by Nora Roberts
“I guess we don’t have enough common ground, or look at things the same way. Or want the same things.”
That wet fist tried to flex again.
“Carter, I’m not really sure. I don’t understand him.”
“Do you want to?”
“I always want to understand, and I’d say that’s why things aren’t going to work.”
He set his briefcase down where they stood, then draped an arm around her shoulders and began to walk.
“You have to get to work.”
“I’ve got some time. When Mac and I were having problems, when I felt I didn’t understand her, you helped me.You gave me some insight into her that I needed. Maybe I can do the same for you.”
“He won’t let me in, Carter. There are all these locked doors. Whenever I ask him about the hard things—and the hard things are a factor in making us who we are—he says it’s no big deal, it was a long time ago, or just shifts the subject.”
“He doesn’t talk about himself much. I think you’re right about the locked doors. And I think there are some people who lock them so they can open others.That they think they won’t be able to walk through the others if they don’t shut out what came before.”
“I understand that, I do. To a point. But how can you be with someone, hope you might stay with someone, who isn’t willing to let you see what they locked away, who won’t share the problems, the bad times? Who won’t let you help?”
“From the little he’s said, and more from what my mother related, he took some pretty hard knocks as a kid. Emotionally when he lost his father, physically from his uncle and aunt. You can’t be a teacher without dealing with kids who’ve been through something like that, or are going through it. In a lot of cases, trust takes time, and a lot of work.”
“So I should give it more time, be patient, and work harder.”
“Some of that’s up to you.” He rubbed her arm as they walked. “On his part, I’d have to say he’s crazy about you and hasn’t quite figured out how to handle it. You want, need, and deserve the whole picture, and he’s thinking you should look at what he is now, that it should be enough.”
“That’s a good analysis.” She sighed and, grateful, leaned on him a little. “I don’t know if it makes me want to move forward or away, but it’s a good analysis.”
“I bet he didn’t get much sleep last night either.”
“I hope not.” It helped to smile, and she did as she turned to hug him. “Thank you, Carter. Whatever happens, this helped.”
She drew back. “Go to school.”
“Maybe you could take a nap.”
“Carter, who are you talking to?”
“I had to try.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, started toward his car again. Nearly tripped over his own briefcase before he remembered it.
“Mac.” Parker breathed it as she turned to go inside.“You’re so damn lucky.”
She paused a moment, just to study the house, the soft blue of it against the brilliant sky. All those lovely lines, she thought, the pretty touches of gingerbread, the gleam of windows. Like a wedding, she decided, those were details. At the core it was more than house, even more than a home, which was so vital to her. It was a symbol; it was a statement. It stood as it had for generations, a testament to her name, to her family. By standing it proved it was in her blood to build to last.
How could she build with Malcolm without understanding his foundation?
She went in through the kitchen. Coffee, she thought, a decent breakfast to boost some energy into her system. Maybe the answers would come, one way or the other, once she made herself fall back into routine.
But when she walked into the kitchen, Mrs. Grady sat at the counter, her eyes wet.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” Her own troubles forgotten, Parker rushed around the counter.
“There was a terrible accident last night. A car accident.”
“I know. Del said something about it. Oh God. Someone was killed? Someone you knew?”
“Worse than that. There were three girls—teenagers. There’d been four, but they’d just dropped the other off at home.They’re all dead, all of them.”
“Oh, no. Oh God.”
“I know the mother of one of them, from the book club I’m in.”
“Mrs. G, Mrs. G.” Parker wrapped her arms around her, rocked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“There were two people in the other car. One’s stable now, they say, the other still critical.”
“I’m going to make you some tea.” She brushed Mrs. Grady’s hair back from her face. “You lie down awhile, and I’ll bring it to you. I’ll sit with you.”
“No, I’m all right here.We know, you and I, how death—sudden and cruel like this—how it devastates you.”
“Yes.” Parker squeezed her hand, then walked over to make the tea.
“Dana, the woman I know from the book club? I never liked her.” Mrs. Grady pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket, dabbed at her eyes, her cheeks. “Disagreeable sort of person, know-it-all, that kind of thing. And now I think she’s lost a child, and none of that matters anymore. Someone took pictures of the terrible wreck of the car, and they had it on the local news. I hope she doesn’t see it, that she never has to see that, that they towed it away and locked it away before she ever saw it.”
“I want you to . . .” Towed it away, Parker thought.
Malcolm.
She squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath. First things first.
“I want you to drink your tea while I make you some breakfast.”
“Darling girl.” Mrs. Grady blew her nose, almost managed a smile. “Bless your heart, you can’t cook worth spit.”
“I can scramble eggs and make toast.” She set the tea in front of Mrs. Grady. “And if you don’t trust me that far, I’ll get Laurel to make it. But you’re going to have some breakfast and some tea. Then you’re going to call Hilly Babcock, because you’re going to want your good friend.”
“Bossy.”
“That’s right.”
She grabbed Parker’s hand as tears swirled again. “I’ve been sitting here, my heart broken for those lost children, for their families, even for the child who fate spared. And a part of me thanked God, couldn’t help but thank God, that I still have mine.”
