to Abby, who lay beside her on a blanket.
Closing the flap on the now full box, Wren felt a wave of satisfaction. In two days, she’d almost finished in the living room. She’d had fun. When she was growing up, one of the few things she and Mom had loved doing together was prowl antique stores. Wren couldn’t absolutely swear she hadn’t put something worth a small fortune into the garage-sale box, but she was reasonably confident in her decisions. It helped that Alec didn’t seem very interested in whether he’d make any money from Pearl’s possessions.
Wren felt good with the difference cleaning the house out seemed to be having on him. His mood had been lighter last night, as if she’d been packing away his unwelcome memories along with the overabundance of fragile collectibles. Tonight, she hoped he’d be willing to start looking at the photographs.
She’d made dinner simple the past couple of evenings, partly because she’d been busy and partly because, well, she could take a hint.
Tonight when they were done, instead of leaping up to clean the kitchen, Wren said, “Did you stop in the living room? I think my day’s accomplishments deserve admiration.”
“Has to beat my day’s.”
“Really?” He hadn’t said much over dinner.
“Didn’t get anywhere with much of anything,” he said briefly.
“Does that happen a lot?”
His smile might be rueful, but it was a smile. “Yep. More common than not. Police work looks more exciting on TV than it is in real life. We spend a lot of time on the telephone trying to get information nobody seems to have.” He followed her into the living room, and turned in a circle to take in empty shelves and end tables bare of ornamentation. “Wow. I’m impressed.”
“I keep thinking I’m going to hear an echo when I talk out loud, though. Now it’s too empty.”
“I know what you mean, but there’s still too much furniture. All these little pieces with skinny curlicue legs. Chairs that would collapse if I sat on them.” He glanced at her. “I called around and found a guy who does appraisals. He’s coming Saturday morning.”
“No second thoughts?”
“Not a one.”
“Do you want me to pack up the photos, or leave them be?”
He rubbed a hand over his chin. She could hear the rasp and had to squeeze her own hands into fists to quell the longing to touch him. After a minute he said, “The ones on the walls are going to have to come down, aren’t they? I always hated the wallpaper in here.”
Wren made an effort to focus. When she did, she couldn’t argue; flocked olive-green stripes were divided by narrower stripes of mustard-yellow. “Maybe the colors have faded,” she said doubtfully. “It could have been pretty when it was put up.”
Alec gave a crack of laughter. “You want to think the best of Aunt Pearl, don’t you? Or is it everyone?”
“Not everyone,” she mumbled. Not James.
As if drawn to the display of his ancestors, he stepped closer. He touched a small oval photograph, unobtrusively nestled between larger, more ornately framed photos. “I guess I haven’t looked at these in a long time. That’s Mom’s first cousin Newell. Edwina’s youngest. He’s the family black sheep. When he got drafted for Vietnam, he went to Canada and stayed. Nobody seems to know whether he was a pacifist or a coward. One of his other brothers, Bayard—” he pointed to another little boy in a family portrait “—he was killed in Vietnam. Left a pregnant girlfriend. Aunt Pearl didn’t approve, but she did concede that it must be a comfort to Edwina to have Bayard’s little girl once she was born. I’m surprised Pearl didn’t delete Newell from her wall.” His tone was dry.
He kept talking, telling Wren mildly scandalous and sometimes sad stories about the people so solemnly depicted in sepia. At one point, she said in surprise, “You know who they all are.” She was seeing a new side to him that surprised her.
Alec shrugged big shoulders. “If Aunt Pearl had one consuming interest, it was family history. Did you see that big leather-bound book upstairs in one of the closets? That’s the family tree, with notes about everyone. She was always making Sally or me listen to her drone on about Great-Uncle Hobart or some cousin we’d never met and never wanted to meet.” He looked at Wren. “Doesn’t your mother have some of these kind of pictures put away somewhere?”
She shook her head. Even though it wasn’t her fault she had only her mother, it was one of the things that had always made her feel different from everyone else she knew. They had family; she didn’t.
“Hardly any,” she said. “I’ve seen a few of Mom’s parents and her brother. I don’t know how much she cared, but her brother got all the pictures after their parents died. Then he died and she doesn’t know what happened to them. Antique stores always have these bins full of old photographs of people, and sometimes I’d wonder…” It sounded silly to say.
His eyes stayed keen on her face. “Whether that’s what happened to yours?”
“I suppose. Or whether any of those faces I was looking at belonged to people who were my relatives.” She’d never told anyone this. Not even Molly. “I wish Mom had this kind of record of where we came from. Doesn’t it make you feel connected? As if you’re a link between past and future?”
