Katie shot between Maisie and the road. Whitmore turned with a puzzled look, and Katie forced her mouth into an overly bright smile. “A little overexcited at the prospect of good chocolate.”
He nodded and spoke to Maisie. “I hate to break rank, but dark chocolate always gets my vote. High in antioxidants and good for cognitive function, which is exactly what I need.”
As they walked up the street, Maisie chatted with Whitmore and Katie’s flip-flops slapped against the pavement.
What if Jake recognizes me and calls the cops? What if the cops lock me up for child abandonment, child endangerment, being a psycho?
A thought is just a thought; it has no power.
Avoiding Jake was simple. He’s a slack-ass. Always runs late.
She would set the timer on her phone, as promised, but five minutes early. And when they were close to the museum, she would pretend she’d left something behind and ask Whitmore to see Maisie safely back.
That’s a stupid plan. Jake’ll recognize me. I should leave, go home before I hurt Maisie. See that car? What if I . . .
Maisie grabbed Katie’s arm. “This is so much fun! Thank you, Ms. Katie.”
She was touching her. Maisie was touching her. “You’re welcome.”
“I like hanging out with you.”
“I like hanging out with you, too. And how about we drop the ‘Ms.’? Call me Katie.”
“Oh.” Maisie’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know if that would be appropriate, since you’re, like, a teacher.”
I’m not, I’m your mother. No, no, I’m not. I abandoned you; I’m the worst mother. Jake hates me, and Whitmore would, too, if he knew what I’d done. Susan Smith was a beloved kindergarten teacher compared to me. See that car? I could push you underneath it.
A thought is just a thought; it has no power. I control fire; I am strong. I want this next half hour with my daughter. This is my real thought, the one I want to keep.
“I’m super excited you get to meet Uncle J,” Maisie said. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with him. Women always do.”
“Tell me about your dad,” Katie said. No, no!
“He’s super smart and the best dad in the world. Although . . .” She sighed. “I have a lot more rules than most of my friends. And a lot less electronic time. And he refuses to let me watch PG-13 movies when my friend Ellie’s dad lets her watch them. It’s super embarrassing because he even called up Ellie’s dad spec-iiifically to tell him what I was and was not allowed to watch.” Maisie rolled her eyes.
As they crossed the road, Katie glanced both ways and her heartbeat picked up speed, galloped for some imaginary finishing line she could never reach. But she kept her right arm raised and steady. Prepared to push Maisie behind her if a car came from any direction. They reached the curb, and her daughter continued to describe the man Katie had once promised, before God, to love until her last breath. A man with another wife, another family. Silently, Katie counted backward from one hundred and brushed sweat from above her lips.
I am calm; I am calm.
Stepping into the Chocolate Factory, they entered a cavernous world of industrial architecture, brick walls, steel and wooden beams, and light. Unexpected light, from a bank of windows, contemporary white fixtures, and strings of globe lights that illuminated the decorative squares of tin above them—renovated and polished to a contemporary shine. The ceiling had to be original. As original as the battered tin shutter she’d salvaged from a historic tobacco warehouse in downtown Durham and reimagined as That Perfect Moment. To their right, under a huge “Buy Chocolate Here” sign, shelves were stacked with bars of chocolate. Ahead, a brick opening led to the factory; on their left, the café beckoned. Smiling, Katie inhaled warm cocoa with a hint of spices.
“Hmm,” she said.
“Hmm,” Maisie said, and they both giggled.
After picking out a bar of peppermint milk chocolate to share—no white chocolate—they headed to the café counter and ordered an iced Americano and a frozen hot chocolate. Whitmore, who was clearly a more efficient decision maker than either of the two of them, was already sitting at a table, laptop open, with an espresso and a bar of dark chocolate.
Katie chose a table for two tucked against the brick wall, under a window.
“Do you think we’ll have time to tour the factory?” Maisie said.
Katie shook her head as she set the timer on her phone. “Sadly, no. We don’t want to keep your uncle waiting.”
“He’s not really my uncle. He’s my godfather.”
