by Sally John
His face was in shadows, but she saw that he shook his head and pointed toward the garage. “Go on inside.”
She tapped the garage door opener, pulled the car inside, and quickly hopped out. He was still in the street, leaning back against his closed trunk. She hurried to him. “Joel?”
His face was down, propped against a hand. Slowly he lowered his arm and held it out toward her. “Britte,” he whispered, “come here. Please.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought you were dead.”
She stepped to him. “Joel!”
He drew her near, his arms encircling her. His cheek against hers was damp and cold.
“You’re freezing.” What was wrong with him?
“Yeah, well, I’m melting on the inside.” His voice was hoarse, his mouth against her ear. “And that, Princess, is a miracle.”
Even through their heavy coats, she thought she could feel the hardness of his muscles as he tightened his hold around her. Something was terribly wrong, but she leaned against him, hoping to give him time to collect himself. A shudder tore through him. “Joel! Let’s go in the house!”
He nodded.
They walked in through the garage, his arm heavy around her shoulders. She pushed the button to close the big door and unlocked the kitchen door.
“I’ll go in first,” he said.
“There’s no need to…” Her voice trailed off at the look on his face, at his narrowed eyes and sternly set jaw. What had he said? That he thought she was dead? “Tell me what’s going on!”
He brushed past her. “Gordon Hughes beat up his wife. She’s in the hospital. He said he would finish what his son started.”
Britte followed slowly and made her way to a chair at the table. Oh, why hadn’t she said something? Couldn’t this have been prevented? It was exactly what she suspected, what she feared. God, I’m sorry. I’ve let You down again. I knew— “How is she? What about Jordan? And Trevor?”
“They’re all okay.”
The phone rang at Joel’s elbow on the kitchen counter. He answered it. “Hello…Yes, it’s me, Anne…She’s fine…I’m staying with her. Don’t worry…All right. Thanks. Bye.”
“Anne?”
“Yes. Cal called Alec right after he talked with me. She was checking to make sure I was with you.”
She nodded. “You said Jordan and Trevor are all right?”
“They’re with friends and relatives. There’s nothing to be done.”
“But there was something to be done! I knew he did this. I knew it! If I’d told Cal—”
“You had proof?”
“No, but—”
“Then you couldn’t have helped. Cal couldn’t have done a thing. It happened in private.” They stared at each other. “Cal called from Rockville. He couldn’t reach you. Gordon Hughes is on the loose. I came over. I thought you were…” His voice faded. “In here. Hurt. Or worse. When you pulled up, I was getting the tire iron to break a window…”
The enormity of the situation suddenly struck her, and she burst into tears. Poor Jordan had lived with the horror, probably for years, and Britte had had the audacity to let the girl get on her nerves?
Joel slid the other chair next to hers and sat on it. He wrapped her in his arms and soothing words began to flow from him. “Britte, it’s over. Shh. It’s all over. Holy Father, thank You for keeping Britte safe. Have mercy on the Hughes family. We pray for Your healing touch on the broken bodies, the broken spirits…”
Thirty-Eight
As they sat in her kitchen and Joel prayed, Britte felt a quiet settle about her like the hush of a gentle snowfall. She rested in it as easily as she rested in his strong arms. The world was a place of fear and ugliness. Much as she wanted to deny it, the sheer physical presence of Joel offered a respite. His faith, a shelter of immense proportions.
He whispered an “amen,” but he didn’t release her. The front of his down jacket became damp with her tears. He smoothed back her hair, still murmuring words of comfort.
At last her tears slowed, and she straightened just enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He gently brushed his thumb across her cheeks.
“Crying all the time. I haven’t really cried for years.” She sniffed. “You hang around and I’m blubbering twice in one month. I am not a weepy female.”
“Maybe you should cry more often.” He smiled at her crookedly. “Those are the times I seem to wind up holding you. Would you like some coffee?”
“Don’t change subjects. Why is it that’s when you wind up holding me? When I’m at my most vulnerable?”
“Are you kidding? You don’t even let your girls get close to your normally all-sufficient self.”
That stung. She pushed herself out of his arms. “I’m fine now. Why don’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t answered your question yet. But I need some coffee first. Have you got any?” He stood, shrugged off his jacket, stepped over to a cupboard, and opened it.
Of all the nerve! Walking out of the kitchen, she offered in a caustic tone, “Make yourself at home, Mr. Kingsley.”
“I love it when you call me that!” he called after her. “Hey, don’t you have any whole coffee beans? This stuff is already ground.”
She ignored him and walked through the house into her bedroom, pausing only long enough at the thermostat to turn up the heat. It was as freezing inside as it was out.
Especially so since he’d stopped holding her.
Changing into fluffy, powder blue sweats, she felt a fresh aching wave of pain for the Hughes family. What could she do to help? Find a role for Jordan on the court? Make sure basketball was a positive experience during the upcoming tournament time? Appoint Trevor to help the girls keep stats? Keep him close, forget what he had done to her?
