This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3

by Carolyne Aarsen

  I pushed my feelings down, looking back at Duncan. "What was Tasha like?"

  "She was a sweet little girl," Duncan replied. "I know all fathers think that, but she really was. Slept easy. Ate everything. Cute as a button…" Duncan's voice cracked a moment, and I wondered if I had pushed him too far. But I could tell from the way his face softened that the memory wasn't entirely unpleasant.

  And behind that came a look of relief.

  "She had thin, sandy-brown hair that stuck out in every direction. Kimberly kept trying to twist it up into ponytails or pigtails, but it would always slip out." He gave a choked laugh. But he took a breath and continued. "She was such a ragamuffin. Never clean. My mom was forever buying these cute dresses for her, but she always found a way to get them dirty or ripped. She was clumsy too."

  "Do you have any pictures of her?" Though I tried not to appear nosy, I didn't see any in the usual places. Living room wall, mantle above the wood stove.

  "A few. Mom and Esther took them down after the funeral. I let them, because I didn't want to be faced with the loss."

  "Do you know where they are?"

  "I think they're in my bedroom. I haven't gone looking."

  I understood. After I let Celia go, Jerrod and Francine didn't send me pictures. I didn't want to see her growing up without me. Much easier to pretend she was still this tiny infant that I held for a few, brief seconds before she was taken away.

  Duncan closed his eyes and drew in one shuddering breath, then another.

  My own loss blended with sympathy for this man and before I could stop myself I moved closer and put my hand on his shoulder.

  To my surprise his other hand came up and covered mine with his own.

  "Sorry. I haven't talked about Tasha much. My family…we don't talk about our feelings." He opened his eyes and his haunted look wound icy fingers around my own wounded soul. "And now we're doing the same with Francine and Jerrod."

  "You've never talked about Kimberly or Tasha?"

  "My parents, especially my mother, prefer to deflect. Detach. They're good people," he hastily added, his voice husky. "They just don't talk about feelings or emotions." He drew in another breath and gave me a forced smile. "I get it. I don't like it either."

  "Because it hurts and we don't like to face hurt. We don't like being vulnerable or out of control."

  "You sound like you understand."

  "I've had my share of things I'd sooner forget, but I know loss."

  "What have you lost?" He didn't look at me, his face still looking upward, but his hand on mine kept the connection warm. I felt my secret hovering, waiting to come out. I wanted to tell him. Lay my claim on my daughter.

  But if I did, he wouldn't take Celia. I knew it. He seemed like an honorable man. And, knowing he was avoiding his own pain by keeping Celia at arm's length only made it harder to give him another reason to.

  "Every time I went to Jerrod's house I lost a part of my biological mother," I said instead, deflecting the question to a situation I thought he would accept. “She would leave me abandoned and I would call 911 and I would lose a bit more of her.”

  "That must have been hard."

  "I spent a lot of time crying in Sally’s arms. My foster mother always said that each grief has its quota of tears. They will come out one way or the other and that I may as well get them out of the way."

  "I have hardly cried since Tasha…since…"

  I saw his Adam's apple shift up and then down as he swallowed, and for a moment I regretted pushing him to this moment of confession.

  He pressed the heel of his free hand to his head, hiding his face and when he lowered his hand I saw moisture at the corner of his eyes.

  He pulled his hand off of mine, scrubbing at his face as if hoping to stop whatever I had started.

  "Sorry," he managed, leaning forward, his face buried in his palms, elbows planted on his shaking knees. He was quiet a moment, then he lifted his face, looking out over the living room. "I know I said I haven't cried, but I didn't feel I had the right."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The day they died…Kimberly and I had a fight. Things had been difficult for Kimberly ever since Tasha was born. I had just taken over the logging business from my dad. I was trying to make a living for us. It made me busy and stressed. I spent long days away from home, so it seemed like all I was doing was working, fighting with Kimberly who never had enough and sleeping. She wanted to move and knew I wouldn't so she started spending money. Then, one morning, before I left for work, Kimberly told me that we needed to talk. I didn't have time. I'd had an equipment breakdown the day before, and we were behind…" He released another harsh laugh. "Seems like the company was always lagging." He sucked in a quick breath. "Anyway, I brushed her off. Told her we'd talk that night. Then…then at noon, I got a call. There'd been an accident, and Kimberly and Tasha—" he stopped there, his hands clenched on his knees.