I know.
“Tell me about yourself, Maisie. What do you do for fun?”
“Mostly I write. When I’m not super busy with homework. I start middle school next year, you know.” Maisie brushed her hair again. Twice on the left side, twice on the right.
“What do you do when you’re not writing?”
Katie snapped the bar of chocolate in half, put one half on a paper napkin, and pushed it toward Maisie. Maisie thanked her profusely and then chatted away about Ava Grace and their friend Ellie. About the neighborhood pool and playing softball. And Jake. Unfortunately Maisie had a great deal to say about him.
“And sometimes Uncle J tells me stories about my real mom,” Maisie says. “My dad can’t talk about her. It’s too painful for him, but Uncle J says she was beautiful and funny and kind.”
Katie started choking.
“Are you alright, Ms. Katie?”
“Yup. Sorry.” Katie smacked her chest. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
Maisie started talking again, but thankfully not about Jake. “And now that I’ve turned ten, my dad lets me have sleepovers with Ava Grace and Ellie.” Maisie popped the last piece of chocolate into her mouth.
Ten seemed awfully young for sleepovers. Katie didn’t have them until she was at least fourteen. But that wasn’t because of a parental embargo. Katie scratched her forearm again and again. It was because she couldn’t handle disruption to her routines. Was OCD festering in her brain, even then? Had she always been wired for OCD until postpartum craziness pushed her over the precipice? When had Maisie’s OCD started? Did she also have a trigger?
What if I’m the trigger for her OCD? What if the thought of my death was her trigger? What if leaving her created all this? What if staying away was the worst thing to do?
Katie picked at the edge of her paper napkin. “I couldn’t do sleepovers at your age.”
“Why?” Maisie bobbed around in her seat.
“I had trouble with spontaneity. I needed things to be familiar.”
Maisie frowned and nodded.
Katie glanced at Whitmore, who was typing on his laptop. “You remember when we met and I had that funny turn?”
“Oh, yes. Are you quite well now?”
“Um, yes and no?” Katie’s voice rose ridiculously high. She cleared her throat and started again. “I have an ongoing illness. It’s not contagious or anything, but I was struggling. You see, I get very anxious.”
“Why?” Maisie drew out the word, tiptoed around it.
“I’m allergic to change. Have a hard time with new things. Coming here, that first day, gave me lots to worry about, and I had a big panic.”
Maisie’s mouth twitched. “Is it still hard? To come here?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“How do you make yourself do it?” Maisie’s voice was hushed.
“I have to be extremely bossy with the anxiety—tell it I’m in charge.”
Maisie balled up her napkin. “Does that make it go away?”
“Not entirely. It’s still there, but I don’t listen to it, because I’ve bossed it back into place.” She longed to reach across the table and tell Maisie everything would be okay. Except family history could prove her wrong. “It’s like I have brain farts.”
Maisie giggled; Whitmore looked up and smiled at them.
“I’m the only one who can hear the brain farts, but when they’re very loud, they try to convince me that bad things w
ill happen to people I love. Sometimes I even worry I caused the bad things, which is bogus because thoughts can’t hurt anyone. They’re not real.”
Maisie stared at the table.
“Do you have brain farts?”
Maisie didn’t answer.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, if you do.”
Maisie rubbed her forearm.
“And if you do have these brain farts, you should tell your parents, so they can take you to a special doctor.”
“I don’t like doctors. And I’m not ill. I’m my dad’s right hand and his left. He needs me to be strong.”
“You can be strong and have an illness.”
“Could you please take me back to the museum now? Thank you.”
“I’m sorry, Maisie. I stepped over a line.” Katie tried to stop her voice from shaking in tandem with her right leg. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Are we still friends, ’Mazing Maisie?”
Maisie looked up with her beautiful hazel eyes. How could Cal deal with OCD if he couldn’t even help her choose glasses?
“What did you call me?”
Shit, shit.
“’Mazing Maisie?”
“Only Uncle J calls me that.”
No, he doesn’t. He stole it from me.
“Well, it’s a great name.”
