by Janet Dean
“The Bible teaches us to turn the other cheek.” Mary tilted his face to hers. “Unless you share what happened, it’ll eat away at you, Michael. I know. When I was a little girl, children called me a hurtful name, but I didn’t tell my parents. Keeping that secret kept me from their comfort. Comfort I want to give you.” Then she bent and kissed his forehead.
His face contorted. “Jimmy told a lie. A big fat lie!”
Bracing herself, Mary asked, “About what?”
His lips trembled. “He wouldn’t take it back.”
Her heart breaking for her son, Mary tugged him close, wrapping his narrow frame in the circle of her arms.
But Michael pulled away, his gaze troubled. Tears welled in his eyes. “Sometimes…Daddy smelled…bad. His eyes were…fuzzy.” Michael took hold of her arm. “Was Daddy a…a drunk like Jimmy said?” he asked softly, his voice laced with sorrow.
Mary gazed into her precious son’s eyes. Innocence and trust in her rested there. Remembering the pain of learning her real parents hadn’t wanted her, had left her on the Lawrence doorstep like a basket of discarded kittens, she couldn’t tell Michael the truth.
Confirming Sam was a drunk would voice the reality Mary had tried to hide from the children all those years—Sam had not wanted them. Not as much as a bottle. She never ever wanted her boys to feel that anguish.
“Your father didn’t always feel well. He had problems that had nothing to do with you or me or Philip.” She took in a sharp breath. Forgive me, Lord, for this lie. “Drunk is such an ugly word. It doesn’t describe your father. He loved you and Philip. Never forget that.”
A knot tightened in her stomach. Once again she hid behind the facade of her fictional perfect life. She should’ve faced the question head-on, but how could she hurt her son that way? How could she tell him that his family’s love and their need for him hadn’t been able to stop Sam from derailing like a runaway train?
The knot in her stomach swelled, creeping up her throat, choking her. She’d asked God for the words, the wisdom to help her son, but then she’d lied. No matter what she did these days, she failed to live up to her expectations, but now to fail God…
Unable to look her son in the eyes, she smoothed his collar. “You need to apologize to Jimmy. But I know one thing for sure, Michael. You’re a kind boy, a good boy.”
Tears ran down her son’s cheeks and he sniffed. “I bloodied Jimmy’s nose.”
Mary wiped away his tears and then kissed the top of his head, holding him tight. “We all make mistakes. When we do, we need to say we’re sorry. God understands, and He’ll forgive.” Please forgive me, Lord. “So will Jimmy. It’ll be all right, Michael. Everything will be all right.”
Wasn’t that what she’d said a hundred times over the years of her marriage? Everything would be all right tomorrow, or the next day, or next week.
But it never had been.
Just when she thought she had control over her life, a strong plan for the future, something happened to dredge up the past. Her breath caught. Would covering the truth of that past with a lie make more trouble for her son?
Chapter Thirteen
Luke left the carriage house, heading around the block toward Mary’s place. Doc had told him about Michael’s fight. Luke couldn’t get it out of his mind. For whatever reason, this childhood scuffle gnawed at him. Luke had to see the boy. To see if he could help in some way.
The youngster hadn’t had a good day. Luke’s hadn’t been much better. Sloan was a good doctor, carried his share of the load and got along well with the patients. Mary had to notice his blond good looks and boyish charm. Not that she’d said as much, but Luke had eyes.
And so did Sloan. He lit up like a firecracker when Mary entered the room. Other than his dream of working at Johns Hopkins, Sloan was perfect. Not only as his replacement in the practice but as a husband for Mary, a woman who deserved the best. And as a father for her sons. One in particular. His.
So why did he want to punch the good doctor in the nose?
If only he were free to court Mary. But a secret the size of Gibraltar stood between them. A secret he couldn’t confess. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Hadn’t he learned anything from the lengths his parents had gone to to hide their treachery?