  He didn't need to say anything more. His head and shoulders lowered as if the burden of the sorrow he'd been secretly carrying was pulling him down.

  "It was my fault," he whispered. "I should have listened to her."

  "What do you mean?"

  He pulled in a shaky breath. "She came from a wealthy family and was used to nice things. I knew she wanted this house to be bigger. I know it's not a palace, but I thought it was okay." He looked around his home as if apologizing for its shortcomings.

  "I think it's cozy. Welcoming."

  He gave me a smile that wavered. "Thanks. But Kimberly was right. It did need some work. But what she wanted to do cost money." He stopped, waving his comments away. "I shouldn't talk like that. I should have taken the time to listen to her. Really listen to her. If I had maybe…maybe…"

  Then his voice broke again, his hands clutched his head and a sob burst forth. Then another.

  His sobs were deep and wrenching, bursting out of him. The ugly crying of a man in the depths of an unthinkable grief.

  My heart folded in sympathy. I had cried those tears. Had carried that burden.

  But my daughter was still alive. Sleeping in his daughter's bed.

  I couldn't stand the harsh sound of his grief any longer. I shifted closer and slipped my other arm around his broad chest, wishing I was larger, stronger, so I could hold him up.

  His arms caught me close and together we supported each other as his body shook and tears flowed.

  Hearing the cries of this burly man was devastating and soul shattering. It upended everything in my life. To see such strength become so weak made me have to fight my own tears.

  Slowly, his tears subsided, as I knew they must. Sorrow had its ebb and flow, and as his receded I could feel him relaxing. Spent by the emotion.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured as he drew away. "I shouldn't have—"

  "I'm not," I said, the connection we had just shared tearing away any boundaries between us. "I think you needed to do this."

  He closed his eyes, his tears glistening in the half-light. "I don't like feeling this weak."

  "Nobody does," I said, taking a chance and reaching out to stroke his hair. To try and give him some small comfort. "Is this the first time you've really cried since you wife and daughter died?"

  He shifted, moving away from me slightly, but he kept his one arm around my waist, as if keeping himself anchored.

  "Not like this." He breathed in slowly, then released his breath as if expelling his grief with it.

  "Raw grief is never pretty," I said, remembering my own tears shed after I gave up Celia. How lonely I was. Until I started attending a Bible study. And I found a faithful God who carried me through.

  Duncan drew in one last shuddering breath and then pulled completely away. I felt a moment of loss as he straightened, swiped at his eyes and sniffed.

  "So will this make things better?" he asked, a hitch in his voice.

  "No. But it will help you move on the path to healing."

  "Sounds airy-fairy to me," he said, giving me
a tremulous half-smile.

  "We women specialize in airy-fairy. That and delusional flights of fancy on unicorns." The moment had been so heavy, so hard, I needed to lighten the atmosphere.

  "I can't see you believing in that," he said, his smile strengthening, settling on his well-shaped lips.

  The glow of the fireplace and the low lights cast his face into intriguing shadows. Highlighted his strong features. Made his eyes glow.

  "I didn't believe in unicorns. My mother did," I said, fighting my sudden breathlessness.

  "Sally?"

  "No. My biological mother. She believed they were magical and would someday come and whisk us away to some imaginary fairy land where everything would be better." I wasn't able to keep the bitter tone out of my voice.

  "When we first met you said she was dead?"

  "When I was sixteen. I remember hoping that Sally would adopt me, but by the time I turned eighteen, I was on my own anyhow."