In the living room, only soft light from one lamp shone. She pulled the afghan from the back of the armchair and wrapped herself in it, settling cross-legged onto the seat and undoing her braid. Sleep was out of the question at this point between Gordon Hughes on the loose and Joel Kingsley in her kitchen. And what a cutting thing for him to say! She was close to her girls.
He entered the room now, carrying two steaming mugs. He looked different in worn blue jeans, a navy blue sweat-shirt, and stocking feet. “Black, right?”
“Right.” When had he noticed that? “Thanks.”
He handed a mug to her and settled into the recliner directly across from her chair. “Britte, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but that’s the way I see things.”
“Mmm, this coffee is good. Really good.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “Now who’s changing subjects?”
“You can go home. I’m safe and sound.”
“I’m not going anywhere until that guy’s locked up.”
“I am close to my girls.”
He eyed her over his mug and took a sip. “I think you’re holding back. I’ve been watching your game tapes from previous seasons.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Just trying to pinpoint the missing ingredient. But that’s another matter. I want to answer your question.”
“I can’t get too close to them. I’m their coach and teacher, not their buddy.”
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
Hear his answer to her question about why he hugged her only when she was displaying vulnerability? “No. Not really. It’s not necessary.”
Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes boring into hers. “Chicken.”
“I think I’m tired of playing games.”
He set his mug on the end table and pulled up the footrest of the recliner. “I am too, Britte. I promised God tonight I’d stop if He brought you home safely. It was one of those in-the-trench, bullets-flying-overhead prayers, but still…I promised.”
“And why would you pray a prayer like that?”
“Because I thought you were dead, and I finally admitted that if I could
n’t see you at school Monday morning, I may as well just lie down in the snow right now and quit breathing.”
She stared at him, speechless.
“When you were crying, I couldn’t help but hold you. When you weren’t crying, I convinced myself it was for the best if I didn’t hug you.”
“Why would that be for the best?” she whispered.
“For my sake.” His voice faded. He pushed against the chair arms until the back reclined. “I’m getting a headache.”
Britte set down her mug and untangled herself from the afghan. “Do you want some ibuprofen?” She went to him and knelt on the carpet.
“That stuff won’t touch it. It’s…it’s a migraine.” He closed his eyes.
“Joel.” She touched his hand. “Do you have something to take for it?”
“Not here. Do you have an ice pack?”
“Does a coach have an ice pack? I’ll be right back.”
“Not going anywhere,” he mumbled. “Got to protect you from that idiot.”
Britte rushed about the house, gathering an ice pack and her balm. Back in the living room, she covered Joel with an afghan. She lifted his head and placed the ice pack behind his neck. “Is that good?
“Mmm. Why is it you only take care of me when I’m vulnerable?”
“Why don’t you just be quiet? I have this super-duper balm with menthol and camphor.” Standing behind him, she opened the container and scooped balm onto her fingertips. Gently she began to rub it into his temples. Its sharp scent permeated the room, making her own eyes water. “How’s that?”
“Great.”
She applied some to his forehead.
That forehead with its furrows already etched in place. She studied his straight, narrow nose. His square jaw, stern in appearance even now, dark with middle-of-the-night stubble.
What had he meant? To lie down in the snow and quit breathing if he couldn’t see her? Was it a declaration of love? Followed by a migraine? He got migraines?
Joel Kingsley was still an enigma.
Joel sank into the pain while Britte’s fingers softened its sharp edges.
Thank You, God. Thank You, God.
She was safe.
Was that what loving was? Opening the floodgates, loosing pent-up emotions until they roared, imploding in his head? Sam had told him he would know when it was time. Well, it was time. He didn’t ever want to let her out of his sight again.
From a distance he heard a knocking. Was he asleep?
“Britte! Don’t answer that!”
“Shh.” Her hand pressed his shoulder. “I’ll just see who it is.” A moment later, “It’s Cal.”
The opening of the door. A blast of cold air. Murmured voices.
“Joel, they’ve got him.” Her voice was a whisper near him.
Thank You, God. Thank You, God.
“Joel.” It was Cal. “Want me to take you home, bud?”
“No way. The kid’s not locked up, is he?” He tried to smile. “There are some pills. In my car.”
“Joel!” Britte scolded softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Is the car locked?” Cal asked.
He didn’t have the strength to reply. They could figure it out.
“I’ll check his coat pockets.”
Good girl.
Was it moments or hours later? Britte touched his hand. He recognized her long fingers, her feminine skin. “Joel, how many?”
“One.”
She touched his lips. “Open.” A capsule slipped inside. “Here’s water.” A glass met his mouth.
He swallowed.
“Joel, why didn’t you tell me earlier that these were in the car?” She was close, stroking his cheek.
“I didn’t want you outside by yourself. And I had to stay awake.” He tried again to smile. “So to speak.”
“Oh, Joel, you silly knight in shining armor.”
“Told you that you might not want to have dinner once you got to know me.”
“Forget dinner. It’s almost time for breakfast. Do you want to lie down on the couch?”
“No. This chair is good.”
“Then I’ll take the couch.”