They’d put on the appearance of a perfect, well-dressed, well-mannered family, complete with drawn-on smiles. Those smiles hid their wretchedness—his parents’ rejection of Joseph, whose seizures embarrassed them, and of Luke who’d dared to question their actions.
The result—he’d grown up with a perpetual knot of distaste in his stomach for deceit. And now he kept his fatherhood from Mary. Caught in a deception he had no idea how to extricate himself from. If he told her, he’d lose her good opinion.
He grimaced. Talk about deceiving himself. The fact was he’d never had Mary’s approval. Not since the day they’d met. But for some unexplainable reason, he wanted her respect—and wanted it badly. Badly enough he couldn’t move on. Something undone lay between them, drawing him to her again and again.
But more than his duplicity plagued him. He hadn’t received a response to the wire he’d sent his parents. How like his father to ignore him. Thomas Jacobs loved to be in charge. And keep Luke off balance. They had nothing in common, and whatever meager affection they’d once felt for each other had shriveled and died.
He rounded the corner and approached Mary’s house. The boys played in the backyard. Perhaps he could have a private word with her, try to ease the conflict between them.
Mary opened the door to his knock. His lungs caught on a breath and held. “Hello.”
One glimpse of Mary, this petite woman who’d built a fortress around her heart as high as his, made him yearn to pull her into his arms. If only he could scale those walls…but he made no move toward her, would say none of what filled his mind. “Doc told me about Michael’s fight. I thought I’d check on him…if that’s okay.”
Mary moved to close the door. “We’re fine.”
“Have we gone back to acting like strangers?”
“Isn’t that what we are? Why put on a charade, Luke? Pretending our relationship might go somewhere.”
Had she caught on to his pretense? The thought shook him, but as much as he wanted to deny her claim, he couldn’t. They both played that game. He took a step closer, preventing her from shutting him out. “Might it? Go somewhere?”
Mary heaved a sigh. “Why bother? You’ve made it clear you’re leaving. What’s the point?”
This woman believed in everything he did not—home, hearth. He should turn around. Return to his apartment over the carriage house. Pack his belongings and head for New York.
But his feet stayed planted on her doorstep, everything attuned to her, a lure he couldn’t resist. She intrigued him, partly because of her commitment to the things he ran from. All things that, underneath his hard shell, he craved but didn’t have. Logic took flight, and he found himself lost in her emerald eyes, inhaling the scent of her, thinking about staying—
“What are you doing to me?” he said, voice husky, even frenzied.
“Nothing,” she said on a whisper.
“You have no idea how you affect me.” He wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and push everything between them aside. “Let me in.”
He didn’t mean into the house. By the look in her eyes, she grasped that as much as he did. Everything within Luke coiled tight. A heartbeat passed between them. She opened the door and Luke stepped inside, hoping somehow to find middle ground, a way to combine this blend of vinegar and bicarbonate, without an explosion that hurt them both.
Mary disappeared into her kitchen. Luke followed her to the doorway, taking in the table set for four and the aroma of a chicken. Her comfy kitchen filled him with longing for a real home.
“May I get you something to drink? Coffee?” she said, darting about like a robin in search of a worm.
“No, thanks.”
Obviously, h
is presence made her nervous. Instead of pushing them under her table, he forced his feet back to the living room and sat on the sofa, a cozy spot, even with Mary pacing in the next room like a caged lioness.
She returned with a cup of coffee and sat across from him, on the edge of her seat, ignoring him by making a production of smoothing her skirt. A vision in blue and white, starched and proper, she was the epitome of a lady. His pulse galloped in his chest. Maybe if he got the focus off them, she’d stop being jittery and he’d stop reacting like a schoolboy at his first party. “Is Michael all right?”
“Yes. The fight was merely a school yard dispute. One boy saying something mean.”
“I remember those days.” Luke chuckled. “Boys get into scrapes now and again.”
But Mary dipped her head, studying the dark brew between her palms. “I suppose.”
