by Elaine Fox
Delaney stood with her hands against the closed door and her forehead resting on the cool wood.
He knew. He had to know. He must have seen her list—why would he look one drawer over after turning that corner? No, you’d start right there on the end, wouldn’t you?
Not if you started next to the stove, another part of her mind reasoned.
She lifted her head. Yes, he could have started in the drawer next to the stove, then moved to the utensil drawer and not even gotten to the drawer with the list.
But then…the coat. And—oh, God—he’d said he knew Jim was tall. Six-foot-two. She’d never told him that. She might have told him Jim was tall but she couldn’t even imagine a conversation where she would have gotten so specific. Six-foot-two was on the list. The damned, stupid, foolish, idiotic husband list.
She dropped her head against the wooden door again, wishing she had the guts to pound herself bloody against it.
He knew. He had to.
Her heart was wedged into her throat, and her head was pounding. What could she do, how could she fix this? Surely there was something she could do to head him off, distract him from the obvious.
She lifted her head again, heart sailing with elation. She knew, she’d tell him Jim died. She’d go back to her plan to kill off Jim, and then Jack would have to wait to ask her any questions. Wait until she could come up with some suitable explanation for all that he might have seen and all that he was most probably thinking.
She ran to the phone. She would call Michael now, run the idea past him, and then when Jack came back with the screwdriver she’d be on the phone in tears. Then she’d hang up and tell him the awful news she’d just received.
Surely he wouldn’t doubt a widow. Certainly he wouldn’t question her on the subject when she was distraught over the death of her husband. At the very least the ruse would buy her some more time. And then…then, after she’d thought of a way…then she’d tell him the truth. Maybe.
She picked up the phone and dialed Michael’s number. One ring…two rings…three rings…She hit one fist on the wall and swore.
“Pick up the phone, pick up the phone,” she muttered to herself as the phone rang one more time.
The answering machine picked up. She splayed her palm across her forehead.
“Michael, it’s me,” she said in a voice that betrayed every ounce of panic, “call me as soon as you get this, the very moment you hear—”
The phone clicked. “What is the matter with you?” Michael’s voice came on the line.
“Oh thank God,” she breathed.
“Jesus, Dee, did someone die?” He was serious. Concern colored his voice.
“No, but someone has to. I’ve got to kill him—Jim, that is. And I’ve got to do it right now. Jack’s going to be back here any minute, and I’ve got to be in tears over the death of my husband.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
She wasn’t making sense, not to someone who hadn’t been inside her head for the last ten minutes, but she couldn’t stop or slow down her thoughts long enough to explain.
“Just, if I start getting upset and crying and carrying on, go with me. Jack knows, I think. He tried on the coat, on my coatrack, and the sleeves were way too short. And he knew—he knew that Jim is tall, six-two, he said that. I never told him that, but it was on the list. So I’m sure he saw the list in my drawer. Oh my God, oh my God.” She raked a hand through her hair. “I’m going to have to tell him. He probably already knows, so I’m going to have to tell him. If I don’t, he’s going to think I never planned to tell him. Which I didn’t. Oh God, I’m a bad person, Michael. I’m not a good person.”
“Delaney, listen to me. You can’t kill off Jim.”
“What?” She could practically hear the brakes in her mind screeching as she absorbed his words.
“You can’t kill off Jim and tell Jack the truth—”
“Why not?” she squealed. Her eyes were probably rolling back in her head, a la Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
“Because—”
The phone beeped, signifying an incoming call.
“Wait, hang on a second, I’ve got another call.” She hit the hook and switched lines.
“Hello?” Her voice was shrill and she wondered belatedly why she hadn’t just ignored the incoming call.
“Delaney?” Jack’s voice.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and her cheeks burned as if he were looking at her and seeing the lies she’d told all over her face.
“Yes?”
“Oh, it didn’t sound like you.”
And it didn’t sound like him, she thought. His voice was somber, constrained, as if he were miles and miles away, across a distant, turbulent ocean, in another country with another language and archaic technology, where the phones might be tapped and he’d committed some crime.
Either that or he was holding the receiver away from his mouth.
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m just on the other line, a friend called, and said he had some news, bad news,” she added, remembering her mission in calling Michael. But Jack didn’t pick up on it.
“Listen, I can’t come back over right now. I’ve got—something came up.”
Her mind—spinning with ways to complete her story—stopped abruptly.
“You can’t?”
“No, uh, sorry. I’ll come back, finish it later. It’s just, something came up. Like I said.”
“Oh. Okay.” She thought, What does this mean? “But your drill’s here.”
What did that mean? It meant she was becoming unhinged. He could live without his drill for one night.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll just come back later. I’ll finish it later.”
He sounded weird. Or was she just imagining things?
“Okay.” She bit her fingernail. Something she never did.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay. I gotta go.”
“Okay.” She thought she should say something more, let him know the awful news she was about to get, about Jim’s untimely death, but maybe that could now wait until he came back to finish the crib.
