Lenka huffed. “Chased him all the way upstairs and stayed outside his door until the police showed. He was pretty sure Blake was crying in there.”
Her stomach turned at the thought. But not for the reason she expected. Blake could be so weak. Why in the world had she let him bully her for so long?
Yeah, she was done with that. She wouldn’t give him anything—no more reason to assume she would let him push her around.
Life would be on her terms.
12
The Lowcountry.
Zan blew out a lazy, contented sigh as he rolled into Charleston. His cell rang, and he grinned, answered with his hands-free. “Hey, Li’l Mama.” She’d swat him if he ever called her that in person.
“Alexander Maddox.” His mother may fuss, but she loved it.
“Sorry.”
“I bet you’re sorry. How long will you be?”
The sour stink of the paper mill hit him, but today it smelled like homecoming potpourri. “Twenty minutes, give or take. Please tell me there’s some sweet tea ready for me?”
“I’ll do you one better. Your father’s gettin’ out some shrimp and steak to put on the grill right now. We’ll be out back waitin’ for you, sugar.”
His mouth watered. “Hey, Mom? Have you and Dad heard from Bailey?”
“Yep, she calls a couple times a week.”
“Are y’all as bothered as I am that she’s staying with some strange family and not coming home?”
“Now, Zan, from what we hear, these are good people.”
“I’m sure they are. But we’re”—he reached up for the roll bar with one arm. “Does she sound happy?”
“Yes. And she sounds strong. You go on and hang up the phone now so you’re not talking as you get to traffic. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He disconnected the call and willed his shoulders to relax. He’d partied with too many “Christians” to trust them. Nothing but fakes.
Two plates full of chargrilled steak, baked beans, and fresh cantaloupe later, Zan stretched out in one of the long, comfortable chairs Li’l Mama had picked out for her swanky bash this year. A sought-after interior designer, she had turned her gift for charm and hospitality into a lucrative complement to Dad’s investment firm in the historic district. All around them, iron furniture anchored soft red and beige canvas cushions to the worn brick. Framed by willow trees and Spanish moss, the area could fit thirty people with ease, but his mom’s parties never felt crowded.
“I could get used to this chair.” He kicked off his leather flops and flexed his feet, tapped his fingertips against the thick padding.
“You said you had some news to share, son.” Dad settled back in his seat.
Zan stared up at the sunlight lancing the chinks in the treetops.
“Zan? What is it, sugar?” Mom squinted one eye.
“I’ve decided to change schools.”
Dad set down his bottle of lager, and Zan watched a drop of condensation cut a quick trail. “Now listen. You’ve got an ideal situation—a scholarship at a great school, great ball club. A hasty decision will only complicate things.”
Water darkened the brick under the bottle, and Zan looked up, shrugged. “It’s done.”
His mom’s mouth opened and closed right back.
“I ran into Coach Markman in Huntington the other night, on a fluke. He’s just signed at Oconee State—”
Dad rubbed his chin. “I had heard that was a possibility. But it’s against collegiate rules for him to bait you—”
“Well, I guess he got in touch with the university between the hearing and my meeting with Coach, because Coach is the one who mentioned it. Said if I wanted the chance to resuscitate my ball career, I ought to take Oconee State’s offer.” Zan turned away from their gaze. “Why would he have a problem letting me go? I mean, he gets another open spot on the roster, and it costs him nothing.”
“Of course it cost him nothing—you threw your scholarship right back in his face!”
Zan sat up. “You don’t have to invest a dime, Dad. Markman found some money for me—”
“Money’s never been the issue, son, and you know it. Where’s your perseverance? Where’s the fortitude? Don’t rush at this without thinking.” Dad glanced at Mom and reined in his temper. “I’ll have a word with the coach and—”
“Dad.”
His mom’s eyes pleaded with them. She hated the bickering.
