Aubrey buried the easy way out of this, the way that let Marcus think the best of her and the worst of Brett. “I broke the engagement. Not him.”
Marcus’s quiet, tense activity ceased. “Did he hurt you?”
“Physically? No. Not in any way, really. But he let me believe he was somebody else, and when I finally got wise, I … I couldn’t pretend it was okay.”
“So it wasn’t about Elliott?”
She hugged her middle against the sudden, illogical longing for Brett’s arms. “It wasn’t, no. But he never wanted to be a dad. When I told him we were fine without him, he was happy to believe me.”
The fire banked again with a taut nod of Marcus’s head. He could grill without regard for tact, then permit the return of silence when he had only a patch of the convoluted quilt. But he probably thought the whole quilt was in his hands.
“It was … beliefs,” she said quietly. “I mean, it was faith, and … nonfaith. But everyone has faith in something, right? So it was faith in different things.”
Marcus didn’t nod again, didn’t blink, simply absorbed her words.
“He told me a few months after we met that only the Christian God could be the true one, based on all his studies of religion. Then the con-cops …” She couldn’t say it.
But Marcus wouldn’t fill the taut silence. He watched her, waited.
“We didn’t share … what I thought we did.” Aubrey’s finger traced a B over the smooth countertop. “And it kind of fell apart.”
He nodded. He didn’t ask any questions. She’d said too much. Her face had betrayed the truth. Wouldn’t be the first time. The timer couldn’t ring soon enough.
While they ate, Aubrey attempted normal conversation between bites of spaghetti and salad, as much to occupy her mind as to discover something about the man across from her. Marcus worked for himself as an independent contractor; this was the only thing she could draw out. He wolfed down the food more with single-mindedness than with hunger. He had turned on a news station that Aubrey first considered background noise, but he must have intended it as a shield against small talk. The only polite thing to do was to oblige him. Even in the quiet, he probably didn’t hear the newscaster.
“And now the latest on fleeing Constabulary—”
Marcus’s head snapped up. So much for not listening.
“—suspect Aubrey Weston, who is still at large despite increased Constabulary patrols in the area. Ms. Weston’s parents were apprehended earlier this evening after they broke Constabulary prohibitions against aiding and abetting suspects. Her mother Sharon called Ms. Weston’s cell phone to warn her after the suspect’s four-month-old son was taken into protective custody from her mother’s home. Aubrey Weston is described as five-foot-five, medium build, with long brown hair and hazel eyes, and was last seen wearing—”
“Marcus.”
He glanced her way, but most of his attention remained on the radio.
“They arrested my parents.”
He nodded. “Wait.”
“Did you hear what they said, they arrested my—”
“—abandoned car has been recovered. She may be traveling on foot, hitchhiking, or possibly driving a stolen vehicle.”
“Stolen vehicle? How dare they—” She quashed the rest of the tirade.
The news story moved on to legislative chaos in the state of Texas, an anticlimax after the exploits of a local escaped criminal. Marcus met her eyes.
“How could they arrest my parents? They’re die-hard humanists. Mom only did what any mother would do.”
He nodded.
“I was right. They’re not giving Elliott back to them. They’re keeping him. I knew they’d keep him.” The food that had delighted her tongue moments ago now nauseated her by resting on the plate.
“Yeah,” he said. “They’ll keep him.”
“That’s it.” Her legs propelled her toward the door without logic, without a plan, without anything but the knowledge of what kind of people had her son. Father God, if You’re still listening to me, please don’t let them hurt him. She could go to the Constabulary building she passed every day on her way to work, stake it out, determine the difficulty of entering undetected.
Marcus stood in her way before she’d gone five feet. “Sit down.”
“You’re part of this, aren’t you? It’s a new con-cop mind game, seeing if you can get people complacent enough to stay in jail as long as they don’t know it’s jail. No wonder you bought me three sweaters.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Prove me wrong. Let me leave.”
“You weren’t listening to everything.”
She shut her eyes, though she should be shutting her ears.
“Aubrey. Look at me.”
She obeyed the solidity in his voice. Honesty burned in his eyes.
“They didn’t mention me. They still think you’re on your own. They still think you’re running.”
“What about Elliott?”
“I said I’d get him back.”
“You have no idea how to do it.”
“I’ll find out.”
Aubrey’s hands came up to curtain her face, and her body doubled over in defeat. She straightened and shuffled back to the table, groped for a chair, and capsized her glass of water. She lunged for it and missed. It rolled off the table’s edge, kept rolling across the rug instead of breaking.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Marcus picked up the glass and set it on the table.
“I’ll get a towel.” Aubrey crossed the kitchen to the multiple drawers and tugged them open—silverware, household tools, random junk. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you put towels in a drawer like a normal person? Don’t you do anything like a normal person?”
Marcus’s voice came close behind her. “What?”
“You don’t even have a roll of paper towels.”
“Under the cabinet.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Right in front of her face.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, but the counter blurred, and the flood she’d kept dammed since this morning broke free. When she gulped away the last of the tears, the hard support of a wooden chair pushed against her back. Marcus had steered her to the table. She scrubbed her palms across her cheeks. Yesterday, she’d have cared that her makeup was long gone.
