A Not-So-Perfect Past

by Beth Andrews

  How stupid.

  After double checking to make sure the table was clean, he leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m glad you listened to my advice. This is best for everyone concerned. Ward is dangerous.”

  She moved to the next table. “Of course you’re glad. You got what you wanted.”

  He shook his head, his expression magnanimous. Composed. As if he was talking to one of his patients. “It’s not what I want that matters, Nina. Even though things didn’t work out between us, I still care about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She bit her lip. Cared about her. Right. Which was why he made her feel worthless. And then left her for the tall, thin, sexy—and let’s not forget successful—Dr. Rachel Weber.

  “You made the right decision,” he assured her as he patted her shoulder. She twisted out of his reach, but either he didn’t notice or didn’t care that she couldn’t stand him touching her. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll pick the kids up at six Thursday. Please have them ready on time.”

  As he walked out, she slammed the next chair on the table and imagined it was his head. Her pulse raced. Talking to Trey always made her feel like she’d just run a race.

  And lost.

  “Marcus had three cookies,” Hayley said as she skipped into the room.

  Marcus, hot on his sister’s heels, said, “Nu-uh. I had two.”

  “Daddy says Marcus needs to stop eating so much’ cause he’s getting fat.”

  Nina fisted her hands. While Marcus had put on some weight since the divorce, her son was far from fat. But Trey wouldn’t tolerate anything less than perfection. Especially in his children.

  “They were small cookies,” Marcus mumbled, his cheeks flushed pink. “I’m pretty sure they equaled one regular-size cookie.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure I told you one cookie,” she said, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice. She ruffled his mussed hair. “But not because I’m worried about your weight. I just want to make sure you eat the dinner Grandma’s making. You can work up an appetite by helping me put the rest of the chairs up on the tables.”

  Hayley tugged on Nina’s jeans. “I want to help, too.”

  “Run and get the broom and dustpan. And no more tattling.”

  Hayley raced off while Marcus dragged his feet toward the first table. “How was your weekend?” she asked.

  He shrugged. Turned a chair over before hefting it in place. “Dad signed me up for the indoor soccer league.”

  She helped him lift the next chair. “I didn’t know you wanted to play soccer.”

  “I don’t. I want to play basketball.”

  “Then why—”

  “Dad wants me to.”

  “Well, it might be fun—”

  “No, it won’t. None of my friends are playing and I think soccer’s boring, but Dad wants me to play it because he says I’m not good enough to start at basketball, which means I’ll be on the bench for most of the games and won’t get enough exercise.”

  She crouched in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Dad just wants what’s best for you. Come on, give it a try. If you don’t like it after a few weeks, I’ll talk to your dad about quitting.”

  Marcus frowned, but it wasn’t the anger on her son’s face that made her throat constrict. It was the disappointment. “No, you won’t. You always say you’ll talk to him but it never changes anything.”

  She sat back on her heels. “Honey, that’s not true. Dad and I may make decisions that you don’t like but we’re only thinking about what’s best for you.”

  “Basketball’s what’s best for me.”

  “Well, then,” she said slowly, “I’ll discuss it with your dad.”

  He searched her face. “Promise?”

  The idea of confronting Trey, of subjecting herself to his put-downs and arrogance made her palms sweat. But for her son, for that hopeful look on his face…

  “Of course I promise.” Something crashed in the kitchen. Nina stood. “Could you please check on your sister?”

  As she watched her son leave, his back stiff, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing the right thing. She wanted to teach her kids how to get along with their father. To protect themselves from his stinging comments and wicked temper. So why did she feel like she was failing them?

  And in the process, failing herself?

  ONE GOOD THING about his latest foster parents. They had decent taste in music.

  Kyle Fowler loaded AC/DC’s “Back In Black” into the SUV’s CD player and cranked the volume. He switched on his high beams but that made it harder to see in the heavy snow.

  Their vast CD collection was the only good thing about Joe and Karen Roberts. Sure, during the past seven months with them they’d given him a cell phone—to use in case of emergencies—and bought him some new clothes. But they were no different from any of his other foster parents.

  He slowed enough to make sure there was no other traffic and then coasted through a Stop sign. No other foster parents had given him anything except a hard time. But Joe and Karen had bought him things just so they could take them away again.

  What kind of sick head game was that? They were getting off on their power, that’s what they’re doing.

  Jeez, it was just a little pot. It wasn’t like he was cooking up meth or something really bad. Pot never hurt anyone. Besides, they shouldn’t have been snooping around his room. They were the ones who were wrong and yet they thought they could ground him?

  Who the hell gets grounded anymore?

  None of his other foster parents had ever cared if he got in trouble. Okay, so maybe they cared—but only how it affected them and their check. Oh, once in a while he’d have someone bitch him out, maybe slap him around a bit but nobody lectured him like the holier-than-thou Joe and Karen.

  On a straight stretch by the high school, he accelerated and flipped the bird to the empty building. He wasn’t going back there, that’s for sure. The SUV fish-tailed on the slippery, snow-covered road, but he easily kept it under control.

