And that ticked Jack off. Not that he didn’t like Blythe okay—actually, before this, he’d liked her a lot—but...so, finally he gets a chance to spend some time with Dad, only there’s Blythe, too. Yeah, she was the designer and all, but really—it wasn’t like he and Dad couldn’t’ve painted the room themselves, right?
“Okie-doke,” Dad said, grinning, as he wiped his hands on another rag. He was almost as messy as Jack was. And goofy happy, which made Jack’s stomach hurt. “Anybody up for hamburgers tonight?”
Jack frowned. “Really?” He could barely remember the last time his dad had grilled. Not since Mom had died, for sure. But then, he got elected to Congress right after that, so it wasn’t like he’d had a lot of time for hanging out in his own backyard and cooking hamburgers.
“Really,” Dad said. “Your grandmother said she bought ground beef and all the fixings. And heaven knows it’s warm enough. So what do you say?” Then he turned the grin on Blythe. A grin than made Jack feel like punching something. “What do you say?”
Looking a little surprised, actually, she glanced at Jack before looking at Dad again. “I’m invited?”
“Of course. Quinn, too, if she wants.”
“Actually,” Quinn said, getting to her feet and brushing off her butt, even though somehow she wasn’t dirty, “Ryder said we’re going over to the inn tonight for dinner. So I can’t. In fact—” She looked at her watch, which she’d gotten last week for her eleventh birthday. Mickey Mouse. Dumb. “—I’m supposed to meet him there in a few minutes, so I need to go, anyway.” Her eyes met Jack’s, all conflicted, like she knew she was abandoning him. “Sorry.”
“You need me to drive you, sweetie?” Blythe said, swiping her hand across her cheek and leaving another blue smear. Blythe was always calling everybody sweetie. Annoying.
“It’s five houses away, I think I can manage,” Quinn said with an a eye roll, then waved to everyone and disappeared. It was everything Jack could do not to run after her, beg to come along. But that would be lame.
“I’ll go make myself presentable and then get the grill going,” Dad said, then looked at Blythe. “Unless you need me to help clean up here—”
“Nope, got it. And, uh, thanks for the invitation.”
“No problem,” Dad said, then left the room.
“You done with that brush?” Blythe asked, banging the lid back on the blue paint can with a hammer.
“Almost,” Jack said, staring hard at the baseboard, hating that his eyes were burning.
Hating that Mom was gone and never coming back, hating that Dad was acting like helping to paint his room was going to make up for him leaving again at the end of the week. Hating the way he looked at Blythe. Not exactly like he used to look at Mom, but close enough.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Yeah. Like that, he thought, his eyes sliding to Blythe.
* * *
Didn’t take a rocket scientist—or a child psychologist—to figure out that Jack was pissed about her being there. Any more than it took one to figure out that his dad sortakinda had a crush on her. Of course, Blythe sortakinda had a crush on Wes, too—heh—but she could handle it. She wasn’t so sure Wes could, what with grief still short-circuiting his receptors and all.
And for damn sure she knew Jack couldn’t.
Blythe gathered up the rollers and brushes, dumping them into the nearly empty roller pan to take outside and wash, all the while contemplating her own stupidity. Had she really thought all it would take to fix the kid was to involve him in his room remodel?
Worse, had she been so naive as to think that having his father help them would fix things faster? And better? Sure, the boy missed his dad, and boom, there was Dad, helping to paint the boy’s room. On paper, a slam dunk. In reality...
Big sigh time. Because she’d totally discounted the possibility that she and Wes might get along a little too well, and that Jack would pick up on that, twist it six ways to Sunday and spit it right back in their faces. Hers, anyway. Somehow she had the feeling Wes hadn’t figured that out yet.
“I don’t have to stay, you know.”
Sure enough, narrowed eyes cut right to hers. What she could see under the boy band bangs, that is.
“Huh?”
“For dinner. If it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to stay.”
Frowning hard, Jack turned away again, like he was going to finish up painting that baseboard if it took him the rest of spring break. “But Dad invited you.”
“True. Doesn’t mean I can’t come up with some reason to back out.”
Another glance, before he skootched on his butt to reach the next section of baseboard. “Dad likes you.”
And there it was. “I like your father, too. He’s a nice man.” She took a damp rag to a splotch on the floor. “But there’s nothing going on between us.”
“Like I care if there is.”
“Of course you care, sweetie,” she said, watching his back go rigid. “As well you should. But I can assure you that right now, this—” she swept out one arm, indicating the room “—is about you. And the last thing I want is for you to think I’m coming between you and your dad. Because I’m not. And I have no intention of doing that. Ever.”
Again, his head swung to hers. But this time his gaze held. “You mean that?”
You have no idea, how much I mean that. “Absolutely.”
The boy seemed to consider this for a few seconds, then got up to toss the brush into the pan, looking around the room with his hands jammed in his pockets. “I remember when Mom painted this room. Sort of.” He paused. “I was pretty little.”