Zan made his body relax. Consciously kept his voice level. “It’s too late. When I saw Coach Markman before I left school, I signed off on everything. Admissions, financial aid, had a copy of my transcript sent over. As of this morning, I’m an Oconee State Bearcat.”
Mom swirled the ice in her cup. “Markman has always taken care of his boys, Phil.”
“I suppose he has.” An unspoken question hung in the air.
Zan used his right heel to rub his left ankle. He was a fool to bring this up now, but something in him screamed to finish it. “One more thing.”
The Great Eyebrow arched. Ever the skeptic.
Zan dug his hands in his hair, tried to massage the stress away. “It’s been a while since I played consistently, and this is Markman’s first year as a college coach.”
“So…” His father leaned forward.
“He’s made arrangements for me to spend the summer in the Northeastern Wooden Bat League. Refocus.”
Dad picked his bottle up. “The Wooden Bat League’s not a bad opportunity.”
“No. But I’ve got to be in Geneva, New York, in a week and a half.”
“A week?” Mom swatted away an invisible bug, which she obviously hated.
“I’ve got to do everything I can, Mom. I’ve worked too hard to not even get a chance. And with this blemish on my record now…”
“I know, sugar. I was just so lookin’ forward to having some time with you again.”
“Do you want me to drive you up?” Dad wouldn’t expect him to take the offer, but it was there all the same. Family trumps everything.
“No, sir. Thanks though. I’d rather have a car in case I have free time.”
Dad stood, and the patio did actually seem crowded. “You’ll concentrate and work hard though.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
A stiff nod was the only affirmation he got. No surprise there.
If he couldn’t have a real relationship with his father, at least he still had ball.
~*~
“Herbata?”
“Tak, proszę.” Kasia slid out one of the oak chairs at the kitchen table. “Hot tea sounds perfect today.” Who cared that it was practically summer?
Mama bustled around, obviously choosing every word with caution.
Kasia sat with Samson’s furry head on her lap and helped select neutral topics. A little respite before the heartspill. “How’s Busia doing?”
“Better this week, I believe. Looking forward to seeing you again. You girls could make some cookies and take them over.”
“Do you have the stuff for gingersnaps?” Every Christmas, Kasia and Busia baked a batch of her favorites, the only non-traditional holiday dish Busia ever made.
“Of course.” She poured steaming water into each of the mugs. Once the blue-stamped pottery dish filled with everyone’s favorite teas was on the table, she sat. Kasia pulled it over, tapped the smooth ceramic. Busia’s eyes had landed on it as soon as they entered the shop in Bolesławiec. The last time Busia had visited Poland with them.
Kasia flicked through the packets, searching for chamomile. She needed its soothing effects. “Czy jest rumiankowa?”
Mama hopped up and stood on her tiptoes, reached for one of her small tins of dried herbs. She spooned the tiny white and yellow flowers into an infuser and placed it in Kasia’s cup. Then she set a mug full of Prince of Wales tea on the table for Tatuś.
Samson curled up on the floor by her feet, his long hair over his eyes.
When Tatuś breezed back into th
e room, he gently touched Mama’s shoulder before joining them. “How many exams do you have left, Kasiu?”
“Just one. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll drive you down for it, and we can pick up your things.”
“You did well on your other finals?” Mama slid her a plate for the dripping tea infuser.
“Yes. I just stayed in my room.” Kasia dumped in a spoonful of sugar and stirred. With her free hand, she traced the white embroidery against the deep indigo tablecloth.
“It was easier that way, hm?” Her mom reached for her hand.
“I guess.” Her eyes moved back and forth between them.
Tatuś rubbed his temples, studied her. Under the weight of his sympathy, she cast her gaze downward again.
He circled his hands around his mug and leaned in. “Kasiu?” His gaze didn’t let up.
She gave in and met his blue eyes.
“What made you change your mind?”
“God told me to walk away.”
He sat back and smacked the table. “Then that’s exactly what you do.”
Her mom squeezed her hand. “And what’s your version of last night?”