“Bye,” he said, and hung up without waiting for her reply.
He definitely sounded weird.
Slowly, she hung up the phone. She was just turning away to go who knew where, someplace she could think and figure it all out, when the phone rang again.
“Hello?” she answered. Maybe it was Jack, telling her why he sounded so weird. Bad news of his own, maybe. Something, please God, other than that he’d discovered the truth about her. The truth that she was a liar.
“Did you forget about me?” Michael’s voice, sounding peeved.
“Oh God, Michael, I’m sorry. It was Jack, and I just—”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
He sounded alarmed, Delaney realized through the haze of her own preoccupation.
“You didn’t tell him Jim was dead yet?” he asked again. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“No, why? What’s going on?”
“Because Ruark’s dead,” he said. “Destiny’s Children just killed him today, so Sybill had to tell Drake the truth.”
Chapter 16
Ruark just died and Sybill had told Drake the truth.
Jack ran his hands through his hair, his elbows on the table, a short glass of whiskey in front of him.
His mother had called the moment he’d hung up with Delaney and in the ten minutes it had taken him to get off the phone with her she’d told him all about it. All about how his life was just like that damn soap opera.
Not that his mother knew he was, in fact, living it. No, she just thought he’d be amused by it.
The worst part of it was that he wasn’t even the good guy. No. He was the idiot, asshole Drake. The one who’d deserved to be lied to about his child. The one Ruark outshone in every way—responsibility, income, stability, supportiveness.
Then Ruark died and Sybill had to tell the asshole Drake the c
hild was his because she was convinced the child needed a father, even if he was a class-one jerk.
Not so Delaney, he thought, numb with shock. Delaney thought so little of Jack she’d decided a made-up husband would be better for Emily than the real thing. A made-up husband would be better than him.
He shook his head, feeling as if his eyes were suddenly open to the kind of person he was. Or rather the kind of person he was perceived to be.
But what had he done? What had he ever done to her to make her think so little of him? The worst thing he could think of was the thing that she, too, was guilty of—a one-night stand on the beach.
Ever since she’d gotten here, however, she’d held him at arm’s length. Every time she saw him she was as nervous as a cat and anxious to be rid of him. Why was that?
Because she had a secret. She wanted the child to herself.
Why? Because every piece of negative gossip she heard about him she believed. Because to her he was just Drake. He was the irresponsible, womanizing sperm donor who didn’t even want to be told about his child.
Was that the kind of man Delaney thought he was?
If she listened to the gossips, she would. And Delaney listened to the gossips.
But what kind of person would hide a child from its father? And how could he be in love with a woman who would do such a thing? Who would live next door, see him in town, look him in the eye nearly every day and lie. All to keep him from his child.
His child…he thought again. Emily was his child. The truth of it hadn’t sunk in. When it did, he would be terrified. Horrified. Hit-the-ground-running scared. Wouldn’t he? If he would, then why did he keep picturing the way Emily beamed at him whenever she saw him? And why did he keep remembering that deep feeling of satisfaction, that sensation of having done something wonderfully right the day he’d first made her smile?
He should be furious with Delaney, he thought. But he wasn’t, strangely enough. Upset, sure, but not angry.
She was afraid, that was why she’d done it. He could see it so clearly in her. She was always afraid, as far as he could see. It was one of the things he’d wanted to help her with from the day she got here. It was one of the things he thought he could help her with.
She needed him, he realized. Because without him she would always be running. From him. From herself. From anything that didn’t fit into her carefully constructed plan.
He sat up straight and pushed the glass of whiskey away. He hadn’t really wanted it anyway, never liked the taste, but he’d been so shaken he’d thought it would calm him.
Now he knew he had to think. Clearly. Soberly. Because the most important event of his life had just occurred. And he had to decide what to do about it.
The writing was on the wall. Delaney sat at her kitchen table, staring at the wall where the phone hung, thinking she might as well take a Magic Marker and write it right there on the wall. It’s the truth, stupid. She knew what she had to do. She had to tell Jack the truth.
But how? Just walk over to his house, sit down, and start talking?
She shivered and looked over at the bassinet where Emily still slept. No. She had to plan it. She had to make it as gentle, as palatable as she could. She would set the scene. Have him over for dinner. Quiet music. Emily dressed up and cute—
No. Emily at Aunt Linda’s. Delaney wasn’t going to parade her daughter out before The Man in a pretty frock like some floozy to be taken if she’s pretty enough and rejected if she’s not.
So…quiet music. A good meal. Some wine, just for relaxation. She would start with some conversation. They seemed to do that pretty well. Strike up a mood of camaraderie. Maybe confide some of her feelings about him—
No. No feelings. She didn’t want to turn her feelings into a bartering tool, or have them look like she was using them to convince him to accept Emily. Not that she knew what her feelings were, exactly. She just knew she had some. Unsettling, is what they were, and that wouldn’t be helpful anyway.