He should protest. Tell her to go to bed.
Her hand stopped on his jaw, and he felt her breath on his face. Something softly brushed the corner of his mouth. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
On second thought, he wanted her on the couch, as near as possible.
Thirty-Nine
Joel opened his eyes to the grainy light of early morning. In spite of the confines of the recliner and his stiff body, he didn’t move. Just a few feet away, in his direct line of vision, lay Britte. She was on the couch, fast asleep, huddled under a huge quilt, her wavy blonde hair spread over a pillow.
He felt like a kid on summer break. Anticipation crackled in the air. No school, his mom cooking bacon and eggs, his dad coming home early to take him to a Cubs game.
No. It was beyond even that. It was every moment he’d ever experienced of pure…Contentment? Bliss? Delight? Joy? All rolled into one.
Remarkable.
Maybe he’d stay in the chair awhile. Try to imagine what he was going to feel when she opened those amazing eyes.
Or when he kissed her again.
Yes. He would most definitely be kissing her again.
Britte awoke to the sound of Joel in the kitchen. Sunlight was streaming in through the draperies. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and took stock of the situation. It was after nine. Her head protested at the thought of scurrying about to make it to church on time. Her conscience prickled at the thought that a man was in her kitchen making—she smelled it now—coffee. And that his car had been parked in front of her house since around midnight.
It shouldn’t prickle. It wasn’t as if anything immoral was going on. Even if she had kissed him goodnight. Even if they had slept in the same room.
What would her mother say?
Britte kicked off the quilt and shuffled through the dining room and into the kitchen. At the sight of Joel Kingsley peering inside her refrigerator, she knew the root of the prickle.
She liked the whole scenario!
Nuts. She never should have tasted that tap water.
“Morning,” she mumbled.
He turned and smiled. “Morning.” There were dark halfmoons beneath his eyes.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Better, thanks. Mind if I cook breakfast?”
“Go for it.” Oh my gosh. He cooks.
“Do you like eggs?” He was kneeling in front of the fridge. “Sautéed veggies? Cheese?”
“I have all that?”
“I think I can rescue enough for us.” He held up a hair-sprouting carrot and a chunk of unrecognizable fuzz. “Biology experiments?”
“Basketball season.” She went to the coffeepot and bumped into him. “Sorry.”
He took her by the shoulders and pointed her toward the table. “Go sit down. I’ll wait on you. I thought you were a morning person.”
“Not after a night like last night. Isn’t the coffee ready yet?”
“Just a couple more minutes. Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“You can stop asking if I mind.”
He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned.
The only thing I mind is that this situation is unnerving me. “Joel, I, um, don’t know, uh—” She cleared her throat. “The point is, I’ve never had male company in my kitchen for breakfast.”
He turned and leaned against the counter, studying her face now. “Somehow I knew that. Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just thought since I was already here, maybe we could spend a little coherent time together. You know, last night when I was pounding on all of your windows, not one neighbor noticed. But if you prefer, I’ll leave now.”
She shook her head. “I just wanted you to know.”
He smiled.
“Okay.” She stood. “I’m going to wash my face.”
> In the bathroom she surveyed her own eye baggage. Her sweats were rumpled, her hair a tangled mess. Not a pretty sight. She brushed her hair, twisted it up, and stuck a banana clip on it.
Back in the kitchen and seated at the table, she sipped coffee and watched him work. He seemed completely at home opening drawers and cupboards, effortlessly finding pans and utensils, humming to the hymns playing on the radio, turning on the stove. The scents grew more fragrant by the moment. Butter, garlic, vegetables, herbs, spices. Her stomach was growling by the time he sat down across the table from her.
“Wow!” she exclaimed after her first bite. “This is fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you.” Maybe you should come by more often and cook and…and whatever. “Do you always cook like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like just whip up whatever and have it taste so yummy?”
“You don’t have to flatter me. I already gave you a good review.”
She heard that brass band in the distance, as if it were warming up in the deep recesses of her chest. “I was trying to ignore the fact that my overnight guest is also my boss.”
“Forget I said that. It’s in the spices. And I enjoy cooking.”
“I detest cooking.”
“You know what they say about opposites attracting.” He smiled.
The smile did it. That slow, rare smile that lit up his eyes even this morning in their haggard state. Britte felt a stab of loneliness. “Are we attracted?”
“I thought we had established that at Christmas. I know. I have a strange way of showing it.”
“Extremely strange way. We go from Christmas to barely speaking to last night.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to play games or lead you on. The simple explanation is that I haven’t felt for a long time.”
“Haven’t felt what?”
He blinked and fiddled with his fork. “Anything.”
She thought of his stoic, general’s demeanor. Of his no-nonsense attitude with the students. His ruthless pursuit of enforcing new policies. His rare smile.
“Things…happened when I was in the service. I basically just shut down years ago. It was how I survived. And then you came along.” He connected with her eyes again. “Somehow you sneaked in through the back door when I wasn’t looking. I was going along, minding my own business. The next thing I know, I’m in the jeweler’s, buying a necklace for the math teacher.”