“My version?” Were they kidding? Kasia pulled her hands into her lap.
“Lenka told us the officers said Blake will be charged with destruction of property and second-degree assault.”
“What? Assault?” No, no, no! They would make things worse.
“He hurt you.”
She shook her head. “No. He got angry and accidentally hit the window. He probably had to get stitches! The glass only nicked me.” He had yelled—been demanding—but that was all. “Blake isn’t a violent person.”
“No?” Her dad’s cup hit the table, and tea splashed out.
“He just doesn’t understand my decision. Can you imagine Mama breaking up with you three months before the wedding?” She’d broken his heart.
“He still needs to act like a gentleman.” Mama spoke quietly.
Tatuś pressed his fingertips against the table edge. “Whether he understands or not, he doesn’t respect your decision. He needs to deal with it.” He frowned. “Blake was never good enough for you.”
Kasia bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. She wasn’t the wonderful girl they believed either.
Tatuś gulped down a swig of tea and sat back. “Well, the D.A. is the one prosecuting. You can decide whether or not you want a civil case—for protection—but the county can charge Blake with assault whether you want them to or not. Sheriff Schilling said—”
“Why did you ask him?” Kasia couldn’t believe this. Deacon Sheriff Schilling? His pal from church? The rumor mill would crank up by the weekend.
“He’s my friend, and I trust him.” Tatuś ran a hand through his hair.
“Then can you ask him to see if the D.A. will drop the charges? I won’t even need the restraining order if I go to Peru.”
His shoulders tensed.
“Kasiu,” Mama said, “maybe we should talk about Peru later.”
Tatuś pinched the bridge of his nose. “Last night your safety was our sole concern. So today forgive me if I don’t want to ship you off to another continent where I can’t protect you.”
The phone rang, and Mama excused herself, answering as she left the kitchen. “Hello? Ah, yes…yes, she’s home, Roberta.”
Kasia lifted her tea and blew across the surface. “Excellent. Miss Roberta will let her Sunday school class know I’m being harassed so I don’t have to wear a sign.”
“I’m sorry, Curly-Q.” Tatuś held out a hand, and she rested her palm against his. He’d called her that forever, and when she was younger, tugged on a springy curl each time he said it.
“Please just handle the gossip for me. Let me go, Tatusiu. Let me do something meaningful.”
“Escape solves nothing.” His callused thumb ran across the back of her hand.
“I don’t think of it as escape as much as a new start. I want to serve somewhere this summer. Get over myself. It’s the only way—”
“Whew.” Her mom came back around the corner, dusting off her hands. “That woman.” Her eyes were filled with compassion. “I think I understand why you’ve set your sights on another country.”
Tatuś stood abruptly, pulling his hand from beneath hers. “I’ll be out in my wood shop.”
The door slammed shut. Kasia squeezed her eyes closed.
“Are you well, Kasiu?”
No. Nowhere near it. “I don’t know.”
“The truth.”
Kasia hesitated, but—if she wanted to serve in Peru—she needed to go with a clean slate. And now was as good a time as any. She could wrap her cold heart in the love and concern Mama offered. “I need you to understand something, Mamusiu. The way I broke up with Blake—he had no idea it was coming. And I haven’t listened to him. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I promise.”
“Kasiu, that’s still no excuse. It worries me how quickly his temper—”
“Mama. We were having sex.”
She caught the note of distress in her mother’s eyes before they closed, as if she could wish away the confession.
Her hand slipped into her lap and scraped along the thread at the hem of her shorts. “Blake never had any reason to think I wouldn’t marry him.”
Kasia’s shoulders sagged under the burden of her honesty. “I know when I was younger I promised I’d wait—that my husband would be my first. That’s the reason I said yes when he proposed. And it took me a while, but I realized marriage wouldn’t make it right. It would only add another mistake to my too-long list.”
“Kasiu.” Mom’s watery eyes blinked, and a stream of tears ran down each cheek. She cleared her throat quickly. “I’m glad you realized marriage wasn’t the answer.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. “So glad.”
