The Promise Between Us

by Barbara Claypole White

  “Did you try and help?”

  “Of course I did, but everything fell apart too quickly. I couldn’t get traction.” He paused. “I want you to be happy. And suddenly I can’t reconcile everything, can’t keep everyone happy.”

  “Who’s ‘everyone’?”

  “You. You and Maisie.”

  “I’m ridiculously happy. Look at me, I’m living the Disney World happy—the wonder of us. The realization that you, my adored prof, fell in love with me. That still blows my mind.”

  “What blows my mind is that you fell in love with me.” He reached out and eased her down onto his chest. His heart beat in frantic claps. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. “I used to watch guys watching you in class and wonder if I was a creep.”

  She kissed the dip between his pecs that made her want to swoon. Until pregnancy hormones kicked in, she had vowed to never read a romance novel. Now she was living one.

  “I don’t want to screw this up,” Callum said. “And I’m terrified of waking up tomorrow to discover it’s a cruel joke and you don’t love me.”

  The overhead fan hummed and shifted air, but failed to cool the room. Outside in the Carolina night, a chorus of frogs and insects croaked and chirped. An owl hooted in the forest behind their house. “Callum, I’m not going anywhere. You need to start believing that.”

  “I do, but”—his arms wrapped around her—“I want us to be perfect.”

  “Perfect doesn’t exist. It’s an impossible dream, baby. An illusion.”

  “I’m petrified,” he said. “Of losing you.”

  He didn’t have to add too.

  “I know we hit fast forward and this happened quickly, but—”

  “Too quickly?” His heart rate picked up again.

  “Faster than we might have chosen, but everything we wanted to happen, happened. It’s as if we won the love lottery.”

  “You would tell me, if you were struggling?”

  “You mean other than being a pregnant Heffalump who is hardly the laid-back ‘I’ve got this, yo’ epitome of blooming mother with child?”

  His laugh was soft as he rested his cheek on top of her head. “I love that you make me laugh, I love that you remind me to stop being so serious. I love calling you my wife.”

  His breathing returned to normal, and she drew circles on his chest with her index finger. The security lights flicked on over the front porch. Were the deer munching on the remains of his first wife’s garden?

  “Callum, can I ask you a question about Katelyn, just one? Did she commit suicide?”

  He reached out to stop her hand. “I can’t go there.”

  “Maybe you should talk to someone about what happened. Clean the slate before Baby MacD bounces onto the scene. I’m concerned that we’re making Maisie anxious.”

  Callum eased her off his chest and sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “The printout of child psychologists on your desk?” She sat up next to him. “If you want me to be Maisie’s mother, you need to give me facts I can work with. Even as a kid I didn’t get ‘let’s pretend.’”

  “I haven’t made a decision about hiring a therapist, which is why I didn’t consult you. But if I decide to follow through—if—the sessions would be private.”

  “This private would exclude me?”

  “I would need to talk about Katelyn, and I don’t want to upset you.”

  “That’s total crap. I’m not upset.” Lilah rolled to one side and dangled her legs off the bed. “I mean, of course I am. I’m pregnant and my emotions are tumbling around on the maximum-heat cycle. But I’m tired of sneaking around Katelyn’s memory. She’s everywhere in this house, everywhere in Maisie’s mind, and the source of everything that’s troubling you. You would never expect your students to turn in a paper without their sources, without a bibliography. How is this any different? Tell me what really happened.”

  “And risk that you’ll hate me? I don’t want my past failures to overshadow what we have. Before I met you, all that mattered was Maisie. Now all that matters is our new story—yours, mine, Maisie’s, and the baby’s. There’s no room in our lives for my past. My past is irrelevant. Katelyn is irrelevant.”

  “Right, then.” She grabbed her body pillow.

  “What are you doing?” He got up and moved toward her.

  “I’m angry, and I don’t like it. And need I remind you that we study the past, you dingbat?” Dingbat? “If the past didn’t matter, you’d be out of a job. I’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom.”