“You’ve got a right to be grateful for that.We all do. It doesn’t take away the sorrow and the sympathy for the loss.”
She wrapped her arms around Mrs. Grady again because she remembered, too well remembered, when they’d lost theirs. The way the world had simply fallen away, and the air had closed off. When there was nothing but terrible, ripping grief.
“Drink your tea.” Parker gave her a last, hard squeeze. “I’m calling Laurel and Emma and Mac, and we’ll take some time to be grateful, and time to be sorry.”
She kissed Mrs. Grady’s cheek. “But I’m making breakfast.”
THE FOUR OF THEM SWITCHED OFF KEEPING AN EYE ON MRS. GRADY, trying not to be obvious about it. With all of them juggling appointments, a rehearsal that evening, and a weekend with back-to-back events, Parker barely had time to think.
But she made a point of looking the story up online.
This, she thought as her throat clutched at the photograph, was what Malcolm had seen the night before. How much more horrible would it be to have seen it in reality?
This is what had put that look in his eyes, that tone in his voice.
He’d come to her, she thought. Closed in, yes, but he’d come to her.
So, as soon as she could, she’d go to him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MALCOLM BLED THE NEW, LONGER BRAKE LINES FOR THE JEEP THE customer ordered lifted. He suspected the kid wanted the modification more for looks and peer status than any serious offroading.
Whatever the reason, Malcolm figured he got paid the same.
Working methodically with his iPod blasting out his playlist from its port on a workbench, he replaced the front shock ab
sorbers and the coil springs with their taller counterparts. The customer’s requirement meant modifying the control arms, the track bars, and lengthening the brake lines.
The kid would end up right this side of legal—barely.
It wasn’t a rush job, nothing he had to dig into after closing. But then neither was the oil change he’d slated to take care of next instead of passing the basic job to Glen.
Busywork, he admitted as the Killers rocked out. Well, he wanted to keep busy.
The time he spent jacking up the kid’s ride, doing an oil change, then a brake job, meant he wouldn’t spend that time thinking.
Mostly.
Thinking about what was screwed up in the world, and currently his life, wouldn’t fix it.The world would continue to screw up no matter how long and hard he thought about it.
And his life? A little time and space was probably in order.The Parker thing had gotten pretty intense, and maybe a little crowded—and that was on him, no question.
He’d pushed, he’d pursued, he’d plotted the course. Somehow he—she—they, he wasn’t entirely sure—had navigated that course a lot speedier and into much deeper territory than he’d expected.
They’d been spending nearly every free moment together, and plenty of moments that weren’t exactly free. Then boom, he’s thinking about next week with her, and the next months—and okay, beyond even that. It just wasn’t what he’d banked on.
Plus, before he knows what’s happening, he’s taking her to dinner at his mother’s, asking her to stay the night in his bed.
Both of those particular events broke precedent. Not that he had hard-and-fast rules about it. It was more a cautionary avoidance to keep things at a comfortable level.
Then again, Parker wasn’t comfortable, he thought as he installed a skid plate for the oil pan. He’d known that going in.
She was complicated and nowhere near as predictable as she looked on the outside. He’d wanted to know how she worked, he couldn’t deny it. And the more he’d examined the parts, the more caught up he’d become.
He knew those parts now, and how she worked. She was a detail-oriented, somewhat—hell, extremely—anal, goal-focused woman. Mixed in there she had a talent and a need to arrange those details into a perfect package and tie them with a bow.
If that, plus the money and pedigree, had been it, she’d have probably been a beautiful pain in the ass. But inside her was a deep-seated need for family, for stability, for home—and God knew he understood that one—and an appreciation for what she’d been given. She was unflinchingly loyal, generous, and, being hardwired to be productive and useful, had a work ethic that kicked ass.
She was complicated and real, and like the image he had of her mother on the side of the road in a pretty spring dress, he thought she defined what beauty was. In and out.
So he’d ended up breaking those not-exactly rules because the more he’d learned, the more caught up he’d become, the more he’d known she was exactly what he wanted.
He could deal with wants. He’d wanted plenty. Some he’d gotten, some he hadn’t. And he’d always figured things averaged out in the end. But he’d realized the night before, when he’d gone to her because he’d been edgy and unsettled and just fucking sad, that want had merged with need.
He’d needed to be with her, just be there, with her, in that ordered space she created where somehow everything just made sense.
Needing something—someone—that was jumping off a building without a safety harness. He’d learned the hard way he was better off taking care of himself, dealing with himself and what was his. Period.
Except he’d started thinking of her as his. He’d already told her bits and pieces of things he’d never told anyone else, and didn’t much see the point in thinking about.
So . . .
Better he’d pissed her off, he decided. Better she’d tossed him out. They’d both take a couple of breaths, simmer down. Reevaluate.
He checked the modifications, moving from the front end to the rear.
And over the music of the Foo Fighters he heard the distinctive sound of high heels on concrete.
He only had to angle his head, and there she was, wearing one of her sexy business suits, that arresting face unframed, a bag the size of a Buick on her shoulder.