  He remembered Karen’s disappointment, Joe’s anger, as they’d sat him down earlier this evening. He’d felt almost sick when Joe tossed the baggie of weed onto the coffee table in front of him. And when they’d both said how disappointed they were in him, he hadn’t been able to breathe.

  Karen claimed she found it when she was cleaning up his room. She was always doing stuff like that—cleaning his room, putting away his clothes. Acting all nice and sweet, as if she enjoyed having him around. But he knew the truth would come out eventually. She and Joe were just messing with him. Acting as if they liked him, cared about him.

  His hands tightened on the wheel. What bullshit.

  He reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of smokes. He’d just forget how nice Karen pretended to be, how she smiled at him and laughed at his jokes. How she asked him what he wanted at the grocery store and never complained that he ate too much. How she’d made him a cake for his birthday.

  No one had ever made him a cake. No one had even remembered his birthday before. But Joe and Karen took him to a restaurant and when they got back home, they had the cake with candles and everything. They’d even sung to him.

  It was freaking embarrassing. He was fifteen, not five.

  The worst part was, when Joe had hugged him and Karen kissed his cheek, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

  His eyes burned. And it was different. But it was also worse. Because he’d thought they were cool. But the way they flipped out over a little bit of pot was whacked.

  He had wheels, a full tank of gas and, thanks to his helping himself to the extra cash around the house and in Karen’s purse, he had money. Almost two hundred dollars. That would last him until he was far enough away to ditch the car. He’d get a job and start fresh. Make his own way.

  And to hell with everyone who’d ever held him back. To hell with anyone who tried to stop him.


  With his cigarette in his mouth, he lifted his hips and dug in his front pocket for his disposable lighter. Steering with his left hand, he lit the cigarette with his right and blew out smoke. He glanced at the speedometer. He was going fifty down Main Street. He should probably slow down but nobody in this hick town was up anyway.

  Not even the cops.

  He pushed a button to roll the window down a crack. He took his eyes off the road for a second to flick the ash off his cigarette but when he looked through the windshield again, he was heading straight for the sidewalk. Swearing, he dropped his cigarette and jerked the wheel to the right at the same time he slammed on the brakes. His tires locked up. The SUV spun out of control, jumped the curb and crashed through the front of Sweet Suggestions.

  NINA WAS SURE it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It couldn’t be.

  Because it seemed really, really bad.

  Two of the three large, glass display cases were smashed. Tables and chairs were in pieces across the room. Donuts, pastries and loaves of bread covered the floor, along with rubble and glass. Both large windows were demolished. The outside wall was gone.

  And a banged-up SUV sat in the middle of the room, halfway through the wall separating the kitchen from the front.

  The frigid air cut through her sweatpants. She shivered and flipped the hood of her heavy down coat over her snarled hair. When Police Chief Jack Martin had called and woke her, she’d tried to take off in her sweats and the ratty Hello Kitty T-shirt she slept in. Luckily, her mother—whom she’d called to watch the kids—had shoved Nina’s arms into the coat. She just wished she’d had the good sense to pull on wool socks instead of slipping her bare feet into these ancient canvas sneakers. She could no longer feel her toes.

  Outside, the lights from two police cars were flashing while bright orange flares burned at the intersection. Her father was talking to one of the policemen while the tow truck driver hooked his winch to the SUV. Nina’s teeth chattered and she blew on her hands in an effort to warm them.

  Jack had asked Nina to wait inside. From the look on his face as he spoke to Dora Wilkins—the editor-in-chief of the Serenity Springs Gazette—out on the sidewalk, he wouldn’t get to Nina for a while.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered automatically, then realized how foolish a lie it was. She exhaled heavily and glanced at Dillon. His hair was mussed, his green T-shirt wrinkled, his work boots untied. “On second thought, I’m not fine. This is a disaster.”

  He turned over an unbroken chair and used the sweatshirt crumpled in his hand to brush it off. “Could’ve been worse.”

  “Worse?” she asked as she sank into the chair. She gestured wildly. “There’s an SUV in my bakery. There’s a huge hole in one wall and the other wall’s completely gone. Gone. How can it be much worse?”

  “A few feet to the left—” he crossed his arms; she noticed his skin was covered in goose bumps “—and he would’ve taken out your gas meter. That would’ve been worse. As it is, you’ll have to shore up the supporting wall, get new windows and a door, a couple of tables—”

  “Tables and chairs and new display cases. Maybe even new flooring. Not to mention priming and painting those new walls.” Her throat tightened painfully with unshed tears. She dropped her head into her hands. “Everything’s ruined. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “You’re supposed to handle this,” he said simply. “Does it suck? Yes. But sitting around whining—”

  “I am not whining.” She stood and flipped her hood back. When he raised an eyebrow, she sighed. “Okay, maybe I am whining. Just a little bit. I’m entitled.”

  “Look,” he said hesitantly, “I realize we don’t…know each other very well, but since I’ve lived here I’ve seen you handle your kids, late deliveries and rude customers. Believe me, you can handle this.”

  Her mouth popped open. “That’s…that’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long time.” And what did that say about the sad situation of her life that it came from the man she’d recently evicted? She skimmed her fingers over his cold hand, just the briefest of touches, but it left her fingertips tingling. She rubbed her hand down the side of her leg. “Thank you.”

