Stand By Your Man

by Susan Fox

  “So am I.” Brooke smiled. “Now, what would you say to some dinner? Chicken and veggie kabobs on the barbecue?”

  “Sounds wonderful. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a sec. First, I need to leave a voice mail for Jamal.” He’d still be on his bike, riding back to Vancouver, but when he had a chance to pick up messages, she wanted him to hear her apology.

  “Oh, Brooke, what if he doesn’t give me a second chance?”

  The blonde paused in the doorway. “You’re giving him one. If he doesn’t do the same, you’re better off without him.”

  Chapter 11

  Karen felt considerably better a couple of hours later, driving home from Brooke’s. Her tummy was full of good, healthy food, and she’d heard all about how Jake had proposed and Brooke had accepted. Her phone hadn’t rung once, but she told herself that Jamal might not be home yet. And if he was, he might not have checked messages.

  He’d call. She knew he would.

  She sang along to the radio: Sheryl Crow, Kenny Chesney, Taylor Swift, Johnny Cash. CXNG played a nice mix of old and new songs. Before she’d come to Caribou Crossing, she’d hardly ever listened to country music. Now she knew most of the words to most of the songs.

  Belting out “Ring of Fire” along with Johnny Cash, she turned onto the street to her house. And there, parked in front, was a BMW motorbike.

  She barely managed to stop the truck and wrench the keys out of the ignition. Jamal sat on her top step with Tennison beside him. Karen flung open the gate and raced toward the house, ignoring the dog who bounded to greet her.

  Karen stopped at the base of the half-dozen steps, suddenly nervous. “You got my voice mail?”

  “A couple hours ago, when I got here.” He rose. He hadn’t turned on the porch light and the glow of the streetlights didn’t reach his face. She couldn’t see his expression.

  “Here? You mean . . .”

  “I’d already come back. Not much to do on the back of a bike but think.” He came down a step toward her. Now she could see his face, for all the good it did her. He looked tired, strained, anxious.

  “Think?” Think that he never wanted to see her again, or that . . . ?

  “That I was being an asshole.” Another step.

  A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh, yes! “So was I.” She climbed the bottom step.

  “You had a damned good reason to be pissed off.” He came down again, one step above her now.

  “Yes. But I was self-righteous and didn’t give you a chance. Jamal, I want to give you—give us—another chance.”

  As she took that final step, he moved aside so she could come up beside him. And then they were in each other’s arms, hanging on tight. He was hot and hard and smelled faintly of vehicle exhaust and sweat, but she didn’t mind one bit.

  He kissed her, quick and fierce, then said, “Sit down. There are things I need to say. I’ve been practicing on your dog.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Brooke’s been talking some sense into me.”

  “Jake tried, but I wasn’t listening. I owe him an apology too.”

  “He’ll accept it.” She sat on the top step and tugged him down beside her.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

  She snuggled there, wishing things were that easy, that two quick apologies could solve all their issues. But then, as Brooke had pointed out, real relationships weren’t all sunshine and basketball hoops and line dancing. There were disagreements and tough problems to work through. Maybe this was a test for her and Jamal. Did they, as individuals and as a couple, have the . . . whatever—the internal strength, the flexibility, the genuine caring—to make it long term?

  She sure hoped so. This man made her feel things she’d never felt before. Yes, she’d been spinning dreams, but when she examined those dreams with her practical, analytical eye, she couldn’t imagine any other man in the picture but Jamal.

  Tennison, tired of being ignored, head-butted their legs. Jamal told the dog, “You sit down too, and make sure I get this right.”

  To Karen, he said, “I always thought I was so tough. Alcohol got the better of me and that pissed me off. I want to believe I have it beat. But it’s a battle, every day.”

  “Brooke says it gets easier. But she also recommends having support along the way.”

  “I get it. What you said about me being arrogant . . . Yeah, I hear you. I’ll go to meetings, get another sponsor, do whatever it takes. I’ll keep winning the battle. I won’t let you down, or let myself down.”

