by Neesa Hart
“Not yet.”
“Do you need to tell her right now? Can it wait until I get back?”
“I guess. I hadn’t thought about it. He just called.”
“I’d like to go with you when you tell her.”
“I . . .” Cammy thought about it. Amy loved Jackson. They had developed a rare bond, and she knew that it would make it easier on the girl to have him there. “If you’re willing to do that, I think it might make it easier for her.”
“I want to do it. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Late. We can go on Sunday.”
“Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“I won’t get in until after midnight. I can take a cab.” A buzzer sounded in the background. “Damn. I have to go.”
“I know.”
“I probably won’t get a chance to call you tonight.”
“That’s all right.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure.”
“Honey—” The buzzer sounded again. He swore.
“It’s all right, Jackson. Go.”
“I wish I were there with you.”
She didn’t tell him she wished it, too. Instead, she pictured his ruggedly beautiful face, the expression in his eyes when he’d said he loved her. She clung to it for a few fragile seconds. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten the signal. If I need you, I’ll whistle,” she quipped.
“Okay. Promise you’ll consider yourself kissed until I get there.”
“That could seriously wreck my equilibrium.”
He laughed softly. “I kind of like it when that happens.”
As usual, the sound of his voice was having a remarkable effect on her. She’d allow herself, she decided, one more memory before she locked the door. She drew a deep breath. “One more thing before you go.”
He stopped breathing. She heard it on her end of the phone. “What?”
“I know you’ll take a cab, but my apartment is right by the airport. Yours is all the way across town.
You won’t have had a decent meal all day, and you’ll be exhausted. Come there instead.”
“It’ll be late.”
“I don’t care.” She fingered the ear piece of her glasses. “I’ll leave a key with the doorman. Let yourself in. I’ll be waiting.”
“Lord, I love you.”
She tucked that close to her heart. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” The buzzer sounded again. “Take care of yourself.”
fifteen
He dropped the keys on her hall table, then set his suitcase on the floor. Nothing, he realized, had ever felt as good as this moment. She’d left him a key. She’d let him into her life. The significance wasn’t lost on him.
He’d scared himself out of his wits when he’d thrown caution to the wind and told her he loved her. He’d been fairly certain that the look of stunned disbelief on her face was not a good sign. As if dropping that bomb on her hadn’t been enough, he’d dashed out of the country and left her alone for a week to consider the ramifications. It had probably been one of the stupidest things he’d done in his life. He’d been fairly certain he’d need to spend at least the next two weeks coaxing her back into feeling secure with him.
And then she’d left him a key.
That soft promise had turned his world upside down. His eyes drifted shut as he took long seconds to savor the way he felt. Somewhere down the road, he promised, when he wasn’t so tired, and didn’t feel this pressing urge to pull her into his arms, he’d take this feeling out and wallow in it.
A memory of the sadness he’d heard in her voice, however, urged him from his reverie. She’d taken the news from Van Root hard, and he couldn’t blame her. He swept his gaze over the dimly lit interior of her apartment. An infomercial flickered on the television. Cammy slept soundly on the sofa, wrapped in a cotton blanket. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him. The thought chased away the final shreds of his fatigue. Overwhelmed with tenderness, he made his way across the thick carpet to ease her into his arms. She mumbled something, but tucked her head against his shoulder when he stood.
He set her on the bed, took a minute to strip off his clothes, then slipped in beside her. Pulling the blankets over them both, he pressed a kiss to her forehead as he gathered her in his arms.
She turned toward him. “Are you home?” she mumbled.
Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, he rubbed his stubbled cheek against the top of her head. She wasn’t wearing her transmitter, he realized. So he pressed her hand to his chest. “I’m here,” he said. “And I’m staying.”
The sound of rain splattering on glass awakened him from a deep sleep. After the pace of the last week, the odd sensation of easing into wakefulness disoriented him. He frowned at the ceiling, then identified the warm presence at his side. With a soft smile, he rolled over to drape an arm across Cammy’s waist. She didn’t stir. He nuzzled her ear as he glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. He could safely assume it wouldn’t even be rude to prod her awake—not that it would have mattered. The feel of her soft body pressed to his had effectively chased away every remnant of his fatigue. He’d been too tired last night to accomplish more than a good night kiss and a deep tumble into a dreamless sleep. This morning, he was starved for her.
“Cammy.” He swirled his tongue over the shell of her ear. She rolled onto her stomach. He followed her with an unrepentant grin. His gaze landed on her cochlear transmitter, where it sat on her nightstand. She wouldn’t be able to hear him, and somehow, that sent an electrifying sensation through him. A writer’s first rule, he thought wryly, was show, don’t tell. Just thinking of all the things he could show her was having an incredible effect on him. He trailed a caressing hand along her side, then dipped his head to nuzzle her bare shoulder.
He knew the instant she awoke. She tensed slightly, then reached for her transmitter. He covered her hand with his, carried it to his lips. Rolling her gently to her back, he met her gaze with a smile and a slight shake of his head.
