Because of a Girl (16 page)

“I'm not really part of that crowd. Sabra was more than me.” Which had stung a little, but now? She was mad because none of them cared at all about Sabra.

“I thought you were hanging around Dominic.”

Emily was so glad he couldn't see her cheeks heat. “Not really. I haven't gone out with him or anything like that. I heard he was with Amy Harris. I mean, at the vineyard.”

“I heard that, too.” He was quiet for a minute. “She has a good voice.”

Emily didn't say anything.

“One of our jazz concerts, we worked with choir.”

“Right. I remember.” He played the trombone. The jazz ensemble practiced
before
school, which meant you had to really want to be in it.

“Amy's a suck-up,” he said matter-of-factly. “And full of herself.”

“Yes!” Relaxing, Emily scooted back on her bed so her back was to the wall and she could stretch out her legs. “I stage-managed
The King and I
.”

“I forgot you did that.” Amusement sounded in his voice. “I'll bet she didn't want to be managed.”

“No, and Mrs. Jessup treated her like she was a Hollywood star who had blessed us with her presence. It was enough to make me gag.”
And I am being
such
a bitch
, she thought belatedly.

Yes, but he'd started it.

Clutching her phone, she could
feel
him on the other end. They hadn't really talked about Sabra, so that couldn't be why he'd called. Emily thought there was a good chance he did like her. That made all kinds of emotions swirl in her, one of which was relief. Because...he wouldn't expect her to do things she didn't really want to do, Emily realized. If Dominic had asked her, would she have gone to that party this weekend with him? Gotten drunk? Would she have hung back when everyone else ran through the vineyard but not dared say anything? Or would she have been such a coward, she'd have gone along with it? And she was pretty sure Dominic wouldn't be interested in a girlfriend who wouldn't have sex with him. Emily thought about it a lot, but unlike practically everyone she knew, she hadn't actually done it yet, and the idea had been kind of freaking her out.

Asher made her heart race, but she felt comfortable with him. So comfortable, she was tempted to tell him about the note. Only...she couldn't be sure what he'd do. So instead she took a deep breath and said, “I've been thinking about something. More like I'm wondering. And it sounds crazy, so I haven't told anyone.”

“What's that?”

So she just threw it out there, even though her stomach tightened. “Sometimes teachers, you know, get involved with students, even though they aren't supposed to. What if Sabra...?”

She had no idea how to interpret
this
silence.

* * *

S
QUINTING
AGAINST
THE
too-bright porch light that evening after dinner, Jack suggested, “A good hostess would walk me to my car.” He was only half kidding...which meant he was also half serious.

His stomach was pleasantly full with an amazing meal that had included homemade apple pie à la mode. He'd hoped for a good-night kiss, too, but felt exposed out here on the porch.

Arms wrapped around herself, Meg laughed. “You do know we—how is it soldiers put it? Have eyes on us?”

He glanced toward the brightly lit front window. He didn't see her daughter, but he had no doubt she was watching from somewhere.

“She must have a suspicion when you came out here with me and closed the door behind yourself.”

Meg scrunched up her nose. “Probably.” She frowned. “Did you notice what a strange mood she was in tonight?”

Jack cast his mind back. It wasn't Emily he'd been focused on. “She was quiet,” he agreed.

“Maybe because of us.” Meg hesitated. “I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Jack.”

Having overcome his own doubts, he didn't like hearing her say that. Okay, she had wounds, but didn't she understand that they had the possibility of something good here?

Seeing her shiver, Jack knew better than to argue. “You're freezing. You need to go in.” But he couldn't resist bending his head and brushing his lips over hers. Despite the rush of need that had his hands tightening on her arms, he kept the kiss soft, undemanding.

He sneaked in to nuzzle her, liking her scent and the warmth of her breath. His “good night” came out husky. Chaste though the kiss had been, he was aroused. With her, it took so little.

Her answering “good night” was a little tremulous, her eyes full of fears and hopes that tightened the knot that had taken up residence beneath his breastbone.

Like a gentleman, he waited until she had slipped back inside and he heard the dead bolt sliding home before he left the porch and strode across a lawn that felt crunchy with frost.

Less than anxious to analyze this reckless certainty that felt like a kick of adrenaline, he gave the engine only a minute to warm up before backing out for the short drive to his town house. Once home, Jack bumped up the thermostat and started his coffeemaker. Somewhere between Meg's front porch and here, he had made a decision. She was right. Talking to his dad would help him decide what to do about his mother, which risked impacting any relationship with Meg. While he had come to believe Meg had a solid core that would
never
allow her to abandon anyone she loved, he was honest enough to know the childhood he'd lost when his mother left had a lot to do with why Meg had him feeling so much.