Don’t get involved, Jacobs. Don’t wrap yourself in this family any more than you already have. A doctor didn’t care about what led to the punch, merely the result. But something about the way Mary avoided his gaze triggered an instinct in Luke. “This fight wasn’t merely a childish scuffle, was it?”
Her head snapped up. “I can handle it.”
“Letting me help shoulder the burden isn’t a crime.”
Shifting in her seat, she avoided his gaze. “I don’t need your—”
“I know you don’t,” he interrupted. “But I’m here, so let me help.”
She worried her lip, clearly debating the wisdom of telling him anything. And he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t earned the right to be her confidante. But in those boys, he’d seen part of himself. Michael and Philip had lived without much of a father, tried hard to be brave, keeping their feelings tucked inside. Luke suspected that led to Philip’s stomachaches and Michael’s attempt to play the role of an adult. He understood these boys because he’d shared the same wobbly foundation. For as long as he stayed, he wanted to help, if he could.
At the same time, a voice inside him marveled at the irony of a man who never got involved sitting on Mary’s sofa pressing to get drawn in. “Tell me,” he said, gentler this time.
She put the cup and saucer on a nearby table and glanced through the kitchen to the backyard, checking on her sons. “One of Michael’s friends accused his father of…” She swallowed. “…being a drunk.”
What a painful thing for a boy to hear, especially from someone he trusted. No wonder Michael had lashed out. “I’m sorry. That had to upset him. Is he all right?”
“Physically, yes, but…” She rose, wrapping her arms around herself. “What his friend did to Michael isn’t the worst,” she said, her gaze filling with misery.
Luke crossed to her side, not touching her, simply offering his presence. “What do you mean?”
“When Michael asked for the truth, I lied.” She looked away. “I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t destroy that boy’s feelings for his father.”
Mary? Lied? The idea of her lying churned through him. She’d done it to protect her son. Would she perhaps understand why he’d kept silent about his relationship to Ben? No, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t budge the lie, a barrier of stone. “If one boy knows, the subject may not be dead.”
Her gaze flew to him. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take.”
“You’re not doing Michael a favor by covering up the truth.” How did he dare to give such advice when he did the same?
“This is my life, not yours. My life and my sons. I can’t, I won’t, tell them about Sam’s drinking.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Right or wrong, the decision is mine. I expect you to honor it.”
“Your secrets are safe with me.”
“I expect they will be,” she shot back, “all the way to New York.”
Her words stung, but then the truth often did. As she’d said, he would leave. And she’d be the one to remain, the one who’d raise her sons, the one who’d deal with the consequences of her choices. Not him.
“I’ll go.” He rose, turning on his heel, and strode toward the door. A sheet of paper fluttered from the tabletop to the floor. Luke reached for it, and noticed the words, Central College of Physicians and Surgeons and below that, Mary’s name. And the first word in the letter. Congratulations.
Mixed emotions warred inside him. A surge of pride at her accomplishment crashed against a wave of concern for her sons, who’d soon have less of their mother’s time. One of those sons was his.
Mary snatched the paper from his hands.
“They accepted you,” he said.
Her mouth thinned, the mouth he’d kissed and wanted to kiss again, but he knew he never would. In a year, maybe two, Mary would join the practice and carry on the legacy her father began. Frank Sloan would remain while Mary attended school. Luke wasn’t needed in the practice. He wasn’t needed here. “That’s quite an achievement.”
She blinked, and her gaze softened. “Thank you. I, ah, expected disapproval.”
How could he explain how proud he was? He hardly understood his reaction himself. “You’ll be a wonderful doctor. I’ve seen how closely you watch procedures at the office, how often I find you reading a medical journal.”
A blush rose to her cheeks. “I have a lot to learn.”
“And a lot to experience. I’ll never forget my first glimpse of a cadaver.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I lost my lunch.”
She laughed, not a robust laugh, but one telling Luke she’d handle whatever came. “I dread that.”
“You’ll get used to it and learn so much from examining the human body.”