“I suppose it does.” But he was looking now at the most recent family photo Pearl had on display, this one in color, and Wren saw that looking at it hurt him. She’d guessed when she studied it earlier that this was him and Sally with their parents. Alec hadn’t been more th
an seven or eight when the picture was taken, tall and skinny, his brown hair so short a cowlick was obvious. Sally’s grin showed off two missing front teeth. Wren felt a pang, seeing his father’s big hand resting on Alec’s shoulder and the way Sally gripped her mother’s hand. Did he know how lucky he’d been?
“Maribeth looks so much like Sally,” he said, only some roughness in his voice betraying any emotions.
Wren moved a little closer to him. She wished she had the nerve to reach for his hand, but he hadn’t given her any reason to think he’d want a comforting touch. His constant air of solitude made her chest ache. “She does. You both look a lot like your dad, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess we do. Mom wasn’t short like Aunt Pearl or—” the corner of his mouth twitched “—like you, but she wasn’t very tall. We got our height from Dad.”
In contrast to the rest of the family, tall, handsome and dark-haired, his mom was a little plump and…cozy. Her smile for the camera was soft. She looked the way a mother should, Wren thought, then felt guilty. That wasn’t even right, she knew; looks had nothing to do with how loving a woman was.
“Didn’t your mother send Aunt Pearl your school pictures? I can’t believe this is the last one of you she had.”
“No, there are albums upstairs. I know she kept all those pictures. Mom started albums for—” the pause was so brief she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t gotten so attuned to this man “—Sally’s kids, and mine.”
She longed to ask about his daughters, but she already knew what would happen if she did. She didn’t want him to close himself off from her and make an excuse to retreat to his bedroom. So instead, she asked a few questions about his childhood, and he started talking, sounding as if the memories were rusty, but not as if he minded sharing them.
It all sounded idyllic to her. His dad had thrown the baseball with him on warm summer evenings and coached his Little League team. They’d fished together, and his father had patiently taught him to use woodworking tools in the garage. The whole family ate dinner together every night, when even the children were encouraged to talk about their days.
“I haven’t thought about any of this in years. It’s your fault.” His scowl was half-kidding, but she was pretty sure it was also half-serious. He didn’t know whether he liked the fact that somehow she’d inspired him to open up. She totally understood, since he had the same disconcerting effect on her.
He didn’t clam up the way she expected, though. After continuing to frown into space for a minute, he said, “Mom and Dad were pretty traditional. I mowed the lawn, Sally helped Mom with the housework. She grumbles all the time about never having learned to change the tire on her car or how to use a drill or a jigsaw. Me, I didn’t learn to cook until I was on my own and had to. Maybe Sally and I followed too much in their footsteps. Sally was a straight-A student going through school. She should have done more with her life. But all she ever wanted was to get married and raise her own family, like Mom did.”
“That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Her life isn’t what I would have chosen for her.” He stirred, finally breaking his stare from the photo. “But who am I to talk?”
She could see that he was starting to brood, which usually meant he’d make an excuse to disappear. Before she knew it, her mouth opened and she began chattering about her own childhood, the good and bad. Whether he really wanted to hear it or not. A secret part of her hoped he did, that he was as curious about her as she was about him.
The funny thing was, when she stole a look at him he did look interested.
Some of her memories were as rusty as Alec’s. She’d always hugged her loneliness to herself. She’d never thought about it, but maybe this was why Molly was her only really close friend. Trading stories was part of friendship, and she hadn’t offered many.
It stung a little, imagining how different her life might have been if she’d had a family like his, with two parents who both wanted and loved their children, but to her surprise she found herself remembering happy times, too. Her mother had been a big reader, and that was a passion she’d shared with Wren.
“Mom read to me every night until I learned how. We’d go to the library once a week and pick out a pile of picture books. I loved sitting next to her and listening. If she was bored, she never showed it. That was when I felt closest to her.”
Alec smiled. “She must like the idea of you becoming a librarian.”
Familiar shame twisted in her stomach. “She couldn’t understand when I said I was putting off starting grad school. Why would I waste a year?” Wren sighed. “She was right, except… If I’d insisted, I don’t know what would have happened with James. And then I might not have Abby. I can’t imagine anymore not having her.”
As if she’d heard her name, Abby woke up.
“I’ll clean up the kitchen while you take care of her.”
Wren hoped that wasn’t relief she heard in his voice.
Even though he was already opening the dishwasher and paying no attention to her when she lifted her baby from the bassinet, Wren carried her into the living room and sat on the hideously uncomfortable sofa to nurse. She didn’t have to ask to know Alec would prefer she do it somewhere besides where he was. The memory of him gently helping Abby was beginning to seem dreamlike. Unreal.