“Are you sure you don’t know Uncle Jake? He’s an actor and very handsome. He has black hair and his eyes are really, really blue.”
Katie’s timer went off.
“Oh, fudge!” Maisie shot up. “We should go!”
Whitmore got up from his table, too.
“Let’s get you back. Don’t want to keep Uncle Jake waiting, do we?”
They cleared off the table and headed back outside into the thick, warm soup of an August afternoon. And as they rounded the corner, there was Jake. Leaning against a neon-blue Honda Fit parked curbside, with ankles and arms crossed loosely, and face raised toward heaven. A vampire who loved the sun, who wore self-confidence as if it were a gift from a fallen angel. Ready for a date, no doubt, in his black jeans and white shirt that had to be linen, given the wrinkles. Still gorgeous, still a weasel she wouldn’t trust even if she were trapped in a burning vehicle and he was her only chance of escape. She dug into her messenger bag and pulled out her sunglasses.
“Uncle J!” Maisie squealed.
Jake pushed off the side of the car.
“Oops! Gotta make a phone call.” Katie ducked into a doorway. “Bye, Maisie! See you next week.” She yanked out her phone and pretended to talk. Whitmore walked past, and she said a cheerful “Bye!”
Behind her, Jake’s drawl filled the street, the air, the universe. Katie huddled farther into the shade of the doorway and held her phone tight. Inhale one, two, three, four; hold your breath; exhale one, two, three, four. Repeat, repeat.
When she glanced over her shoulder, Jake was watching. “’Mazing Maisie,” he said, “why don’t you wait for me in the car while I thank your teacher.”
“She’s not my teacher,” Maisie said. “She’s a metal artist.”
“Is she now?” Jake said. “Hop in, darlin’. I’ll be right back.”
The sun had sunk low enough to hit that blinding spot. Moving out from the shade of the doorway, Katie stepped into the glare. Jake, sunglasses perched on top of his head, closed in on her. His piercing blue eyes were bluer than she remembered; his tan was deep and even. So was his hair color. Not peppered with gray, then? He probably dyed it. After all, Jake’s vanity was an indelible truth. Along with the fact that you never showed him weakness.
He didn’t blink, smile, or hesitate until he stopped in front of her. She nearly gagged on his aftershave. Some smells were impossible to forget.
“If that don’t beat all.” He gave a lazy smirk. “You’re back, then?”
“Hello, Jake. Yes, yes, I am. And I’m here to stay.”
ELEVEN
KATIE
Humidity sealed her in the moment; her heartbeat drowned out the city sounds. Jake leaned in, peppermint on his breath. Was he going to threaten her again? “Make him happy or else,” Jake had said on her wedding day. Rather than specify or else, he’d moved on to seduce her sister.
“I don’t know what your game is”—he kept his voice low—“but you come within spitting distance of Maisie again, and I’ll call the cops faster than you can say, ‘Well, hey there, handsome.’”
“Still as predictable as ever. Takes a small pair of balls to intimidate a small woman.”
He pulled back, his face unreadable. “I’d like to say I’ve missed you, too, but we both know that would be a lie. I’m guessin’ your reappearance has something to do with that letter Callum sent, but don’t go worrying your pretty little head about it. ’Cause I’m on you like stink on shit, which means you won’t be seeing Maisie again. Ever.”
Above them a jet powered silently away from Raleigh. The white trail from its exhaust slashed another vapor trail already hanging in the sky.
“That’s going to be hard, wouldn’t you say? Since Maisie’s my docent.”
“Was your docent, darlin’. Was. Maisie loves this program a whole lot, and what matters to my girl matters to me, which makes the solution obvious: she gets to stay, you get to go, and we all live happily ever after. But since I’m a nice guy, I’ll give you a choice.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular sweetheart. Still snorting cocaine, playing beer pong with tequila and rum, and screwing everything in a skirt?”