  “No, please. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I’m not ready to share that part of my life.”

  “How about you get ready before the sun comes up so I can start being a mother with more tools than guesswork. I’m lost in the dark here, Callum.”

  He said nothing.

  “Until then I’ll be in the guest bedroom. Let me know when you decide I can be”—she created bunny ears with her fingers—“part of that life.”

  “No. I’ll go to the guest bedroom.” And he left her alone with no idea of what had happened, except that she and Callum appeared to have had their first fight. Rather, she had her first fight with him. In typical Callum style, he didn’t even raise his voice.

  Half an hour later, Lilah, the person who had once slept through a hurricane, was still wide awake. Their marriage bed was too big without Callum, the moonlight too bright, and her back ached. Her brain filled up with everything that had been nagging since their wedding night, when she joked, “I guess it’s official, I’m the second Mrs. MacDonald,” and Callum walked away. But enough of this ridiculous notion that she couldn’t handle her new family history. Enough.

  Lilah punched her body pillow into submission between her legs. Callum had insisted it would help with the backache. He was wrong about that, too.

  The baby kicked, and she smiled. Are you an Ethan? In the book of baby names that Callum refused to open, Ethan was defined as strong. Or are you an Edmond? After Uncle Ed, the other member of the Tremblay family who’d migrated south for college and never left. Callum might not want to know their baby’s sex, but she knew. She’d always known. Did this mean she actually had a mother’s intuition, or was it another example of how she and Callum were moving apart?

  “Daddy?” Maisie said from the doorway.

  Lilah sat up. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “I—I had a nightmare. Where’s my dad?”

  What was going on in the house tonight? Was there a full moon? “He had an idea for that paper he’s been struggling with. You know how it is when the writing inspiration hits.” Terrific, now she was lying to a child. “But I have this huge bed all to myself, and I’d love for you to keep me company.”

  Maisie glanced down the hall and then leaped in.

  “Need a hug?” Lilah said.

  “Will it hurt the baby?”

  “Nothing can hurt this guy. He’s already shooting hoops.”

  Maisie nestled against Lilah’s chest and slowly tucked her legs under Lilah’s belly. Lilah smiled.

  “You think I’m going to have a brother?”

  Through the far wall, a toilet flushed in the guest bathroom.

  “I think so. Although, your dad wants to be surprised, so let’s keep that our secret.”

  “I’m a very good secret keeper.”

  “I know, in the same way I know you’ll be an outstanding big sister. When you’re not bossing Baby MacD around as big sisters do. Take it from someone who has four.”

  Maisie made a little noise that could have been a laugh. “I was hoping for a sister.”

  “I’m hoping for a healthy baby.”

  “Oh, me too. You think the baby’s healthy?”

  “Definitely, and the way he kicks? He’s going to need a big sister to set limits. Do you want to talk about the nightmare?”

  Maisie shook her head. “Do you have nightmares Lil—sorry, sorry—Mom?”

  “I don’t even remember my dreams.” She paused.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about your special name for me. How about Evil Stepmom?”

  “But you’re not evil. That is a very inaccurate name!”

  “And you’re laughing, which seems a good cure for nightmares. You know what? I need a nickname for you, and all the good ones have been taken. What should I call you? Something sweet and chocolatey, since you’re good enough to eat.”

  Lilah pretended to nibble on Maisie’s neck, and she giggled. “I know! How about my little M&M?”

  “I like M&M’s.” Maisie yawned.

  “Good, that’s settled.”

  “But I don’t have a name for you.”

  “One thing at a time, and right now, you need sleep before school.”

  “Why do you think my dad never talks about my real mom?”

  A door opened and closed downstairs. Was Callum going into his office?

  “I don’t know, sweetie, but it’s probably too painful. I’m not sure you ever get over the death of a spouse. He must have loved her very much.”

  “As much as he loves you?”

  “More, because she brought you into the world.”

  “I wish I’d known her.”

  “Maisie, I can never replace your biological mom, but I hope you’ll come to think of me as an okay substitute.”