  “I believe that, Jamal. You have that kind of strength.” And she knew how important it was to him to not let alcohol beat him again.

  “Every time I stood up in A.A. and said, ‘My name is Jamal and I’m an alcoholic,’ it felt like a knife was stabbing me in the gut. Everyone else in the room was an alcoholic too, and misery loves company, but I still felt like a loser. But now I realize I’ve got to focus on the positive. ‘My name is Jamal and I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in seven hundred and forty-eight days.”

  “Congratulations, Jamal,” she said softly, resting her hand on his thigh and squeezing. “I’m proud of you.” Then, because he needed to hear her truth, she said, “I’m not so comfortable with you keeping your alcoholism a secret from the RCMP. I’m not saying you have to tell them about what happened two years ago, but . . .” She paused, not sure how to continue. Jamal was a private man, a proud and independent one.

  He sighed. “I shouldn’t deceive my woman and I shouldn’t deceive my employer. That’s what you’re saying.”

  She nodded.

  Another long sigh. “Yeah. I need to have the guts to come clean.”

  Relief flooded through her.

  His arm tightened around her. “Hell, it’s gonna be hard, Karen.”

  She could only imagine what it would cost him to do it. She reached for his free hand and threaded their fingers together. “I know. I’ll help in every way I possibly can.”

  “Shit, you thought the worst you were getting was a tough old undercover cop,” he said gruffly.

  She eased back in the curve of his arm so she could smile up at him. “You think Jake would love Brooke more if she didn’t have bipolar disorder and wasn’t an alcoholic?”

  He tilted his head, an expression of discovery on his face. “Hell no. She wouldn’t be the same woman.”

  “Exactly. She’s strong and wise because of the ways she’s been tested. So are you.” She squeezed his hand. “Jamal, I’d be so proud of you. In my dream of the future, I see you like Brooke, five years sober, then ten. Strong and healthy, out shooting hoops in the driveway with those two cute kids.”

  “Basketball dreams,” he said softly. “A family, a home. A fine woman to love. I never thought I’d have those things.”

  He pushed up to his feet and brought her with him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, “But now I’m really starting to believe it.”

  “So am I,” she said as he lowered his head to kiss her. No, he wasn’t the man she’d first believed him to be. He was far more complex, more fascinating, more lovable.

  But then she remembered something else Brooke had said, and eased away from the kiss. Again, nerves fluttered. There was one more thing she needed to know before she could relax and truly be happy.

  He took a step back. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Brooke asked me if we’re really serious about each other or if we’re, well, in love with the dream. If we’re like infatuated teenagers, spinning glittery fantasies about happily ever after. If we’re so carried away by all the ‘I see in the future’ visions that we’re just, you know, slotting each other into those visions because the timing’s right.”

  He frowned. “You think you’re doing that?”

  “No. I thought it through, and no, I’m not. This afternoon, the fight we had, that’s definitely not my dream. Being with a man who’s an alcoholic isn’t my dream. Well, not my old dream. You’re not a perfe
ct fit for that old dream, but . . . you’re you. You’re Jamal, the man I’ve come to—” She broke off, because the word that leaped to her lips was love. And yes, that was how she felt. It was just the beginning of love, a fragile and tentative love, but if it was nurtured, it would grow into something strong and true.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “I’ve come to care for you,” she said quietly. “You, with your strengths and your flaws. You’re unique, exciting, frustrating, amazing.” She gazed into his eyes, black and unreadable in the dim light. “But how about you? When we met, you hadn’t even thought of being in a relationship, and within days we were talking about kids and a basketball hoop. I don’t want to push you into a future that isn’t what you truly want for yourself.”

  He nodded slowly. “I hear you. I hadn’t consciously thought about settling down. I think that’s because I couldn’t believe I’d ever have a real home and family. When I was a kid and I wanted them, I got shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Me too. But that’s long past. Anyhow, there was something that started pushing me away from undercover work. Yeah, in part it was the drinking, the fear that I’d screw up again. And a feeling that I might be using up my luck. But I think deep down, this need, this hope for something more in life, was resurfacing.”