He laughed, but it was the cruel sound of a whip slicing through air. “You still nuttier than a pecan pie, and not one of the good ones with bourbon?” He sneered. “Back to your choice. You can take the easy way out and remove yourself from the program, or you can refuse, and I’ll call the director first thing tomorrow and accuse you of saying something inappropriate. My guess is you’ll never work with docents again.”
This was the Jake she knew, not the one who’d told Maisie nice things about her birth mother. “You’re a lowlife, Jake Vaughan. With less integrity than a sewer rat.”
“Seriously?” Jake slipped his sunglasses back on. Reflective, of course. “The woman who broke her husband’s heart and abandoned her baby is lecturing me on morals?”
“You know nothing about why I left, about what I went through.”
“Uncle J!” Maisie called out.
“Comin’, darlin’! Give me two secs.” He paused. “I don’t care why you left, Katelyn, but I’m sure glad you did. Crawl back under your rock and stay there. I’ve gotta split.”
She grabbed his arm, and he turned to give her the evil eye over the top of his sunglasses.
“I didn’t know she was in the docent program, Jake. I swear, I didn’t know. She has no clue who I am, and I would never tell her otherwise. I would never put her through that trauma.”
“And yet you’re still here an’ all. You could have backed out when you realized who she is. So what’re you after?”
“You have to broker a meeting between me and Cal.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he whispered.
“I wish I was. I have no desire to see my ex-husband, but in here”—she jabbed her fingers at her heart, and her voice vibrated—“nothing will ever matter more than Maisie’s well-being, and after reconnecting with her, by mistake, I’m concerned that she’s inherited something from me. An anxiety disorder that could make her life hell. I have to talk with Cal. I have information he needs. Information that can help Maisie.”
“Maisie is not your responsibility. She’s in a loving home, and Lilah Rose is a good woman. If Maisie has problems, which I’m not saying she does, Callum will deal with them.”
“The same way he dealt with mine? I have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He flicked away a hummingbird moth. “I’d be happy to hire a moving company to take you and your art back to Asheville.”
“Do you have any idea how it feels to be tortured by violent thoughts that m
ake you question everything you know about yourself? No? Welcome to my world, Jake. OCD can make you doubt your sexuality, hint you’re capable of murdering a person you love, raping a child, or—”
“I have a good imagination.” Jake glared. “You don’t need to elaborate.”
“Left untreated, it’s an illness that gets worse and worse. In my case, it was nearly fatal. I’ve spent the last decade struggling to live with anxiety, and I’m telling you, Maisie is overly anxious. Without treatment she could end up living nightmares even an actor can’t imagine. You want to risk that?”
Jake didn’t pull away or ram her with another threat. He knew; he knew something was going on with Maisie.
“Her stressors are lining up,” Katie continued. “Fear of middle school, uncertainty about a new mom and a new sibling, which means if her brain is wired the same way as mine, it’s about to start launching grenades. And she told me she has to be strong for her father, which means she’s not going to tell Cal. She’s trying to deal with this by herself, and she can’t.”
“You sure are full of piss and vinegar these days. Got an opinion on everything, bless ya heart.”
“For once in your life, listen to me, Jake. Do you know the reason that I was in a psych crisis unit in Asheville? Because of a botched suicide. So don’t you dare dismiss what I have to say. I’m not asking for a second chance to be her mother. I’m pleading for the adults in her life to help her.”
Jake dragged his hand over his chin. “What are you proposing?”
“Back there, in the Chocolate Factory, she was close to confiding in me.”
“Now you’re psychic, too?”
“Grow up, Jake.”
“And you should stop acting ugly if you want me to listen.”
“What can I say, you bring out the worst in me.” She flashed a fake smile. “Look, what if you drive her over to my studio. I can show her more of my art and see if she opens up. You can listen and report back to Cal. Tell him what you’ve witnessed. If it comes from you, he’ll listen.”
Heat clung to the back of her neck, turning it damp and sticky.
“Fine. You can meet with Maisie once more, under my guidance. And if anything happens that suggests there’s some validity to your claim, I’ll go to Callum.” Jake held out his hand. “Give me your card.”
The Promise Between Us Page 10