  “Gosh, yes. You’re a very good substitute. And thank you,” Maisie said in that polite, oddly formal voice of hers. “My dad refuses to talk about my mom, and that makes me sad.”

  So, we share something after all.

  Within minutes, her stepdaughter fell asleep. Finally, she’d gotten something right—without Callum interfering, without Callum forcing them to be friends. And all she’d had to do was let Maisie talk about the one topic Callum wouldn’t discuss: Katelyn.

  SIXTEEN

  KATIE

  Katie opened her door and spilled vodka tonic over her bare feet. “Seriously? You’re making a house call at nine on a Thursday night?”

  “Your phone kept going to voicemail.” Jake pushed past and stopped two paces inside her apartment, face-to-face with Delaney.

  “Lookie here. If it isn’t my favorite fuck buddy.”

  “Delaney!” Katie stared at her younger sister.

  “But you were, weren’t you, darlin’?” Delaney raised her glass and then downed what was left of her tap water as if it were whisky. “And you’re fully dressed. It’s a Christmas miracle on September first.”

  Jake slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and cocked his head for a smile, but not the full-beam, money-making version. “Well, I never. Long time no see. How’s it going, Delaney?”

  “I hate to break up this reunion,” Katie said, “but could one of you hand me a paper towel?”

  Jake shot into the kitchen, unraveled multiple sheets of paper towels, and yanked. Then he shoved a fistful at Katie.

  Delaney stepped around him to put her glass in the sink. “Is this a first for you, Jake? Someone not answering your messages?”

  Jake stared at Delaney’s back. “It wasn’t me who stopped answering.”

  “And when exactly was that?” Katie looked from one of them to the other.

  Jake said nothing. Delaney turned slowly, but gripped the sink behind her with both hands. “Not sure I remember. It’s been years since I answered a booty call.”

  “I thought you guys hadn’t seen each other since the christening?” Katie said.

  Nobody answered her.

  “You doing alright?” Jake said casually.

  “Peachy. Better than peachy. And about to go home.” Delaney pulled her keys from her purse and rattled them.

  “Don’t leave on my account,” Jake said.

  “Oh, I always leave on your account, sugar.”

  Jake stretched his neck. His expression started to soften, and the Jake Vaughan smile crept out, the one with a patina of charm. “You getting your panties in a wad because I didn’t send you a dozen roses after our last tryst? Well, bless ya heart.” True to form, his accent had turned country.

  Katie dried her toes and blotted at the vodka spill on the wood floor. As she tossed the wad of paper towels in the trash can, Jake stayed in the hall and Delaney stayed in the kitchen.

  “Am I missing something here?” Katie said.

  “I don’t know. Let me see.” Delaney walked into the hall and frowned at Jake’s groin. Slowly, she moved her head from side to side, as if considering the merchandise.

  “Nope. I guess no one’s missing anything. Time to get home to my brilliant lawyer. A passionate Irishman who came to Yale on a scholarship. Now Irish guys, they understand sex. And commitment. What a novel combination—sex and commitment. You should try it sometime, Jake.”

  Delaney leaned in to hug her sister. “If you need us, we can be here in ten minutes.”

  Head held high, Delaney left, but it was several moments before her footsteps rattled on the metal stairs.

  “You okay, Jake?”

  His head snapped around and he scowled at her. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She sighed. “Why’re you here?”

  “Not to listen to your sister rail on me, that’s for sure. Got any tequila?”

  Katie finished what remained of her vodka tonic and breathed on him. “No.” Anger hummed in her gut, looking for a target. Either Cal or Jake would do, and the latter was in her crosshairs.

  “Can I have one of what you’re having?”

  “Be my guest. You know where the kitchen is.”

  “Seems southern hospitality’s a lost art around here. Nice place, Katelyn.”