  “Then you met me, and we felt an attraction, and suddenly the possibility was in front of you and you grabbed at it because it was easy.” Her heart sank. That sounded like the teen thing, endorphins rather than true emotion.

  “Easy?” His rich voice rolled the word around with a certain humor. “A woman who wouldn’t sleep with me until I figured out what I wanted out of life. A woman who got me up on a horse and made me go line dancing.” He touched her cheek, smoothed back a messy curl that had escaped her ponytail, tweaked the curve of her ear.

  A hopeful smile trembled on her lips.

  “A woman who made me talk about stuff I’d stopped even thinking about years ago because it hurt too much. A woman who calls me on my shit.” He let out a slow, lazy chuckle. “Oh yeah, Karen MacLean, that’s been real easy.”

  “If it was so hard, why did you stick around?” Tension quivered her nerve endings.

  “Hey, you forgetting who you’re talking to? The tough undercover cop?” Then the joking tone faded and he said, “I stuck around because I was falling for you.”

  Her heart skipped. Oh, yes!

  “Earlier today,” he went on, “I left because it cut me to the core that you didn’t respect me, didn’t trust me. I thought, I don’t need this shit, don’t need to be disrespected.”

  When she started to speak, to apologize again, he hushed her and went on. “But that was a hurt kid getting defensive. Three or four hours down the highway, the grown man kicked the little kid’s butt and told him to get over himself. To focus on what’s important.” He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “And that’s you, Karen. It’s you, my feelings for you, and your feelings for me. It’s how you expect me to be better than I am, and I want to do it. It’s the fun we have together, the good we can do in the world, the life we can build together.” A twinkle lit his dark eyes. “And then there’s the sex.”

  “Sex? Hmm.” She gazed into those deep eyes and teased, “Don’t you mean lovemaking?”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean. Speaking of which, seems to me we left off right about here.”

  When he leaned down she came up on the balls of her feet to meet his kiss. His lips were tender and caressing. They cherished her mouth, letting her know how much he cared.

  She poured her own emotions into that kiss too: relief, joy, hope. Love.

  Epilogue

  Eight months later

  Because they were in uniform, Karen didn’t hold Jamal’s hand as they walked down the long corridor at Caribou Crossing Secondary, where kids poured out of classroom doors. She did, however, move closer on the pretext of avoiding students, and let her shoulder slide against his upper arm.

  “How are you feeling?” she murmured. Today was the first of his public speeches as the new staff sergeant of Williams Lake RCMP. Here, speaking to students and faculty, he wanted to make his presence known, instill a respect for law and order, and maybe get a few kids thinking about a career in the justice system.

  “Nervous as hell,” he muttered.

  “Tough undercover cop,” she reminded him.

  “I was trained to do that work. This is different. It’s . . .” He broke off, shaking his head like he didn’t know how to explain it.

  “You’re not playing a role. You’re being you.”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced.

  “I happen to think you are pretty terrific.”

  “You have to. You’re going to marry me.”

  The principal, Karen’s friend Harv Granger, strode toward them. A balding man, he always looked a little rumpled even when, like now, he wore a suit and tie. He shook Karen’s hand, then Jamal’s. “Thanks again for doing this, Staff Sergeant.” Harv and his wife had shared a couple of dinners with Karen and Jamal, but today, at school, he acted more formal.

  “No problem.”

  Together the three of them walked toward the auditorium.

  “After I introduce you,” Harv said, “you’ll have fifty minutes. It would be great if you allowed time for questions.”

  Jamal nodded.

  “Right, then, we’re set.” Leaving Karen and Jamal in the stage wings, Harv walked out to face the audience of three hundred students and a couple dozen teachers and staff. The stage was bare but for a podium with a microphone and a glass of water, and a tall stool. The principal called for order and launched into some administrative announcements.