“I can’t hear,” she told him.
“I know,” he mouthed.
“I need my transmitter.”
He made the sign for without.
Understanding dawned in her expression, followed by wariness.
“Trust me, Cammy. Please.”
Slowly, she raised her hand to rest it against his face. The sweetness of her surrender almost undid him. He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Trust me,” he mouthed against the tender flesh. “I love you.”
Cammy’s other hand lifted to his shoulder. Arching her back, she raised her head to kiss the corner of his mouth. With a soft groan, Jackson rolled to his back, pulling her with him.
With a slight smile, she settled on him with the softness of a summer rain. Her mouth skimmed his chest. His hands moved over her curves. He used his fingertips to tell her how much he adored touching her.
Her eyes widened in the sweetest kind of awareness when he kissed her secret places. Her fingers took him to the stars and back as they traveled over his skin. With long, leisurely explorations, they studied each other. He felt his mind slipping away, sensed the swell of passion within her as she sought the tenderest places on his body. When he finally eased into her several blissful minutes later, his world splintered. He’d never be complete again, he realized, without this woman in his life. With his eyes, his hands, his mouth, every move of his body, he told her how much he loved her.
Cammy responded with a sweet abandon that sent him all the way into orbit.
By the time they were settled in his car that afternoon, on their way to see Amy, he was telling himself he should be the happiest man alive. But something was wrong.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong. Though she was prone to stillness, there was something unmistakably different about her silence this morning. She was anxious about Amy, he knew that, but something more lurked at the edges of her conscience.
Their lovemaking had been uninhibited a
nd abandoned. The experience had outstripped any previous event in his life. He had tried in every way imaginable to show her that every fool who had ever questioned her worth was without the sense to look beneath the surface. She’d trusted him. He sensed how much it had cost her to let him make love to her without the benefit of her transmitter. She’d really left herself open for him.
And unless he missed his guess, she was trying to tell him something. Something he wasn’t going to like. Something that scared the wits out of him.
Unable to stand the slightly tense silence, he cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”
She pulled her gaze from the window. “Fine. Do you have jet lag?”
Rattled enough, he thought, to have lost her touch for subtle shifts in conversation. “You cured me.”
She didn’t respond to the quip. Several seconds passed while he fought down a wave of frustration. “Cammy, is something bothering you?”
A sad expression ghosted in her eyes. “Not really. Why?”
“You’re quiet.”
That won a slight smile. “It’s an old habit.”
He tightened his hand on hers. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’d tell me?”
She paused. “I’ll tell you.”
“Are you worried about Amy?” He followed the exit near the group home.
“Naturally.”
But you’re not, he thought, enough of a coward to hide behind that worry. “How do you think she’ll take the news?”
“Hard.”
He ground his teeth in frustration. All her defenses were in place, and he was as helpless as a toddler in a mine field. Drawing a deep breath, he forced aside his grim thoughts to focus on the task ahead. “She’s resilient,” he pointed out. “It’s part of her charm.”
“She’s a survivor.” Cammy waited until he turned into the parking deck. “She’s had to be.”
He pulled into a spot, then killed the engine. When he turned to face her, he practically felt her withdrawal. Leaning across the seat, he kissed her. Her response took longer than usual in coming, but she finally sighed and leaned into him. He plundered her mouth with his, cupping one hand behind her head. When he finally raised his head, she blinked at him. He straightened her glasses, then brushed his finger over her still-damp lips. “You’re scaring me,” he admitted.
“I don’t mean to.”
“I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”
She sighed. “Jackson, really. Nothing is wrong. I’m a little tired. It’s been a long week. That’s it. No big news. No bombs to drop.”
“You promise?”
“Of course I promise. Don’t worry about it.”
He wanted to argue but decided against it. The stubborn set of her jaw told him he wouldn’t get anywhere if he did. “Okay. But do me one favor.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t forget that I love you.”
She mumbled an unintelligible answer as she pushed open her door.
Amy turned her tear-filled gaze to Jackson. He tucked a strawberry blond curl behind her ear. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. “I thought he’d say yes.”
Jackson nodded. “I know.”
Cammy watched the exchange with a mix of gratitude, tenderness, and sorrow. Their two heads bent close as Jackson consoled her. He made no empty promises, didn’t even try to smooth over her disappointment. Instead he listened, and watched, and praised her courage. And generally proved himself to be the remarkable man Cammy knew him to be.
One look at the beloved angles of his face as he’d asked her to trust him that morning, and she’d felt every one of her well-laid plans evaporate. Her eyes drifted shut. Never in her life had she felt this incredible attachment to another person. She had sworn she wouldn’t love him, promised herself she would never take that risk.
She opened her eyes to study the picture he made as he conversed in a combination of signs and words with Amy. The sight made her heart ache. He’d caught her off guard, and she’d fallen right for him.
