by Annie Jones
“Thank you for being so good with her,” she said before she could stop herself. So much for steering the conversation into safe waters. “She really thinks you're something special, too.”
Sam shrugged.
She couldn't tell if the response came out of modesty or nonchalance. That gave her very little to go on in deciding what to do next. Nic wet her lips. What harm could there be in letting Sam in on how much he had meant to Willa in the short time she'd known him? Willa would probably tell Sam herself at some point. Why hold back when there was nothing more to it than a child's response to a kind man? “She told me when I tucked her in that she thought you were the nicest, handsomest man she'd ever met, except for her Uncle Park, cousin Scott, and the man who hands out suckers at the drive-thru bank.”
“Pretty highly esteemed company.”
“You've struck a chord with her. Really connected. That's not always easy to do.”
“Well, I realize she has some...difficulties, but she's still real young, Nic. And pretty articulate for her age, assuming...what is she, about six?”
If he'd asked straight out, she'd have answered in kind. But his hesitance, the roundabout way he came at the question put Nic back on full alert. “She does score high for her age group on verbal tests.”
“I can see that.” He folded his hands together and waited, not saying any more, just watching her.
She had seen so many doctors and counselors do this very thing, hoping that in an anxious need to fill the silence she would spill her guts about feelings and expectations. If he thought that was going to happen, he had the wrong girl. She had a million thoughts and emotions swirling in her head now about the house, her goals, her sisters, her precious child, and even Sam. She did not want to chance muddling those things up and blurting out who knew what because he played some ultrabasic psychological game with her.
She folded her hands and mirrored his position.
He said nothing.
She held her peace.
Upstairs they heard shuffling.
Petie and Collier's voices rose then quieted.
Nic relaxed a bit to remember she and Sam were not really alone and to know she could always use her sisters as an excuse to make a polite exit. She tried not to feel too silly after trying to prolong the conversation so she could spend just a few minutes more with Sam. She now wanted a backup getaway plan.
“So you're not going to tell me?” he pressed.
She tried not to gloat that he had broken first. Besides, she needed to stay sharp so she didn't let down her guard too much for vague questions obviously intended to draw her out. “Tell you what?”
“Willa’s story.”
“Willa's...?” She put her hand to her throat. Beneath her palm her heart thudded in a furious, frightened cadence. Sam wanted to know Willa's story. Of all the things she had wanted to suppress since coming back to town, he had to ask the one thing that she feared most telling him—the one thing she knew that someday, no matter what happened between them, she would have to share with him.
“Okay, I worded that poorly.” He bowed his head and shaking it, spoke without looking at her. “I had no idea how better to put it. After getting to know that sweet, special kid, I didn't have it in me to look in your face and ask you what's wrong with her.”
“Wrong?” she practically choked on the word.
“I'm sorry.” He held his hands up and met her gaze again, his eyes filled with kind concern. “I don't know the proper term for what's, you know, different about her, Nic.”
She let her breath out slowly. She tried to find her equilibrium again without an obvious show that she had almost lost it entirely. She ran her hand through her hair and tucked a strand behind one ear. She let her gaze drop and focused it on a splash of wayward glitter brightening the leg of her faded jeans. “What's different about Willa is that she is brain injured, Sam.”
“Brain...?”
“Injured.” She looked up. She had always spoken frankly about Willa's condition, no reason to change that now. “Brain damaged.”
“Oh, Nic. When? How?”
“Probably at birth. We can't prove that; though, believe me, we did try.”
“I don't understand.”
She shut her eyes but that did not dispel the emotions welling up within her. “And I don't want to talk about it, not now, at least.”
“Nic—”
“I'm not trying to hide anything from you.”
“I never thought you were.”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“This is obviously very painful to you.”
“Every bit of it. The cover-ups, the outright lies, the casual disregard for a child's well-being, and a parent's right to know and best care for that child.” She cut herself off. She wasn't making sense and she knew it. “It is, Sam, very painful. What happened when Willa was born and in the time shortly after that shaped my life and the decisions I made regarding caring for her in ways you cannot begin to imagine.”
“I believe you.”
Nothing else he could have said would have meant more to Nicolette. He believed her. The level of trust implied in that simple sentence spoke volumes to her bruised self-esteem. She put her hand on the side of his face. “Oh, Sam. Thank you.”
“For what?” He stroked a tear from her cheek with the side of his thumb.
She had no words to explain it to him. She sniffled, shut her eyes, and shook her head.
When he drew near, she did not lurch away. When he kissed her temple, she took a deep breath and turned toward him. When he slid his fingers under her chin and gently coaxed her into the perfect position for a long, sweet kiss, she—
“That's it! No ifs, ands, or buts.” Petie seized the living room like Sherman bearing down on Atlanta, her jaw clenched, her eyes bugged, and her hair woolly as wildfire through a hayfield. “It's official. Parker Sipes is either dead or he will soon wish he were.”
Twelve
Calm down, Petie.” Sam bolted up from the sofa, trying not to look too much like a teenager just caught stealing a kiss.