He was way overdue to call his father anyway. They hadn't spoken since Jack phoned him on Christmas Day.

Bruce Moore lived outside Missoula, Montana, in the same house where he'd raised his son. As the crow flew, Missoula wasn't so far from eastern Washington, but the mountainous country between them made the drive too long for brief visits. Jack had gone home last summer for a couple of weeks, but he hadn't tried for the holidays. After Mom left, those had quit being festive anyway. He figured the officers who had kids should be able to take Christmas off.

His father answered on the fourth ring with a brusque, “Hello.” He didn't see any reason for caller ID and carried an old cell phone, usually off, only in case of a roadside emergency.

“Dad.” Jack sprawled in his recliner, facing the dark flat-screen television. “It's been a while.”

“Figured you were busy.”

“It would be nice if crime let up, but that isn't happening. What about you?”

“Not much building going on this time of year.”

Especially in Missoula, averaging close to forty inches of snowfall every winter and most days still below freezing through February. Like other people in the construction trade, his father had learned to plan ahead, knowing he wouldn't be earning much money during the coldest months of the year.

Making conversation with his father was hopeless
. So just jump right in.
“Dad, have you heard from Mom?”

“I'm the one who gave her your number,” his father said heavily.

In an abrupt movement, Jack shoved the footrest on the recliner down and sat up. “You couldn't have warned me she'd be calling?”

“She and I don't have a thing to say to each other. Didn't want to get between the two of you.”

“Damn.” Jack scrubbed his fingers through his hair.

“She just get around to calling?”

“No, she caught me by surprise a few weeks back.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Haven't you been curious?”

“Knew if there was anything to say, you'd get around to it.”

His father's usual laconic style irritated the piss out of him tonight.

“Dad, we never talked about what happened before she left. Were you arguing? You must have seen it coming.”

He wouldn't have been surprised if his father had refused to talk about it, but instead he gusted a sigh.

“Guess I didn't think she meant it. She had a real pretty voice, but it takes more than that to become the next Reba McEntire or Tammy Wynette. And, hell, she was in her thirties by then.” He was quiet long enough, Jack was deciding how to ask what he needed to know. Not that he was sure what that was.

But then Bruce said, “Truth is, we weren't getting along so good. She wanted to go out dancing, hear every band that came around, couldn't understand that I was tired after a hard day's work. Our life wasn't what she thought it would be.”

“So she walked.” After all this time, Jack's throat thickened.

A pause stretched into a silence that had his hand tightening on the phone.

And then his father said, “There's something I never told you.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

R
EGRET
IN
HIS
VOICE
, Jack's father sounded old and weary. “After she left...she called home. Half a dozen times. Wanted to talk to you, maybe have you come out to whatever city she was in for a couple weeks. I told her to forget it. You needed a mama, not some wannabe singer dragging you along between gigs in bars for a week here and there. Took a while, but she gave up, all right.”

Stunned into speechlessness, Jack tried to wrap his mind around a truth far removed from what he'd been led to believe. His mother had left his father but not Jack. She'd probably figured with her new life being transient, he would be better off staying in Missoula where his friends were, going to school there. But she hadn't dismissed him without a second thought. She had intended to maintain a relationship with him.

“Why didn't she take you to court?” He sounded hard, angry. Which he was. “Legally, she was entitled to visitation.”

“You think any judge would have let her take you on the road?” Dad shot back. “Her living with some man or other, probably a different one every time you saw her? A phone call now and again...maybe I should have let that happen, but I thought it was better to get it over with in one gulp, 'stead of those calls coming further and further apart, you hurting because she was losing interest.”

“You so sure she would have?”

“She didn't stay the course for us, did she?” his father said, anger boiling up.

“Divorce happens.” A burn was happening in his chest. “She might not have lost interest in me.”

“I did what I thought was best.” That summed up Bruce Moore, uncompromising to the end. A man who, in his way, had loved his son, who
had
stayed the course, but who should never have married the bubbly, social, creative woman Jack remembered. In the face of his father's stolidity and silence, she must have felt like a pansy rooted in dry, cracked earth.

Maybe she was flighty. Jack's anger hadn't died. She could have fought a lot harder to see him. Gotten herself a lawyer, even come to town and hammered on the door until Dad relented and let her have visitation. Kept calling until Jack answered the phone himself.