Though she was talking softly to Abby, Wren could water running as he rinsed plates and washed the frying pan. From the sound of it, he was even drying and putting dishes away. She would have liked to have stayed in the kitchen. Her imagination wasn’t nearly as good as watching him work would have been. There was something amazing and even incongruous in the sight of him doing domestic chores so competently. Maybe it was because she hadn’t grown up with a father and therefore wasn’t used to seeing a man in the kitchen or folding laundry or wielding a broom and dustpan, but Wren didn’t think so. It was Alec—so male, big and powerfully built with that brooding air and the holstered handgun he wore all the time. The sight of him with a dish towel in his hands was startling.
Usually this was the time of night when he disappeared upstairs after checking that every window and door was locked. But tonight she was gently bouncing Abby and blowing raspberries on her tummy when he appeared in the living room with two steaming mugs in his hands.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I thought you were supposed to play Mozart for babies.”
She grinned at him. “This is more fun. Is that coffee?”
“Herbal tea for you. Was I wrong?”
“No. Coffee would keep me awake. Besides I don’t know how much caffeine makes it through my breast milk.”
At the faint horror on his face, she thought, Uh-oh. If he didn’t want to watch her nurse, he sure wouldn’t want to talk about it, either. But clearly that wasn’t the direction was going. With a hint of humor, he said, “Maybe we should feed you soporifics instead.”
Wren bit her lip. “Does she wake you up every time? I was hoping if I got to her quick enough you wouldn’t always hear her.”
“I’m a light sleeper.” For a moment his gaze rested on Abby before he reached for his coffee, as if he needed another focus for his attention. “No, don’t apologize,” he said, even though he wasn’t looking at Wren.
Her mouth had already been open. She shut it. Then opened it again. “But I should. Maybe Abby and I should sleep down here. I’m short enough for the sofa. This isn’t fair—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alec said brusquely. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who has to get up with her. And there’s no way I want you downstairs by yourself at night.”
Her pulse kicked up. “Do you mean— You think—”
“No, I don’t think. But I’d rather be cautious than not.”
“Maybe I’ve overreacted.” Wren vocalized something she’d been contemplating. “James is a bully, not a killer. It’s not like he hit me all the time. I wouldn’t have stayed if he had. It was really just the once. He wants me back.”
Ale
c’s stare was hard. “The once was when you defied him openly. When he could see that his intimidation wasn’t working.”
“Well, I suppose—”
“Wren, you’re a smart woman. You must have read about domestic abuse and stalkers. What James wants is control. He’s okay as long as he has it. Men like him have manipulation down to a fine art. His problem isn’t an explosive temper, where he lashes out every time he gets frustrated and violence is a release. He’s different. He’s likely to have a succession of tactics he uses to control the woman in his life.” Alec paused, his intense gaze on her face. “I’m betting that when being nice didn’t work anymore, he sulked.”
She stared at him. That was exactly what James had done. His silences had been awful. It started about the time she’d realized she was pregnant and was feeling particularly vulnerable, so for a long time—months—she’d backed down to restore the peace. It was pathetic, how grateful she’d been to have him relax and smile at her again.
Inexorably, Alec continued. “Eventually, that quit working, too. So maybe he threw temper tantrums. Or he punished you by taking away what he saw as privileges.”
Wren couldn’t breathe. How did he know?
“He got angrier. You got more resistant. Finally, in his eyes violence was the only resort. He probably reasoned that it was like a parent spanking his kid. Unpleasant but necessary. Only, that didn’t work, either. Wren, he can’t lose control. The thought is unendurable. So what do you think he’s going to do next?”
Alec’s voice was still rock-hard, but she thought she saw pity in his eyes. She hated it. Hated that she’d been naive enough to not completely understand what he was telling her now. In one way she’d seen the progression, but it was far more clear-cut in retrospect than it had been while it was happening, each stage overlapping, her own responses complicated by her confusion about being pregnant by a man she no longer loved.
“Men like him kill when, in the end, that’s the only way they can maintain control. James won’t be able to live with the idea that you’re happy without him. Abby’s a threat to what he had with you. If he finds out you’re living with me, he’ll be enraged.” Maybe it wasn’t pity on Alec’s face; maybe it was compassion. “Wren, the very fact that he’s come after you means he’s extremely dangerous. He must know that he’s crossed a line. Saying I’m sorry and begging you to come back to him won’t cut it. But he can’t let you go and hold on to his belief in himself.”
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