“Calm down?” She plunked her hands on her hips. Her feet, in stretched out, wool hunting socks, remained planted firmly on the threshold between the living room and kitchen. “Ohhh, I hate that.”
“Sam didn't mean anything by it.” Collier breezed past her older sister like she hadn't a care in the world, but the dark look she shot Nic and Sam said otherwise.
“Why do men insist on telling any woman who is simply expressing an honest emotion to calm down? Why is that, huh?” Petie strode into the room, dominating the once serene setting with her perfectly pink bathrobe, her quiet but commanding tone, and her blazing brown eyes.
The sofa springs drowned out Nic's exasperated groan with an eerie, low creak as she edged forward but stopped short of standing at Sam's side. “Petie, no one said—”
“He did.” She pointed dead center of Sam's chest. “Calm down. That's what all men say when they want to make a woman feel like she's suddenly gone careening out of control. And all because she doesn't feel the need to suppress and deny what's going awry in her life in order to appease the empathy-impaired men around her.”
“Fair enough.” He held both hands up, knowing when he had met his match. “I take back my 'calm down' and substitute a nice, friendly, gender neutral 'sit down' instead.”
Petie glowered at him.
He motioned to the sofa.
She dropped into the overstuffed chair on the other side of the coffee table.
Sam sat down, mindful of not landing in Nic's lap, or even close enough to her to imply some kind of intimacy between them. “I don't suppose you'd like to talk about this to a potentially empathy-impaired male but otherwise good-hearted minister and old family pal?”
“What's to talk about?” Petie wrapped her robe around her like armor.
“All right then.” Sam slapped his hands on his thighs and made a move to get up again. Excuses about the long day pa
st and the even longer one ahead of him began to form in the back of his brain. Even though he would rather do anything than go to bed and lie there thinking about services tomorrow and what they would bring, he figured Petie's reticence to talk was his clue to leave the sisters alone. “I guess I'll just scoot on to—”
“My husband of twenty-two years has left me.” Petie said, staring at the tree, as plainly as if she were just pointing out a light was broken.
Nic gripped Sam by the arm, as if desperate to keep him in his place.
She shouldn't have wasted her strength. After a remark like that, he wasn't going anywhere.
“Petie, what exactly are you talking about?” Nic asked.
“Park.” She turned her gaze to Nic then Sam then Nic again. “He's left me.”
“Now you don't know that for sure.” Collier perched on the arm of her oldest sister's chair.
“I know,” Petie whispered. “Either he has left me or something horrific has happened to him. Those are the only possible explanations.”
“For what? Details, girl, give us some useful details.” Nic managed to sound compassionate yet annoyed at the same time.
That alone gave Sam more information than anything the other Dorsey siblings had offered since flouncing into the room a minute ago. Obviously she had some concern for her sister's experiences, but underneath it all suspected yet another play for attention on Petie's part.
Petie took a dramatically deep breath then tipped her head up, her eyes imploring. “You have to understand I'd never have done this kind of thing under normal circumstances.”
Sam turned to Nic. “I shudder to think what qualifies as 'normal circumstances' in this family.”
Petie didn’t so much as flinch at his remark. “But Park and I, well, the lines of communication have constricted somewhat this last year, what with both kids gone off to college.”
“You know that's not all that unusual, Petie.” If Sam had been sitting closer, he'd have given her a reassuring pat. “You've heard about the empty-nest syndrome.”
“Empty nest? Of course.” Nic sighed.
Though he faced away from her, Sam could feel her relief in the way the couch sagged as the tension left her body.
“Your little chicks have flown the coop, Petie.” Nic gave a light flap of her hands like birds taking flight. “That's why you've been all on edge and unfocused these past few months.”
“Me? “ Petie’s gaze narrowed like a laser beam on Nic, her lips thinned as she demanded, “When did this get to be about me?”
“When is it ever not about you?” Collier let out a burst of laughter, then got that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face as if she probably just realized what she'd said, who she'd said it about, and that she'd said it out loud. “I, uh, I didn't mean that as an insult, of course.”
“No, of course not, why would I take it as one?” Petie went so stiff it looked like even the hint of a smile would crack her face, like one of those masks that women wore for their complexions. “You are only taking a very painful situation in my life and using it as a springboard to loose your pent-up vindictiveness against me.”
“I never—”
“A springboard to loose pent-up vindictiveness?” Nic was off the couch and striding across the floor. When she pivoted she stood behind her sister's chair, but she railed on like an impassioned attorney making a closing argument. “That's exactly the kind of thing that made Collier say that about you. It's this weird need you have to blow things that so much as touch your life way out of proportion. And you don't even need a springboard to send you flying off on some tear about you, you, you!”
“Me? Me? Me?”
Nic spread her arms out as if the case had just been made to the jury. “Petie, listen to yourself.”
“Heaven knows we've had to listen to you long enough,” Collier muttered.
Petie wedged her elbow between her youngest sister's backside and the arm of the chair, then used the leverage to unseat Collier so quickly Sam did not have time to call out a warning.