Belatedly, she realized Amy had asked her a question. She pulled herself from her reverie and focused her gaze on the girl. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I can’t ever have an implant, can I?”
Cammy carefully considered her answer. “I don’t know,” she said. “Dr. Van Root doesn’t believe a cochlear will help you, but that doesn’t mean something else won’t help later.”
Jackson nodded. “When Cammy was your age,” he told her, “there were no implants.”
“I was eighteen,” Cammy confirmed, “when cochlear implants became an option. Just because this procedure isn’t right for you doesn’t mean nothing else will be either.”
“What if there isn’t anything else?”
Cammy nodded. “Then we’ll be disappointed and angry and we’ll cry about it together.”
“I wanted to hear.”
“I know.” Cammy nodded. “I wanted it for you. But there’s so much you can do. You don’t have to hear to do all the things you love. Being deaf doesn’t have to limit you.”
Amy frowned. “I don’t mind being deaf,” she finally said.
“I know,” Cammy nodded.
“I mind living here.” She jabbed an angry finger at various spots in the room. “I want to live in a house, like normal kids. I want a mother and a father, not a volunteer who has to drive me around. I don’t fit in here. None of the other kids are deaf. I don’t have friends.”
“You have Trevor,” Cammy pointed out. “And your friends from my group.”
“Not here.” She shook her head. “I want to go to school with normal kids.”
“We’ll work on that, then. Trevor is going to a public school next year. Maybe you could go, too.”
“I want to dance.” She tapped the spot behind her ear. “Now, I can’t.”
Jackson shifted his chair closer. “Yes, you can.”
Amy shook her head. “No. Not without the transmitter.”
“That’s not true.” He glanced at Cammy, then focused on Amy. “You danced at the recital.” At her dubious look, he nodded. “You can do it again.”
Tears filled her eyes again. “Not forever.”
“Why not?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “I can’t.”
“If you want to,” he assured her. “You can. Lynette showed you how.”
Amy’s signs became more exaggerated, larger. “I can’t dance if I can’t hear the music.”
“You’ll count,” he insisted. He took one of her small hands in his. “Ever heard of Beethoven? He wrote music and he was deaf. If he could write it, you could dance to it.”
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “How?” she signed.
Jackson tapped her forehead. “You use your brain. It’s better than your ears anyway. And your eyes. You watch the other dancers, and you count. Just like you did for Lynette.”
Amy looked at him, her expression intent. She wanted to believe him, Cammy realized.
“You can do it,” Jackson signed. “Whatever you decide to do, I believe you can do it.”
Cammy swallowed. The look of cautious hope on Amy’s face was very likely mirrored in her own eyes. She recognized the symptoms of a person who desperately wanted to believe whatever Jackson Puller was saying.
By Monday morning, however, the small hope she’d been cherishing promptly fled. She set Jackson’s final story on Wishing Star aside with a sinking sense of dread. He’d done a beautiful job. She couldn’t have asked for more. Even his last piece, which he’d written the previous afternoon and submitted as the paper was going to press, offered a poignant but compassionate picture of Amy’s disappointment, her courage, and her dreams.
And in its wake, a firestorm had begun. Jackson’s articles had sparked national interest. She’d already fielded three calls that morning from reporte
rs who now felt the right to question the effectiveness and methodology of her sessions with the children. Earlier in the series, his verbal portrait of her had generated an unprecedented number of information requests and Wishing Star donations. She’d denied interview requests from several news organizations, and only successfully shielded Amy from the pressing demands by hiding her behind her age and her innocence.
Backlash followed his final column, however, and Cammy seriously doubted she’d be able to contain it. Jackson’s readers had wanted a happy ending, and his failure to provide it evoked a national sense of outrage. A sharp knock on her door drew her attention.
Mike, looking harried and frustrated, waved a stack of pink message slips at her. “They’re piling up out here, Cam.”
“I know.”
He flipped through them. “There’s one in here from Congresswoman Meyerson. Her administrative assistant says the congresswoman has some serious concerns.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Mike dropped into the chair across from her desk. “Damn Jackson Puller. I never thought he’d do this.”
“It wasn’t his fault, Mike.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not his fault. He told the truth, and nobody wanted to hear it.”
“Cammy, his last piece suggested that you raised Amy’s expectations about the possibility of the implant.”
“Maybe I did.”
He swore, succinct and to the point. “Good God, Cam. Don’t tell me you think this is your fault.”
“I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault.” The jarring ring of the telephone interrupted her. She waited until her voice mail picked up the call. “I think a little girl is bitterly disappointed. I think that if she had never gotten involved in my sessions, she might not be suffering that disappointment right now.”
“She also wouldn’t have learned to dance, or how to make sounds, or the value of friendship, or that there are people in the world worth trusting.”
“She might be better off.”
He frowned at her. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“You didn’t see her face yesterday when I told her. You didn’t have to sit down with her and explain that she’s being permanently denied a technology which has helped millions.”