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“No.” He pulled the rag out of his back pocket to wipe his hands.
She shouldn’t be here, he thought.The place smelled of oil and engine and sweat. And so, he imagined, did he.
“I thought you had a thing tonight.”
“I did. It’s finished.” She gave him that cool-eyed stare.“But we’re not, so would you mind turning that down?”
“I’ve got to get the wheels and tires on this thing.”
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
She would, he concluded. She was good at that.
So he figured the Foo Fighters would have to learn to fly without him. He put down his tools, shut down the iPod, then opened the cooler he’d put on the bench beside it. He took out one of the two beers he’d packed. “Want one?”
“No.”
He opened it, took a long pull while he eyed her.“Something on your mind, Legs?”
“Quite a bit, actually. I heard about the accident, about those three girls.Why didn’t you tell me about it last night?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it.” The image—shattered glass, blood, blackened metal on a rain-slicked road—flashed back into his mind. “Still don’t.”
“You’d rather let it eat at you.”
“It’s not eating at me.”
“I think, I really think, that’s the first lie you’ve told me.”
It infuriated him, unreasonably, that she was right.
“I know what’s going on inside my gut, Parker. And talking about it doesn’t change squat. It doesn’t make those girls any less dead, or keep the couple in the other car from a fucking world of hurt. Life goes on, until it doesn’t.”
The heat he spewed did nothing to ruffle her cool.
“If I really believed you were that fatalistic and callous, I’d feel sorry for you. But I don’t.You came to me last night because you were upset, but you couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me why. Maybe getting mad at me helped, maybe you could displace the upset with anger. But I don’t deserve that, Malcolm, and neither do you.”
Chalk up another in the She’s Right column.The score, Brown: 2; Kavanaugh: 0, just pissed him off.“I shouldn’t have come by last night when I was in a crappy mood.You want an apology? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you know me at all, Malcolm?”
“Christ.” He muttered it and took another swig of the beer he didn’t really have the taste for.
“And don’t take that dismissive male attitude with me.”
“I am a male,” he shot back, pleased he’d scraped away a layer of that calm, revved to scrape away more.“I have a male attitude.”
“Then you can stuff this in your attitude. If I’m with you, I’m with you when you’re doing flips and handsprings, and I’m with you when you’re in a crappy mood.”
“Yeah?” Something choked him, twisted in throat, in gut. “Couldn’t prove that by last night.”
“You didn’t give me—”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ don’t you get? And how the hell does this get turned around into being about you and me? Three kids are dead, and if they were lucky, they died fast. But it wouldn’t have been fast enough. Five, ten seconds of knowing what’s coming is forever. That and never getting to grow up, never getting to push the rewind button and say ‘let me do that different this time’ is a hell of a price for some girl who barely had her license a year and two of her friends to pay for being stupid.”
She didn’t jolt when the bottle he heaved smashed against the wall, but let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hum of sympathy. “I nearly did that same thing last night after you left. Then I thought what good
would it do, and I’d just have to clean it up. Did it help?” she wondered.
“God, you’re a piece of work. Not everything has a neat, practical answer. Everything doesn’t always add the fuck up. If it did, three girls wouldn’t be dead because they were driving too damn fast and texting friends.”
Her heart hurt at the waste of it all. “Is that what happened? How do you know?”
“I know people.” Damn it, he thought, and shoved at his hair as he struggled to box in the rage that had blindsided him. “Listen, they’re keeping that under wraps until they finish the investigation.”
“I won’t say anything. Mrs. Grady knows the driver’s mother, and it’s hit her pretty hard. Maybe listening to her, making her tea, holding her hand didn’t help all that much. Maybe it wasn’t a neat, practical answer, and maybe it doesn’t all add the fuck up. But I had to do something. When someone I care about is hurting or upset or just sad, I have to do something.”
“Whether they want you to or not.”
“Yes, I suppose so.To my mind, reaching out, reaching for one another doesn’t make what happened to those girls less of a tragedy, or make anyone less heartsick for them and their families. But point taken.You don’t want me to listen.You don’t want me to hold your hand. So that makes the need to do those things about me, not you.”
She took a long breath, and he heard the unsteadiness of it. That, more than anything she’d said or done, cut at him.
“You throw the glass against the wall, then you clean it up and throw it away.That’s your practicality, Malcolm.”
“Sometimes a smashed bottle’s just a smashed bottle. Look, I’ve got to get the wheels back on this Jeep.”
It wasn’t anger he saw on her face, and her anger had been the goal. It was hurt. It was that single, unsteady breath.
She nodded once. “Good luck with that.”
For a moment, just as she turned to walk away, he wished he still had the beer bottle in his hand. Just so he could smash it again.
“I thought I was dead.”
She stopped, turned. She waited.
“When it went wrong, when I knew it was going south, I thought I could pull out of it. But the whole thing was fucked. Technical glitch, miscalculation, and some budget cuts that didn’t get passed down to those of us on the line. Several people up the chain made a bad decision, doesn’t really matter why. The why’s the reason I ended up getting a big fat check at the end of the day.”