  Karen gazed into Jamal’s eyes. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Hope you’ll say that after I’m finished.”

  “I will. Remember, they don’t need you to be perfect, they need you to be human. And so do I.” Over the past eight months, she’d learned that the imperfect, occasionally vulnerable Jamal was a man who truly deserved her respect, trust, and love. She’d also learned to lighten up on her tendency to judge others.

  “Give it my best shot.” He bent to give her a quick kiss. Then, as Harv said, “And now please welcome Staff Sergeant Estevez,” he strode onto the stage.

  He was so handsome in his uniform, so distinguished. His demeanor was powerful and confident, belying his nerves.

  Harv joined her and whispered, “Want to sit down?”

  She shook her head. Her own anxiety had her shifting from foot to foot and twisting her engagement ring around her finger.

  Jamal didn’t rush as he pulled the stool from behind the podium, unhooked the mike, and sat down with nothing between him and his audience except a few feet of empty stage. “Good afternoon. I’m new to your area, and this is my first time being in charge of an RCMP detachment. I’ll be working closely with Sergeant Brannon and his team here in Caribou Crossing. I want to learn about you folks and your community, and I want to tell you a bit about the kind of work we do in the RCMP.”

  Although she always wrote a speech and rehearsed before making a presentation, he hadn’t written a speech and had turned down her offer to help him rehearse. She had resisted the urge to push, and trusted him to do this his own way.

  As he went on, he sounded relaxed and knowledgeable. All the same, he had a tough crowd. A lot of the teens, even a few of the adults, were muttering to each other or texting.

  “Well, that’s policing one-oh-one,” Jamal said. “Now I’ll tell you something about me.” He paused and cleared his throat.

  What was he going to say? Perhaps he’d talk about his undercover days, to spice things up.

  Holding the microphone close to his lips, he said, “My name is Jamal and I’m an alcoholic.”

  Karen gasped. Yes, he’d told the RCMP, was attending a support group, and had private chats now and then with Brooke. He had come to understand that there was strength in admitting the tru
th and moving forward. But he was still a private man. She’d had no idea that he intended to share this information today. She gazed at his face, saw the tension on it.

  Then she checked the audience. Most of the faces had now turned toward him.

  “I’ve been sober for two years and two hundred and sixty-six days,” Jamal went on.

  Oh God, she was so proud of him.

  “I’m not here today to lecture you about the dangers of having a beer or two, or a toke or two. I’m sure you get enough of that from your parents and teachers.”

  A few chuckles rose.

  “What I want to talk about is strength and weakness, about knowing yourself.” He spoke earnestly, his gaze moving around the audience, focusing on one face, then another. “About what it means to grow up. About responsibility to yourself, your family, your friends, your classmates. Your community. About knowing when you’ve screwed up, admitting it, and having the guts to get help.”

  Most of the kids were totally focused on him. Several nodded, but a few were obviously wisecracking with each other.

  Jamal raised his voice. “Because you will screw up. Everyone does. Some worse than others. And looking out at all of you, I see some of you who like to think you’re badasses. Well, guys, compared to some of the punks I met when I worked undercover for ten years, you’re nothing but innocent little lambs. What I hope for you is that you will never turn into the kind of men and women I’ve arrested. The kind who get locked up in jail for years, who get beaten up and raped there. Day after day.”

  Some kids and teachers murmured in shock or protest, but Karen liked that Jamal didn’t sugarcoat the truth. His words could be the catalyst that helped some of these kids turn their lives around, or gave the good ones the guts to stick on the right course.

  “You all deserve a better life than that,” he said. “But you’re the only ones who can make it happen. That’s what I mean about responsibility, and growing up. Believe me, getting older isn’t the same thing as growing up. Even doing stuff like working undercover, that doesn’t make you an adult. You can still screw up. Still let down the people who matter to you. I’m living proof of that. And when you let down the people you love”—he glanced toward Karen—“that’s the worst failure in the world.”