Besides, she wasn’t going to convince him to accept Emily. She was just going to tell him about her, and he could do what he damn well pleased. Walk away if he wanted to, the womanizing cad. Philandering coward. Sure, it’s all well and good to sow your wild oats, but when it came to harvest time…
She stopped herself. It was all too easy to take off on the familiar tirade, but when it came down to it—the truth, stupid—he wasn’t like that and she knew it. Some part of her brain—her intuition, maybe—was standing back, watching her believe all that stuff she’d heard about him to justify what she’d done, when all along it knew that he was trustworthy. She knew that she could trust his integrity.
She closed her eyes for a second and swallowed hard. What a fool she’d been, to have ended up in a spot like this. She’d been taken by surprise, that’s what the problem was. When he’d walked into her office that first day she hadn’t known what to think, what to do. And before she could change her mind the words were out of her mouth and could not be unsaid. Presto, she had a husband. What could she do but follow through? But then one thing led to another and before she knew it…here she was.
Delaney opened her eyes, pressed both palms to the tabletop and stood up. Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked toward the front door. The rain had stopped so without any further thought, without allowing even a momentary doubt, she marched across the driveway separating their houses, up the front walk, and grabbed the heavy brass knocker in her hand.
But she couldn’t let go of it. She stood there, knocker raised, staring at the polished wood of the door, and couldn’t move.
What was she doing? She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t invite him to dinner. For God’s sake, he knew. The moment he opened the door he would look at her and she would pass out from shame and mortification.
Suddenly the door opened and the knocker was yanked from her grasp. Delaney was jerked forward into Jack’s chest, and the knocker landed with a solid clank against the metal stop.
She gasped as she tripped up the threshold. He grunted as her hand hit his chest. He grabbed her arms and she righted herself, stepping back so fast she forgot about the step and almost fell over backwards. He grabbed her arms again.
She laughed briefly, hysterically.
“What are you doing?” he asked, dropping her hands as soon as she was steady.
She sobered instantly. “I didn’t expect you to open the door.”
“Well I saw you pass by the window, and when I didn’t hear the bell I decided to look and see where you went.”
Too late, she noticed the doorbell.
“I was…I was thinking.”
“Okay…” He looked at her. His expression was unreadable, which was a bad sign. Most of the time Jack’s mood was right there on his face. Smiling, frustrated, embarrassed, blushing, laughing, teasing…Would she never see that again? Once she told him, revealed herself to be dishonest, would she be looked at forever with this veiled, distrustful expression?
“I just came to invite you to dinner,” she said, spitting the words out quickly. There was no way she could recover any sort of grace at this point. “Tomorrow night. I hope you can come. It’s important. You know, to me. To you too, I think. That is I think you’ll think—”
“Okay,” he said, nodding.
Neither of them smiled.
“All right.” She nodded too. “Good. See you tomorrow.” She turned and started to go, then stopped and turned back around. “Seven-thirty. Okay?”
He watched her, looking large and strange in the doorway. Who was this man? she wondered. Who was this stranger to whom she had to entrust the most precious thing in her life?
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, and turned to leave again. She felt as if she were walking on someone else’s legs all the way across the lawn. She wanted to look back to see if he was watching, but she didn’t dare. The way things were going she’d trip on a hedge and fall flat on her face. Which might not be bad. Maybe
he’d feel sorry for her. If nothing else, she knew Jack was compassionate.
And trustworthy, she knew that too. He might be angry with her, but he would strive to do what was best for Emily, she was sure of it. For the first time since she’d moved to Harp Cove and realized Jack was there, she felt complete confidence in his honor. He wouldn’t try to take Emily away. He wasn’t going to turn out to be a psycho. He wasn’t the type to try to screw somebody because he was mad.
She moved into the kitchen and gazed down at her sleeping daughter for a minute. Then she walked up the stairs and stood in the doorway to Emily’s room, looking at Jack’s tools on the floor beneath the crib.
The fact was, he might be angry—he probably would be angry—but he would do the right thing.
And that, she thought with a shamed yet comforting conviction, was the realization that sealed the deal.
Jack Shepard was father material, she admitted, staring at the leg of the crib he’d been fixing. And she was a fool not to have seen it earlier.
The next morning Jack watched from an upstairs window as Delaney put Emily in the car seat, threw her briefcase in the passenger side, got in the driver’s seat, and pulled down the driveway. He saw her turn signal light about ten yards from the turn and smiled grimly. That was his Delaney, cautious to the end.
Once she’d turned and he’d waited about fifteen minutes, he made his way down the stairs and out the back door. He let himself in her back door and moved silently through the kitchen.
He didn’t linger this time, looking at the crumbs in her sink and the dishes on her table. He didn’t look at the mail or even glance at her bedroom door as he ascended the stairs. No, he went straight to the hallway wall and the pen-and-ink drawing of Emily he’d noticed that day he was in the house working. The one drawn of Emily as a newborn.
His pulse hammered as he neared it. He could see before he could even read it that the print was signed in a spidery hand in the lower left hand corner, just as he’d remembered. He stopped before the print and looked closely at the writing.