“Sorry,” she said.
He stood over her, one hand on the back of the chair, and shrugged. “It’s just water.”
Her laughter fractured into a gulp against more tears. “Yeah.”
The radio still droned from under a corner cabinet. “And now the latest on Constabulary suspect Aubrey Weston …”
She couldn’t help the sudden stiffness of her spine. Marcus strode across the kitchen and silenced the radio, then returned to her.
“You didn’t eat much,” he said.
“Well, gosh, I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t have an appetite right now.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”
He resumed his seat across from her and twirled his fork in the cooling spaghetti. A minute passed while he ate and Aubrey matched stares with his dog. Clearly, Marcus had nothing else to say.
Aubrey fidgeted in her chair. “Are you expecting me to stay here? In your house? Indefinitely?”
“It’s the safest place for you.”
“What if I’d robbed you blind today and set your house on fire?”
He set down his fork and cocked his head. “Set my house on fire?”
“Not literally, I just— I don’t understand you. We’re strangers.”
“We’re family.”
Um … “What?”
Confusion furrowed between his eyes. “You know. Family. Christians.”
Oh … oh. Around her heart, a steel band cracked and
fell away. Her sins weren’t known here. No disownment. He stood up from the table and reached for her half-empty plate as well as his own, but she intercepted him. They didn’t talk while they loaded the dishwasher.
“I’ve got some work to do,” he said when the kitchen was clean. “But I’ll get the bed ready first. When I’m woodworking, sometimes I lose track of time.”
Sleep might be a wise attempt right now, though she might never achieve it again. But … “Bed?”
“Sure. I sleep on the couch half the time anyway.”
“Do you at least grab a pillow from somewhere?” And the couch didn’t appear to pull into a sofa bed.
He shrugged. “Pillows screw up my neck.”
Ten minutes later, the master bed was stripped, and Aubrey had helped him put on fresh sheets. The pillow he produced from a closet somewhere was flat as a rug, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“If you need anything, I’ll be in the basement.”
“Thank you,” she said, lost to other words.
“Good night.” Indy followed him from the room.
Aubrey reached for the brand-new happy-yellow pajamas, but her hand froze halfway there. Lie here in this unfamiliar bed, in this dark, unfamiliar room? She’d never sleep. She left solitude behind and crept down the basement stairs.
Marcus stood behind an L-shaped workbench, head bent over his tools. Indy sat beside him, leaning her head on his leg. To his left sat a long natural-finish table, probably for a dining room. The wood was smooth and pale. Raw.
“Marcus?”
He looked up. “Everything okay?”
“Um, sure, I …” Heat flooded her face. “I thought I’d watch you work, but if I’ll be in the way …”
His brow furrowed, but he shrugged. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be staining the table. The smell’s kind of strong.”
“That’s fine. I just don’t really feel like sleeping.”
He nodded. Aubrey perched on the only seat available, what must have once been a barstool, legs cut off and reset to match the height of the workbench.
Marcus produced a blackened rag and a can of stain, and soon the stain left his fingertips as dark as the rag. He was left-handed. The knuckles of that hand bore old scars Aubrey didn’t notice until she’d been watching his hands for several minutes. Broad and sure, they worked the stain into the wood, up and down, over the same section until he approved of the color.
“Marcus?”
“Yeah?” His hands didn’t pause.
“Did you know them a long time—Jim and Karlyn?”
His hand faltered, then kept rubbing at the wood. “No. I’m still … Well, they all—Jim and Karlyn, and Janelle—they say I’ve got a lot to learn. About family.”
Aubrey swallowed the ache Janelle’s name brought. So Marcus was a new Christian. No wonder he still saw things like church family with such simple purity. He might accept Aubrey even if he knew everything. Not that she’d take the risk.
“I …” She shifted on the stool. Drowsiness was setting in. “Would you pray for them?”
Now his hand stilled. He looked up. “Out loud?”
She nodded. I would, Marcus, but it needs to be someone God is definitely listening to.
“I, um … I pray, but not …” His face reddened.
In any other circumstance, if anyone else was at stake, maybe she would back off. She lowered her voice. “Please?”
Marcus’s fingers slackened around the stain rag. He stood back from the table and bowed his head. Maybe only half a minute passed, but it could have been an hour. Aubrey glared at her feet, tucked under the barstool’s single rung. She shouldn’t have asked. She didn’t know him. Maybe he had a phobia of public speaking, and in his brain, this qualified.
“God,” Marcus said.
The blush had seeped down his neck, all the way to the crew collar of his T-shirt. His fingers curled at his sides. Aubrey ducked her head before he could glance up and catch her staring.
“Jim and Karlyn.” The pause didn’t last as long this time. “They’re Yours.”
Yes. If God somehow still listened, her prayer would join Marcus’s. Two or more, gathered together. They belong to You, Father God.
“Please keep them safe.”
Don’t let the con-cops use the MS to hurt Jim. Or to threaten him, or scare Karlyn. Don’t let them break my friends, Jesus.