She leaned toward him, her eyes shining, sharing his love of medicine, bridging the gap between them. “I’ve been studying the vascular system. The muscles, learning everything I can.”
“The work is exciting.”
“And challenging.”
“In the beginning, I found classes overwhelming. Your life is busy now but nothing compared to the pressure of medical school. Why not wait until the boys are older? When they’re more independent, less apt to feel abandoned?”
“Abandoned?” She took a step back. “You’re not a parent.”
His heart skipped a beat, hoping his face didn’t reveal the truth.
She pointed a finger at him. “How do you know what my sons will feel?”
Luke wanted to shout that he’d felt abandoned as a child—that’s how he knew, but then it occurred to him that his classmates hadn’t reacted the same. The difference between them and him—their parents showed an interest in their sons’ lives. They wrote, came to visit. His had not.
Perhaps Mary could handle medical school and parenting. She’d never hurt her sons on purpose, as his parents surely had.
She paced in front of him, clearly gathering up steam. “I love my sons. I’d never neglect them. You think I haven’t thought this out and planned every step? While you, Luke Jacobs, don’t stick to anything. So don’t lecture me.”
Even from two feet away, Luke could feel her tension. She was right. He hadn’t stuck to one thing, to one place, to one person. For years he’d had no ties, no one in his life who truly mattered. Until now. “I know you wouldn’t harm them. I keep putting the feelings I had as a child onto your sons. I’m the one with the problem. Not you.”
The people he cared most about lived in this house, in this town. No matter how hard he’d tried to stay detached, he’d failed. The admission shook him. But caring didn’t fix the brokenness separating him and Mary.
The back door opened, and Michael and Philip raced inside with Ben tagging along behind.
“Did you come to play with us?” Ben asked, giving Luke a hug around his legs and beaming up at him.
At Ben’s sweet, innocent face, Luke’s breath caught in his throat. If only he could lay claim to his son. He trailed a hand through the boy’s hair. He wanted to say yes but didn’t have the right. “I’m not staying.”
Philip touched Luke’s sleeve. “Hi.”
Overcome by strong feelings of te
nderness and protectiveness toward all three of these children, Luke could barely speak. “Hi, guys,” he said, including Michael in his gaze.
Michael smiled. Luke took in the bruises on his face, nothing to be concerned about medically. Had the need to defend his father’s reputation driven this gentle boy to fight? “You’ve got yourself the king of all shiners, there, Michael.”
The boy nodded and then looked away, evidently unwilling to discuss the fight.
“Are you here for supper?” Philip asked.
At her outspoken son’s hospitality, Mary’s jaw dropped.
Luke thrust out a hand. “Oh, no. Your mother wasn’t expecting me. The table’s set for four.”
“Can I put one more plate on the table? Please, Mom?” Philip said, pleading.
Mary looked trapped, caught between her son’s eager invitation and him—a man she wanted gone. Sighing, she nodded toward Luke, then turned and walked into the kitchen.
Face shining, the boy bounced along after his mother. Luke heard the sound of a plate and glass being laid out. Michael joined his brother, and from the clang of metal, Mary’s elder son added flatware.
Mary’s nod hadn’t been much of a summons, yet spending another evening alone held the appeal of Chinese torture. He couldn’t resist the chance to be near Mary, near her sons.
Except the family wasn’t his and never would be.
While Mary mashed the potatoes, he and the boys tromped outside. He tossed the baseball, and the boys took turns at bat, the four of them having a great time.
Mary called them in for dinner, prompting them to wash their hands. Odd, how such a simple request touched Luke, made him feel like he belonged.
That is, until Mary and her sons bowed their heads in prayer, reminding Luke that God must not condone the secret he kept.
Everyone dug into the food. But he didn’t eat. Instead he looked at Mary, watched her lift the fork to her mouth, to her enticing lips, soft, pink. He remembered the moment he’d held her in his arms and kissed her. Nothing on this table, any table, compared to the taste of Mary’s lips.