  "You sure have had your own sorrows," he said, his hand suddenly resting on my shoulder.

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  "Everyone has,” I said. “Everyone's life has its share of grief. Difference is, I shed my tears along the way."

  "Did you really?"

  Then, to my shock and dismay I felt my own eyes filling at his piercing question.

  "And you're shedding some now," he said, touching my cheek.

  I wasn't going to look at him. We were both in such a vulnerable place. And yet I couldn't stop my head from turning, my eyes from meeting his.

  He didn't look away, and I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or my own lonely heart, but it seemed to me that an awareness arced between us, tangible as a touch.

  The moment trembled as time seemed to slow and old emotions blended with new.

  He moved his head a fraction as he caught my hand in his callused one, then he brushed a kiss over my fingertips. I touched his lips, tracing their shape, feeling their warmth.

  Then, as if it was as natural as breathing, we each moved closer. I slipped my arms around his neck, he caught me by my waist.

  I felt as if I had been holding my breath for years, and was finally able to release it. As if all the emptiness in my life was filled in this moment.

  Our breath mingled, his face grew indistinct, and then our lips met. Warm, soft, inviting.

  His mouth moved over mine, I slipped my hand through his hair, anchoring him as he pulled me against his hard, broad chest.

  Our kiss deepened, lengthened. I felt a curl of warmth, deep in my soul. And for the first time in many years, I felt a sense of coming home.

  He kissed me again and then, slowly we drew away as if to regroup and examine.

  He slipped his rough finger down the side of my face, his eyes following its delicate path, as if he was trying to memorize my features.

  His lips parted as if he was about to speak and I put my finger on them. I didn't want to hear another apology. I didn't want him to voice any regrets.

  But he simply kissed my fingers, his hand tangling in my hair.

  Then he leaned back against the couch, pulling me with him.

  I tucked my head into the crook of his neck, laying my hand on his chest, measuring his breaths.

  "I hope you didn't let me kiss you because you felt sorry for me," he murmured, his voice a low rumble under my hand.

  "I do feel sorry for you," I whispered, toying with the flap of his shirt pocket, surprised that this felt so right. So normal. "But that's not why I kissed you."

  He breathed in, then out, and I sensed some tension leave him.

  He turned his head to look to me, giving me a slow smile, a gentle curl of his lips that shifted the equilibrium I struggled to find. "Something about you invites confession." And then he brushed another kiss over my forehead. "And something else."

  There it was again. That connection I was having a hard time ignoring.

  "Sometimes I feel so guilty because I feel worse about losing Tasha than I did about losing Kimberly," he said, his fingers making slow circles over my head, slowly erasing my resistance to him.

  "Burying a child is one of the most unnatural events in life," I said. "Sally told me that when a friend of hers lost her child. She said it went against everything God set out in life."

  "It was…difficult. Heart wrenching. Soul destroying. I didn't trust God after that. Still have a hard time with Him. I got tired of hearing that this was God's will and I had to trust him."

  "Do you think it was His will?"

  "Do you?"

  "I don't know how God works," I confessed. "I don't know if things are His will or not. But I do know that in the dark places of my life, God has provided. He's given me a reason to carry on. Given me the blessing of His presence and love. I think we have so many of life's mysteries figured out that we don't know what to do with the mystery of God and how He works in our life."

  His expression grew serious. "You're an astute person. I'm assuming you're speaking from the difficulties of your own life."

  The only thing I could give him was a quick nod.

  "I get the feeling you won’t tell me."

  I gently pulled back, giving him what I hoped was a casual shrug. An attempt at rebuilding a boundary I'd let erode. "It's not that interesting."

  "Does it have to do with your mother? Your natural mother? Were you sad when she died?"

  I latched onto that, telling myself that it was partly true, even if it was a small deflection. "It was hard, but the one thing I felt was that she couldn't disappoint me anymore."

  "And she had?"