“Please bring them back to—to us, their family.”
She’d done enough crying for one night, but tears dropped onto her folded hands. Please.
“Um. Amen.”
By the time she wiped away the tears and dared to lift her head, Marcus had resumed working. His lips pressed together as if he didn’t intend to speak again until next year. The motion of his hands quickened slightly. Agitation? But if God heard him and listened, Aubrey wasn’t sorry. A minute stretched out, twisted tighter. Maybe she should go upstairs. She could sleep now, probably. His prayer had washed away the burning behind her eyes.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He looked up, his eyes a mirror. No tears, but a bleakness like the hole inside her. The Elliott-shaped hole. Marcus knew loss, too. But he was fighting back. An ally who didn’t stand idle in the face of threats, who counted her as family. Father God, did you send Marcus to get my baby back?
16
“Can you say hello to Mr. Brenner?”
The boys stood side by side, size-ordered. Their sand-colored heads resembled a three-step staircase. The smallest one’s attempt at Marcus’s name sounded sort of Spanish. Misto Bwenno.
“I don’t mind if they call me Marcus,” he said.
“I do.” Pamela Mayweather smiled. “This is J.R.—” she gestured to each of them, starting with the tallest—“Dirk, and Kyle.”
“Hi,” Marcus said.
“Hi, I’m five.” J.R. left the lineup and poked at Marcus’s toolbox. “You going to fix some stuff around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, because when stuff don’t work right, sometimes my mom says bad words.”
Pamela’s laughter hit the air with a splash. “Let me give you the tour of our problem areas, Marcus, before my son asks for a tour of your tools.”
“I’ll come, too.” J.R. trotted behind them. The two toddlers wandered back to a plastic mat of black racetracks and blue rivers and green trees, dotted with one-piece plastic cars and spread over the living room carpet several yards from the real holiday tree. Revving engine noises burst from Dirk as he created a two-car collision in midair.
Most of the Mayweathers’ home “issues,” as Pamela called them, shouldn’t require a handyman. Some people simply didn’t make time to deal with things like this themselves. It was good for business. From realigning a closet door to replacing a few loose bathroom tiles that Jason had purchased months ago, Marcus would complete the whole job in maybe three hours.
Which was fine with him. Walking through a Constabulary agent’s house hurt his neck. Even with a houseguest, he didn’t need this job to pay the bills. Why had he agreed to work for Jason?
He tackled the bathroom first. His pads buffered between the cool, hard floor and his knees. He pried away the loose tiles that served as the room’s baseboard.
“Whatcha doing?”
J.R. knelt at the threshold. His chin jutted out as he leaned forward to eye the two stacks of tiles, one worn and graying, one shiny and white.
“Putting in new tile,” Marcus said.
“How come?”
“Because the old stuff was coming off.”
“How come?”
“Because … it was old.” Marcus peeled away the adhesive backing from the first tile and lined it up with the edge of the floor.
“I’m the oldest.” J.R. stood and walked around Marcus to kneel on his other side, closer.
&nb
sp; “That’s good.” What did you talk about with a five-year-old?
“I’m not a baby like Dirk and Kyle,” J.R. said. “I go to kindergarten.”
“Why’re you home today?”
“Because I got sick, except I’m not really sick, except Mom says you got to treat people’s kids how you want people to treat your kids, so she made me stay home. I just got a cough sometimes.” His breath was warm in Marcus’s face as he demonstrated. “See? And Mom says it’s bad to cough on kids.”
Not bad to cough on adults, though. Marcus’s mouth twitched. He pressed the tile and held it.
“I’m glad,” J.R. said. “You wouldn’t be here when I was here, if I didn’t get sick.”
“That’s true.”
“Want to hear about my names? Mom told me yesterday I got lots of names. There’s Ronan, and J.R., and Mayweather, and Jason. And sometimes people get mixed up and call me R.J. Then I tell them what’s my real name.”
“So you’re named after your dad?”
J.R. crinkled his nose. “No. My name’s J.R. Dad’s name is Dad.”
“Oh,” Marcus said.
Did you explain that kind of stuff to kids, or did you let them figure it out on their own? He couldn’t remember how old he was when he watched the original King Kong and asked Mom why there were no colors. “That movie was made a long time ago.” For the next few years, he believed color must be a recent addition to life.
He reached for another tile. J.R.’s spine rounded as he leaned closer to the floor to inspect Marcus’s work. Finger and thumb of one hand pinched the middle knuckle of his other hand like a stress ball.
Marcus pressed another tile against the wall to meet the floor at a right angle.
“Is that a vein?” J.R.’s pudgy finger hovered an inch away from Marcus’s left hand.
“Where?”
“On your hand, in the middle. Nana has one of them, on her arm, right here.” He poked the crease of his own elbow. “But her vein’s stuck out and purple. Your vein’s skinny.”
Oh, that. Marcus’s hand flexed. The old vertical line over his middle knuckle stretched whiter. “It’s not a vein.”
“What is it, then?”
“A scar.”
Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers) Page 11