He had an unexpected thought: if he wanted, he could ask
her
why she hadn't done any of those things. Why she'd just let him go. It was even possible he might understand her choices.

At least he could hear her out.

“It wasn't best,” he heard himself say to his father. “I hurt anyway. More and longer than I let you see. Did it ever occur to you to ask
me
what I wanted?”

Silence was his answer, as it had been for most of Jack's life.

There was something different tonight after he ended the call, though, an ache he'd never experienced. Not many men liked to talk out how they felt, him included. There was a good reason he'd been such a jerk the couple of times Meg had pushed him to open up. His habit was to shove unwelcome emotions down deep where he didn't have to acknowledge them. So it took him a minute to discover that he wanted to tell someone else about what he'd learned. More surprisingly, how it made him feel.

Not
someone
. Meg.

Even thinking that told him how serious he was about her. Still, he tried to back away from the impulse. Yeah, he'd tell her all about it eventually, sure, when it rubbed a little less raw. But tonight?
Take two aspirin and get a good night's sleep
, he told himself. The all-purpose cure would fix him right up.

Jack frowned into space. He had asked Meg to expose herself, to tell him about the worst things that ever happened to her. He hadn't asked because of the job; he'd asked as a man who needed to understand a particular woman. How could he expect something from her that he wouldn't give in return?
Fair is fair.

And, yeah, talking to her might help him make sense of his confusion, lessen the useless anger balled up inside. It also meant baring himself in a way he'd never voluntarily done before.

He groaned out loud. All he needed was a dump of other emotions on top of what Meg had already stirred up. Why had he let her talk him into confronting his father?

Except he didn't like to think of himself as a coward. And knowing was better than not knowing, wasn't it? Which meant...he had to talk to his mother, too.

* * *

H
AVING
JUST
PULLED
a fleece top over her head, Meg took a last peek at herself in the mirror. Jack would be here any minute. If she had to redo her braid...

A few tendrils had escaped to curl around her face, but they were the annoying bits that had broken off at some point. They'd make their way free even if she plastered them with hard-hold gel. Besides, how many times had he dropped in unexpectedly? Her hair had probably been awful.

Hearing a car outside, she hurried to the front window. Jack's SUV was just pulling into the driveway. Feeling breathless, she let herself out the front door, locked it and pushed her keys into a pocket.

He had called half an hour ago and asked tersely if she wanted to go for a drive. “Out to the lake,” he said. “Maybe take a walk. I'd like some company.”

Of course, she couldn't resist.

By the time she grabbed a scarf and came down the porch steps, Jack had gotten out of his SUV, dressed more casually than usual in cargo pants, boots and a heavy sweater. He smiled at seeing her. “Ready for the arctic?”

“It's
cold
today.”

Low and husky, Jack's laugh felt a little like his hand had on the sensitive skin of her neck. Once they were both seat-belted in and his attention was on backing out into the street, then driving, she was able to study him in profile.

Her first thought was that the deepening of the lines on his forehead made him appear troubled. He'd sounded that way when he called, too. She ached to lay a hand on his thigh, to let him know that, whatever was bothering him, she was here. The impulse startled her; physical affection had come naturally with her own child and, in a more limited way, with other children, but not adults. Anyway, as aloof as he seemed, she had a bad feeling that he might see it as an intrusion.

And then, with a shock of alarm, she quit breathing. What if she was misinterpreting him entirely?
Ask. Make him tell you
now
.
“You're not deciding how to give me bad news, are you?”

“Huh?” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Oh. No. I've just...” He gave his head a slight shake and returned his attention to the road ahead.

Meg resumed breathing.

The town of Frenchman Lake wasn't actually on the lake, having grown up sheltered by gently rolling hills to the south. The several-mile drive was scenic, with pale winter wheat on one side of the road and, on the other, vineyards. Bare, sculptural vines were tied and pruned into lines that curved along the contours of hills. As the road descended, the lake lay ahead, a cold blue reflecting the sky.

Jack pulled into the county park. In the otherwise empty lot, he aimed the nose of his SUV toward the lake, set the emergency brake and turned off the engine. He didn't move for a minute, just gazed ahead.

“Do you want to get out?” he finally asked.

“I'd like a walk if you would.”

Jack nodded and reached into the backseat for a coat. She hopped out and found the sun, while not warm, still felt good on her face. Jack shrugged on a leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar and said, “Shall we?”