  "I try not to think about that anymore. I was blessed to be brought into the Carpenter family. I'll always be grateful to God that He gave me that home."

  And the thought that I'd lost Jerrod, the last connection to that home, made my own lips tremble. I blinked my tears away, just as Duncan reached over and brushed the errant moisture from my cheek.

  "It's hard, isn't it?"

  I nodded, reason returning alongside my grief. I pulled away from this amazing and good man, reminding myself that he was still grieving the loss of his wife and child. A woman who he had known most of his life. A woman who was a part of this community.

  I knew I couldn't give him what he needed or deserved. My past was too ingrained in me. Along with that, I had my own plans, and they couldn't include this momentary dream I had allowed myself to give in to.

  Maybe you should tell him something of your life so he’ll know beyond a doubt why you can’t take care of Celia?

  And which part?

  Finding out, the hard way, that your boyfriend, the father of your daughter, was a drug dealer? And how the consequences of that changed your life? Got you in trouble with the law?

  But I was innocent. I didn’t know he had stashed those drugs in my car.

  The judge hadn’t believed me. I didn’t know if Duncan would and I wasn’t about to take that chance. Not after what we just shared. Not after feeling, for the first time in a long time, that I was important. That I was valuable.

  As I felt the heat of his gaze, the safety of his arms, I knew I couldn't. I didn't want to see the rejection in his eyes. Didn't want him to be the first to withdraw.

  Then the timer went on the oven, and other realities intruded.

  "I think the casserole is ready," I said, giving me a reason to move away, though I did so unwillingly.

  "Right. I forgot about that," he said with a crooked smile.

  I felt my resolve waver as I rose from the couch.

  Yet even as I reluctantly left that momentary haven, I knew we had shared something I would not forget. Something that created a bond I would not easily break.

  Duncan watched the vehicle holding Miriam and Celia leave, its taillights winking in the dark as Miriam braked, then made the turn out of the yard.

  He'd offered to bring her home, but she refused. It wasn't far, she'd said and though she was right he still felt wrong to let her go. He wanted to
spend some more time with her. Wanted to figure out where to put his changing feelings for her.

  He waited until he couldn't see the lights of her vehicle any longer, resisting the urge to follow her. The roads were good, the moon was out. And he got the feeling she wouldn't appreciate it if he followed her.

  He walked back to the living room, the house feeling even emptier now that Miriam and Celia were gone. He and Miriam had eaten supper together, silently and yet it felt comfortable. It was as if neither wanted to break what had happened between them. When Celia woke up, she ate some of the casserole and then demanded to go home.

  He grabbed the remote and turned on the television, flicking through the channels, trying to find a place to land.

  Kimberly often accused him of having a short attention span, saying he was going to make their daughter just as unable to focus as he seemed to be.

  His heart turned at the memory of his wife and daughter, but somehow the pain didn't create the usual dull ache. Had crying, literally, on Miriam's shoulder shifted his focus? Diluted the emotion?

  And once again, he replayed that moment after his breakdown when he pulled Miriam close. Kissed her.

  He wished he could simply pawn it off on the fact that his guard was down. He'd finally shed tears that he'd held back for so long he thought they had dried up. But he knew there were more.

  He'd been attracted to Miriam the first moment he saw her, and his lonely heart had been drawn to her. And now it seemed that maybe he had a second chance with her.

  He flicked off the television and tossed the remote aside as he stood. Miriam had insisted on cleaning up after their meal, so he didn't even have that to occupy himself. He yawned, the weariness from before falling on him like a blanket.

  He slipped into bed, flipped off the light, and was suddenly wide-awake, the night's events replaying in his mind. He flipped onto his side, but that meant looking at the clock glowing on his bedside table. He dropped onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.

  Shouldn't have done it, he told himself over and over. Shouldn't have kissed her.

  And yet, and yet…

  It hadn't felt wrong.

  And what was he supposed to do about that?