  “It’s Katie now.” Ben had been right to choose Katie. Katelyn had hidden matches in the garbage can along with the knives; Katie controlled fire. “I don’t go by Katelyn anymore.” She walked into the front room, sat on one of her stools, and slid the glass across the breakfast bar toward him. “Here. Give me a refill since most of mine is soaking through the floorboards.”

  Jake opened and closed cabinets. “Want to give me a hint about where to find a glass?”

  “Next one over. And the ice maker’s broken, so you’ll have to reach in and grab the ice.” Jake’s hands, covered in who knew what, in her ice. Good thing she didn’t have contamination fears.

  She sprawled across the breakfast bar. That first vodka—the half she’d drunk—had gone down way too fast.

  “And you—doing okay?” Jake said.

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “Want an honest answer?”

  “Up to you. I’m just being polite. You asked me, so I’m returning the favor.” Jake took an interest in the poster mock-up centered on the fridge door. “‘Do you have unwanted thoughts and/or mental images of causing harm, or being responsible for harming others?’” he read. “‘Are these thoughts upsetting to you?’” He looked at her. “You fixin’ to start a support group?”

  The anger fled, which was a pity. Dealing with Jake was so much easier when she was in a pissy mood. “It’s a distant goal.”

  “Your sister looks good. She serious about this Patrick guy?”

  He dropped a couple of ice cubes, swore, and grabbed a paper towel.

  Katie leaned over the breakfast bar. Jake was on his hands and knees on her kitchen floor. “Yes, she’s serious about him, and I don’t remember anyone mentioning his name.”

  “You don’t?” He gave a little “Huh,” stood up, and tossed the ice cubes in the sink. The paper towel went in the trash can. “Tell me more about this group. Not sure I can imagine sharing personal shit with strangers.”

  “Not much to tell. I don’t have experience working with support, except from my sister. I’m mostly self-taught in the art of therapy.”

  “How does that work—therapy for OCD?”

  “Painfully.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ll show you. Do me a favor? Unstraighten the poster. Tilt it a bit.”

  He did, and the need to get up and move it prickled. Katie scratched her arm. “I’m now
incredibly uncomfortable because that thing’s crooked, which means I get to boss back the OCD and ride out the discomfort. Thanks for the free therapy. If you want to up the ante, open the cabinet behind you and leave it open.”

  “Nah, I’m not a masochist. Even I like closet doors to stay closed.”

  As Jake struggled to unscrew the tonic bottle, a memory floated by of Cal asking why she always turned everything so tight. The bottle gave a little fizz when it finally opened.

  “Lemon’s in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Knives are in the drawer to your left.” Yes, Jake. I now have a knife drawer.

  He poured two vodka tonics, both strong. Clearly he wasn’t planning on driving home anytime soon. Picking up the glasses, he came out of the kitchen and handed one to her. Then he walked across the living room, pausing for a slug of vodka before settling in the same spot Cal had chosen. Unlike her ex, Jake spread out and flung an arm over the back of the futon. One leg rested casually on top of the other in an archetypal Jake pose.

  “You and Callum never made sense to me,” Jake said. “He didn’t date much, and then he lost his heart to you, a pretty young woman who was piss-poor needy. I tried to talk him out of the marriage.”

  “This is fun. I’m glad you stopped by to insult me while drinking my liquor.” She stared at the white lights outlining her window.

  “Acting,” Jake said, “is all about figuring out what makes people tick.”

  “Nice way to avoid dealing with your own shortcomings.”

  “Quite the opposite. Taking on another persona leads to a lot of soul searching. You have to figure out what parts of you are like the character. I watched you a whole lot in college, and I recognized someone who was also trying to bury a rough childhood.”

  Katie got off the stool and walked toward him. “I’m already hunting for a therapist, thank you. I don’t need you to weigh in.”

  “You were always so anxious, and Callum fed off that. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong.”

  “And this is where you tell me wife number two is a vastly improved model?”

  “For Callum? Yeah.”

  “Gee, I’m so sorry my mother was crazier than a shithouse rat and I wasn’t Ms. Perfect Wife who wanted world peace and a good manicure.”