Collier spilled with a thump to the floor.
Nic ignored her completely. “Why can't you just admit you might be making a bigger deal of this than it warrants? Why can't you, for one minute, stop playing the victim of everybody and their dog and consider that maybe your perspective is colored by the fact that your life has changed and you don't know how to cope with it yet?”
“Why don't you come over and sit on the arm of my chair and say that?” Petie patted the spot from which she had just unceremoniously dumped their baby sister.
“Oh, if I come over there, it won't be to sit on your chair, missy.” Nic folded her arms.
Collier tilted her chin up from her spot on the floor. “Do it, Nic.”
“Like she'd ever have the nerve.” Petie smoothed her hand down the lapel of her robe.
“Oh, do not tempt me, Petie, not after the past few days I've just gone through.”
“Hold it right there, ladies.” Sam held both hands up, boxing referee style. “Let's keep this focused on the real issue here.”
“Butt out!” The three sisters spoke in unison but with varying degrees of vehemence.
“This is between sisters, Sam.” Nic raised her eyebrows at him.
If it was intended as a threat or merely a way of emphasizing her point, Sam could have cared less. It was at the very core of his being, a part of his very calling in life to help people sort through their problems and find peace. He had not had success accomplishing that in his new church. If he also failed at it in his home, how could he live with himself?
“You're letting your relationship as sisters and a whole lot of stored-up anger and frustration over nit-picking nothings intrude on the real issue. Can't you set your annoyance with Petie's dramatics aside long enough to see your sister seems genuinely hurt and worried over whatever has happened regarding Park?”
Nic bristled at him in sulking silence.
Collier hung her head.
Petie tugged her robe lapels closed just under her chin and gave him a nod of approval befitting a queen. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Now come over here and sit back down on the couch, Nic. Collier, you can have my place.” He stood to make room for the girls who grudgingly made their way to the old sofa. “Now are you ready to hear what Petie has to say?”
Collier smiled up at him. “Yes.”
Nic heaved a sigh.
“Petie?” Sam folded his hands, hoping he looked authoritative enough to keep the others quiet while seeming sympathetic and supportive enough to allow Petie to open up. “Why do you think Park has left you or met with some horrible accident?”
“Because I...” She bowed her head.
Sam believed that if she had had a hankie, she'd have dabbed her eye with it, just like some actress in an old-time, black-and-white movie.
Nic tapped her foot in rapid tempo against the leg of the coffee table.
“Go on, Petie,” he urged. “You can tell us. No matter how hard it is to talk about, we're listening.”
“Like I said I'd never do this normally. I trust Park...or I did.” She sniffled. “Maybe I was wrong to do that. I have to ask myself if I'd been more vigilant, would things be different today?”
“If you don't move this along, you'll have to ask yourself if things would be different tomorrow because it'll be past midnight.” Nic's machine gun-paced foot tapping did not let up.
In counterbalance, Sam walked slowly across to Petie's chair. The floorboards squeaked under the faded nap of the floral carpet. Above the cold, empty fireplace, the mantel clock ticked out the passing of each second like raindrops dripping into a metal bucket. The lights of the Christmas tree blinked and twinkled and, with the glow of the overhead light from the kitchen, illuminated the faces of the three lovely Dorsey sisters.
Seeing them now, like this, they hardly seemed a day older than when he had known them so many years, so many mistakes, and so many changes ago. Sam's heart filled
with joy at being here to help these people in their time of need who had been so much a part of his life.
With his eyes locked on hers, he knelt by Petie and took her hand. “It doesn't do any good to dwell on 'if only,' Petie. The thing to do is to take hold of the situation as it is and deal with it, head-on, no delaying, no fear. We’re with you in this.”
She nodded and gave his hand a squeeze.
“Why do you think Park has left you, or that something awful must have happened to him?”
“Because—” She choked up just enough to garble the end of the word.
Nic made a sound that Sam had no trouble interpreting as a wish to finish the job of choking her sister into complete speechlessness. But she did stop thrumming her foot on the table leg, and for that he was truly grateful.
“Petie?” He infused his hushed tone with all the ministerial solace he could muster.
She sighed.
The girls on the couch leaned forward.
Petie wet her lips, raised her chin, and with a look he'd only seen on paintings of martyred saints, blurted out, “Because he hasn't picked up his e-mail.”
“His...his what?” Sam tightened his grip on her hand.
“That's the big crisis du jour?” Never known for her aim, Nic sent a small sofa cushion sailing and missed Petie by a mile. It skimmed the backside of Sam's head.
He glared at her and not all of his agitation had dissipated when he turned to Petie again. “And how does not picking up his e-mail translate into death or impending divorce?”
“Because people always pick up their e-mail. I check mine twice a day, and I don't use it for business or anything.”
“So, you sent him an e-mail and—”
“No, no. That's why I said I wouldn't normally do this. I...well, we have different screen names with the same on-line service. So I signed on under his and found he hasn't picked up his e-mail in two days!”