  He stepped back, looking so uncomfortable she almost smiled. “It’s no big deal. Just calling it like I see it.”

  She cleared her throat. “You know, that sweatshirt might do you more good if you actually put it on.”

  “It might,” he agreed as he unwound the cloth to show her the dark blood staining it, “but I’d rather not.”

  “What happened?” She swept her gaze over him. “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s not his blood,” Jack said as he carefully stepped over glass to join them. “It’s Kyle’s.”

  Her knees went weak. “Kyle? Kyle who?”

  “Kyle Fowler,” Jack said. “He’s the one who was driving.”

  She held her hand out. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the Roberts’ foster son?”

  “He is.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Seems he got mad at Joe and Karen and took off.”

  “Took off?”

  “He stole their car,” Dillon said, balling his shirt up again. “Some of their cash, too. The kid’s in deep sh…uh…trouble.”

  “He’s lucky he walked away with only a few bruises and a broken wrist,” Jack added.

  “If he wasn’t hurt,” Nina said, “where did all the blood come from?”

  “He hit his head against the window, got cut up. But it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Dillon held up his shirt. “Or looks. Head wounds always bleed a lot.”

  She didn’t even want to think about how or why Dillon would know such a thing. “I’m glad Kyle’s okay.”

  “You’re taking this pretty well,” Dillon commented.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If some kid stole a car and crashed into my building, I don’t know if I’d be quite so understanding.”

  “Understanding? Is that what I’m being? Maybe it would be better if I said I wanted to go to the hospital and tear into Kyle for his stupid, reckless actions?”

  “I’m not sure about better, but it might be more honest.”

  “Yeah, well, honesty’s overrated,” she muttered. The few times she’d allowed her temper to get the better of her, she’d ended up with a lot of bruises. Besides, she couldn’t get mad at some troubled teenager. The town would probably pass out collectively in shock.

  And take away the halo they’d branded her with.

  “There will be consequences,” Jack told her as one of his officers called his name. “Kyle’s facing some serious charges. And this isn’t his first offense. It could mean time in juvenile hall for him. Excuse me for a minute,” he said before walking away.

  While she was glad Kyle wasn’t seriously hurt, she just couldn’t feel bad for him. He’d only been here a few months, and he already had a reputation as a troublemaker. Although truth be told, he’d arrived with the stigma in place. Everyone had been concerned when Joe, a local accountant, and Karen, an elementary school teacher, had become Kyle’s foster parents. Married for close to twenty years and unable to have children of their own, they’d chosen to take in a juvenile delinquent instead of adopting an infant.

  “You’re allowed to be pissed,” Dillon said.

  She laughed and rubbed her temples. “That’s a new one. Usually people are telling me not to bother getting mad. Especially over things I can’t control.”

  “I’m just saying you have the right to be angry. Most people would be.”

  She dropped her hands. “I don’t want to be angry. I just want this to not have happened. I want to close my eyes and open them to discover this is all a bad dream.”

  “That’s not how life is.”

  “No kidding.”

  He thumped his fisted hand against his thigh several times. “Since you can’t blink and make this disappear—”

  “What if I wiggled my nose?”

  He smil
ed and the effect was so sexy, she caught her breath and lowered her gaze. The last thing she needed was her hormones taking notice of Dillon Ward.

  Of course, it’d been so long since she’d been aware of a man, she’d begun to doubt she even still had hormones.

  The tow truck driver got into his truck and started hauling the SUV out. Dillon took a hold of her elbow and led her to the far corner.

  “Unless your magic powers suddenly materialize,” he said, bending close so she could hear him over the noise, “you’re going to have to decide what your next step is.”

  He still hadn’t dropped her elbow. His hand was large and very masculine against the bright pink of her puffy coat. His hold on her was light. Supportive. And steady. She could really use some steadiness now.

  She swallowed. “I…I guess the next step is to call the insurance adjuster.”

  “Yeah, but right now the exterior wall needs to be boarded up and, since the interior wall is weight-bearing, it’ll have to be jacked up temporarily.” He leaned back, his jaw tight, his eyes steady on hers. “I could take care of the exterior wall. I wouldn’t be able to do anything inside until tomorrow, though. That is, if you want my help.”

  Her pulse skittered. Before she could answer, her dad barreled toward them. His weathered cheeks were red from the cold, his knit ski cap pulled down low over his ears.

  Dillon dropped her arm and stepped back. Nina forced a smile for her father. “Good news, Dad,” she said, trying to ignore the sudden tension, “Dillon’s offered to board up the wall tonight. Dillon Ward, you know my father, Hank Erickson, don’t—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Her dad’s mouth was turned down at the corners. “I already have a contractor on his way.”

  Dillon looked at her as if…what? “Thank you so much for offering, Dillon, but—”

  “No problem,” he said. “Good luck with the renovations.” His expression hard, he nodded at Hank and walked away.

  Hank squeezed her shoulders and dropped a quick kiss on her head. “We’ll take care of this, honey. I called Jim Arturo to handle the repairs. Don’t you worry about a thing.”