“Your mom did a great job with the house,” Blythe said carefully. “She was very talented—”
“It’s not fair,” Jack blurted out, banging his hand into a just-painted blue wall, leaving a white smudge. Then he turned to her, anger flashing in wet eyes. The eyes of a child still too young to cope with such a horrible loss. Blythe’s own eyes stung in empathy, remembering her own anger and confusion, so many years ago.
“No, it’s not,” she said simply, surprised the boy was still there, still talking to her, especially considering his obvious antipathy toward her. Or at least, his antipathy toward his father’s interest in her. “I felt exactly the same way when my dad left.”
For the moment, however, curiosity apparently edged out the anger. “Left? Like, on a trip or something?”
“No. Left me and my mother. For good.”
The boy’s pale brows crashed over his nose. “How old were you?”
“A little older than you are now. Still a kid, though. I never heard from him again.”
“Like, not at all?”
“Not even for my birthday. Nothing. As if he simply forgot I existed.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I keep thinking I should try to look him up, see if I could find him. And then I think...why?”
The boy smirked. “How about so you could tell him what a loser he is?”
She blew a laugh through her nose. “Now that’s a tempting idea.”
“But at least he’s still alive, right?” Jack said. Blythe flinched. Idiot.
“I don’t know, actually. But I think my mom would have heard if he’d died. And she’s never said anything, so...” She shrugged, then picked up the pan with the dirty brushes and rollers. “Better get these cleaned up before the paint dries on them. Um...wanna help?”
Jack seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. Even took the pan from her before they tromped downstairs and outside, where she squatted to wash everything in the icy water from the backyard faucet, the breeze off the inlet at the back of the property instantly freezing her hands despite the sun slanting across her back. Jack stood, watching her, his own hands rammed in his pockets as the paint-staine
d water ran in rivulets through the new grass.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” Doggedly massaging paint out of a waterlogged roller, Blythe looked up, barely able to make out the boy’s features with the sun behind him. “Seriously,” he said, “that sucks. But that doesn’t mean...” Flat-mouthed, he looked away.
Her chest cramping, Blythe thought of Mel, who still couldn’t speak about her dad, who’d died suddenly when she was sixteen, without tearing up. Of the gut-wrenching posts from some of the kids on the website, who’d lost parents to illness, accident, combat—leaving vast, yawning chasms in their hearts.
Sure, she ached for Jack the way she ached for those kids. More, because she did know him personally. Even so, she’d never had her father’s love, so she truthfully couldn’t say she’d lost much when he left. Except for, perhaps, that seesaw of hope and disappointment that had defined her childhood. But to lose not only the person you loved but the love itself...
“I know, sweetie,” she said. “I really do.” She suddenly realized a certain sidekick was missing. “Where’s Bear?”
“Probably in the kitchen with Grandma. Because, as Mom used to say, where there’s food, there’s hope.”
Blythe laughed. After a moment, Jack hunkered down beside her to scrub one of the brushes in the running water.
“It’s cold,” she said.
“I don’t mind.” A rainbow flashed in the sun when he flicked the brush off to the side. “I also don’t mind if you stay for dinner.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Another few seconds passed, filled with the sounds of robin trills and splashing water, the faint calls of gulls. “I think your mom would be very proud of you,” Blythe finally said, glancing over in time to catch the boy’s slight smile.
* * *
Dinner done, Wes’s parents had retreated inside to watch TV, and Blythe had excused herself to, Wes assumed, “powder her nose,” as his grandmother used to say. Jack was down in the yard, close to the water, playing catch with Bear. Who probably needed to run off all those hamburger scraps Blythe had kept feeding him all evening, declaring she was a total sucker for the dog’s pitiful expression.
As he scraped the grill, Wes watched boy and dog, smiling at Jack’s laughter and wondering what had transpired between Blythe and Jack to blunt the irritation he’d seen in his son’s eyes when, without thinking, Wes invited Blythe to dinner. Because his already touchy son probably assumed Wes saw Blythe as a substitute for Jack’s mother.
Which, of course, was absurd, if for no other reason than there’d never be a substitute for Kym. A fact Wes needed to make clear before Jack blew things out of proportion.
And before Wes even had the chance to see...well, if there was a chance.
Yes, Blythe had baggage—baggage Wes had no idea if he could even shift, let alone help her get rid of. But she also had what some people might call soul. And a strength of spirit that had clearly seen her through what must have been a pretty lousy childhood. Or at least a disappointing one. That, after everything she’d been through, she could care about others as much as she obviously did stirred something inside Wes, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Something strong enough, he realized as he watched Jack throw a ball to Bear, to possibly shift his own baggage. And that stirring, in turn, turned up a kind of hope—that if he was willing to take a peek around his own pile, what was to say she wasn’t, as well?
Hey. Weirder things happened. Like getting elected when he’d been polling ten points behind his opponent. Still, Jack was his first priority. As carefully as Wes knew he needed to tread with Blythe, that was nothing compared with how he had to handle Jack. Something he wanted badly enough to pray for it...which he hadn’t done since Kym’s death, when he’d pretty much figured God didn’t give a damn about him. About any of them.