Kasia clenched and relaxed her fists a few times, tried to exorcise the tension that had dug its claws into her all week, but it was fruitless. “I couldn’t explain it all to him though. I hurt him. That’s why I want the charges dropped. If you could talk to Sheriff Schilling…” She smoothed her shorts.
Kasia’s hand felt a squeeze, and she drew from it the strength to continue. “Anyway, the part I struggle with the most is—would God still want to use me?” And what about my music?
Mama turned her chair and cupped her hard-working hands around Kasia’s cheeks. “Your life is not ruined. Do you understand that? Jesus can use you for beautiful things yet.”
Kasia nodded. “Mama? I don’t want Tatuś to know. He can’t—I couldn’t stand it if he saw me differently.” She glanced down at his soccer ball, well-worn from countless seasons of backyard practice. The day she’d scored the championship-winning goal, he’d hoisted her up onto his shoulders. That warmth and pride in her dad’s eyes—that’s what she wanted to maintain more than anything.
But she’d never have a chance at seeing it again if Mama told him the truth.
The sadness in her mother’s face matched her own.
But Mama nodded.
~*~
Tatuś read to the three of them in English that night, and Kasia curled up beside his feet. She smiled against his knee as he still read the old neighbor’s dialogue with thick Slavic pronunciation. His mellow tone and accent—everything about his voice—she found restful.
Halfway into the story, his fingers tugged on her hair, and a lump of hope formed in her chest. Maybe she could find peace at home after all.
The hope remained as she shuffled down the hall to climb in bed.
But under the covers, sleep evaded her. She twisted and stretched, wrestled with the sheet and blanket. She tensed up muscle groups one at a time and let go, quoted verses she’d memorized as a child, whispered the same verses in English.
Nothing worked.
Kasia bolted upright in the bed as panic seized her. A glance at the clock told her she’d managed to fall asleep after all. It was a few minutes after five in the mornin
g. Her eyes searched the darkness for the nameless fear that had chased her—that hunted her every time she tried to find rest. She would absolutely not be able to go back to sleep; the whatever-it-was was still out there, skulking at the edges of her consciousness.
Why did this not let up? What was she missing?
She couldn’t think any further.
She turned on the small lamp on her nightstand to dispel the suffocating blackness and hugged the pillow beneath her head.
The silence hummed in her ears.
13
The rich smell of coffee wooed Kasia from sleep. She lifted her cheek from the kitchen table, worked her jaw to ease the ache. A delectable aroma wafted in her direction, and she sat straight up, blinked away the fog. Homemade cinnamon buns.
Samson snuggled against her legs, her feet tucked in warm beneath his belly. When had he come to keep her company? “Sorry, Samku. I’ve got to get up.” She slid her feet out and stretched.
Tatuś grabbed a potholder and bent to slide the pan of rolls out of the oven. Her favorite mug—the one with the pic of the bluebird of happiness replaced by the chicken of depression—sat next to the coffeepot instead of on the table beside her.
She reached for it.
“Morning, Kasiu,” Tatuś said. “Your tea was cold and very, very black when I got in here. You left the bag in a bit long this time.”
“Coffee sounds like a better idea anyway. Czy chcesz?”
“I’ve already got a cup, but you can top it off for me.” He pointed to his mug.
She poured the coffee, and sweet-smelling steam eddied around her face.
He smiled his thanks. “Did thoughts of Peru wake you so early—or Blake?”
The perfect dose of cream and sugar required her focus. She stirred her coffee. “Just restless, I think. It’s been a while since I really slept soundly.” She couldn’t even remember when that would’ve been.
He turned the bacon with a fork. “When I came in, your snoring gave old Sam a run for his money.”
“I guess I sleep better at the table than in my room.”
“I noticed you used my Bible as a pillow.” Her dad took a deep breath. “Listen. Summer is only beginning. Can I remind you of something Paul said?”
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