Now, though, as he carried the grill off the deck and down into the cool, damp grass to wash it off, he thought maybe—
“Hey, beast!” he said, laughing, when Bear poked the slimy ball into the center of Wes’s back. The grill abandoned, Wes twisted around to grab the ball still clamped in Bear’s teeth, indulging the game of tug-of-war until the dog released it, backing up and barking, dashing after the ball when Wes slung it far out into the yard.
Maybe, sometimes, it was just about letting go. Trusting. That, in this case, Blythe Broussard had landed in their lives for a reason. And that the smartest thing Wes could do was keep his mouth shut and let things shake out the way they were supposed to.
And then know that everyone involved would be blessed.
One way or another.
* * *
Rubbing the hand lotion she’d found on the half bath’s sink into her paint-ravaged hands, Blythe wandered back onto the deck in time to see Wes, Jack and the dog playing some sort of bizarre three-way catch in the sunset’s last hurrah. As far as she could tell, the dog was winning. In fact, Bear took off with the ball in his jowls, sending both Wes and Jack scrambling after him from opposite directions, colliding in a jumble of bare calves and black fur and laughter. A moment later, Wes sat up, grinning like a goon, the ball held aloft...but only until Jack snatched it from him a moment later.
She laughed, the sound apparently reaching Wes on the same breeze that toyed with her already crazed hair, soothing skin she hadn’t realized was heated. Which heated more when a panting, grinning, messy-haired Wes glanced over. Oh, my.
“Come join us,” he yelled, raking a hand through that hair. Flashing those damn dimples. “You can be on the dog’s team.”
I can’t, she wanted to say. Needed to say.
I can’t, because I have to get back home, to my safe, solitary little life, the one where there’s no dimpled, sexy, stalwart man tugging at my heart and his young, needy son tugging even harder.
Except then—speaking of tugging—as if someone or something had taken her by the hand, she found herself down the steps and out in the yard, now playing some strange little game of catch/fetch, the rules of which Wes seemed to be making up on the fly. Although mostly it was about chasing the dog every time he got the ball, which was roughly every thirty seconds. And yes, Blythe felt like the kid she’d never really been, laughing and running around like a lunatic and sliding in the grass, slippery from an earlier rain.
At one point, though, a cramp in her side forced her to stop. Bending over to wait out the cramp and catch her breath, she watched father and son continue their game, and she was struck by what she could only call the expression of release on their faces. As though all it had taken to break grief’s hold had been a few minutes of silliness, of chasing a dumb dog around their backyard.
And at that moment, as the stitch subsided and she straightened up, smiling as she witnessed their precarious connection solidify before her eyes, she also realized how hard she was falling for both of them. A thought that produced a cramp of another kind, one that seized her heart.
Because it was only right that Wes cement his relationship with his son, that they both find their way back to happiness, and each other, after the tragedy that had shaken both of them so badly. With Wes’s career that wouldn’t be easy, although Blythe felt certain if anyone could pull off this particular juggling act it would be Wes. But the thing was, she’d finally realized there was no shame in wanting to be first in someone’s life. Or at least share the podium. To constantly feel she had to beg for scraps, however...
Briefly, she considered stealing away before anyone noticed. But that would be rude. If not cowardly. And anyway, another couple of days, max, and Jack’s room would be done and that would be that. Right?
“Look sharp!” Wes called, tossing the ball in her direction, barely giving her time to hike up those big girl panties before lunging for it with everything she had.
Or at least as much as i
t seemed wise to give.
* * *
“Jack!” Wes’s mother called from the back deck. “Come help me for a minute, would you?”
His son tromped off. But with a pointed look over his shoulder at Blythe, halfheartedly toasting a marshmallow in the fire pit Wes had dug five or six summers ago, her pensive expression a warning sign if ever there was one.
And yet, Wes didn’t want the evening to end. How long had it been since he’d felt like that? Even if he sincerely doubted Blythe felt the same way. Yes, she was still here, but the set to her jaw, the crease between her eyebrows, pretty much negated the “Aren’t we all having fun here?” smile she’d pasted on after dinner.
The thing was, her smiles and laughter before then—he’d bet his life those had been genuine enough. So what the hell had happened?
And why?
Leaning back in a weather-worn Adirondack chair, a lukewarm can of Dr. Pepper propped on the arm, Wes gave his curiosity enough leash to probably hang himself.
“Everything okay?” he said, tilting the can to his lips, and her eyes zinged to his.
But only for a moment. She pulled her marshmallow out of the fire, blowing on the charred lump for a few seconds before pinching it off the stick, its melted guts stretching and sagging for several inches before she stuffed it into her mouth. “I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” she said as she chewed, then dug for another marshmallow from the open bag by her feet, impaling it on the stick and consigning it to its fiery doom. “Heaven.”
Wes propped his elbow on the chair arm, his cheek planted on his fist. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well aware of that,” she said, carefully turning the stick. “Not going to, either.”
Chuckling, Wes hunched forward, knees apart as he rolled the soda can between his palms. “I suppose that’s better than lying. If barely.”
With a spectacular whumph, her marshmallow ignited. On a muttered “Damn,” Blythe jerked it to safety, dousing the flames with a single breath. “I was going to leave earlier. When we were still playing ball with the dog.”
The Marriage Campaign Page 9