They walked, gravel crunching under their feet until they reached the paved trail that passed the picnic area and cinder-block restrooms to follow the shoreline.

“You're not working today?” Meg asked after a minute.

“I followed up with some people this morning. Haven't decided about the rest of the day.” He shrugged. “I'm not on the clock. I put in a lot more than forty hours a week, and nothing urgent has come up today.”

Sabra was urgent, but she understood what he meant.

Wishing she'd brought gloves, Meg gazed out over the ruffled waters of the lake. In summer it would be busy with powerboats, Jet Skis, ducks and swimmers. Today she saw it as it might have looked to the tribe of Native Americans who'd had a summer camp on the far shore, or to the first French trappers to descend from the forested north.

“I talked to my father last night.” Jack wasn't looking at her. “Then answered a call from my mother an hour ago.”

“Oh, Jack.” Driven by that surprising impulse again, she reached for his hand, which was warmer than hers. She'd meant only to give it a reassuring squeeze, but his fingers tightened. They continued walking, holding hands. She hadn't held hands with a man...ever. It felt comforting, and she thought maybe he needed the contact, too.

“I'm not usually big on talking things out.” He sounded gruff. “If you'd rather not—”

“I'm a good listener.”

“I followed your advice.” He sounded rueful. “I pushed him for answers.”

“And?”

He talked, but dispassionately, as if he was relating someone else's story. The tight grip on her hand gave away more than he'd have liked.

She was shocked to learn that his father had completely barred his mother from any contact with their son.

“Is that even legal?” Meg asked in outrage. “Didn't they have to do a parenting plan as part of the divorce?”

“I don't know,” Jack said. “I didn't think to ask. She—my mother—says he was the one to file for divorce. He mailed the paperwork to her—she signed and sent it back. Not a single face-to-face meeting.” He glanced at her. “What about you? I know you weren't married, but Emily's father must pay support, doesn't he? And that usually gives visitation rights.”

“Nice diversion. I want to know what your mother said.”

He stayed stubbornly silent as they walked on.

Two minutes later, she broke. “No. He's never paid a cent. He...bad-mouthed me, said I was known to be easy.” Her heart constricted. She wouldn't say it was a lie. She wouldn't. Jack could think anything he wanted. Keeping her voice level, her gaze on the path straight ahead, she continued. “He denied any possibility he could be the father. Why would
he
be interested in a slut like me? His parents and mine believed him. I didn't exactly have the resources to get a lawyer and insist on DNA testing.”

“No. God.” Jack drew her to a stop and turned her gently to face him. “You suppose the little jackass grew up enough to feel guilty, maybe wonder about his kid out there somewhere?”

Soaking in his tenderness, Meg closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his chest. His arms came around her. She was glad he hadn't zipped the bomber jacket. The nubby sweater he wore beneath had a more comforting texture. Above it, she was very aware of his strong throat and the faintest hint of stubble on his jaw.

She took a few breaths and straightened, smiling crookedly. “Thank you.”

Creases deepened between his brows. “For?”

“Not wondering whether Carson had reason to think the father could have been any guy in our high school.”

“Meg.” He framed her face with his big, still surprisingly warm hands. “
Easy
isn't a word I'd ever associate with you.”

A bubble of laughter rose, surprising her. “Have I been annoying you?”

His eyes darkened. “In a manner of speaking,” he said huskily.

She wanted him to kiss her. So much, she almost threw herself at him. Instead, she made herself breathe some more, then said, “Shall we keep walking?”

With a single blink, he shuttered the expression that had her heart pounding and released her. “Sure.”

She let him brood for a couple of minutes before she asked, “Will you tell me what your mother said?”

Jack shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “She thought I was better off with Dad. She knew if her career took off at all, she'd be on the road a lot.” He sounded wooden. “She never dreamed Dad would block her from seeing me, but she started to believe he was right, that she wouldn't be a good influence on me. She says she'd chafed at the life she had in Missoula—” He glanced at Meg. “That's where I grew up.”

She nodded, wishing they were still holding hands.

“And at her marriage. She'd wanted to escape for a long time, but she didn't want to leave me.” His Adam's apple moved. “He refused to let her try to find a band to play local taverns. No way
his
wife was going to be out every evening flaunting herself in front of men.”

“They sound like a terrible mismatch. Do you know how they met?”

His huff of air was probably meant to be a laugh. “She was playing a tavern—what else? He asked her out. In their wedding picture, she was a beauty. He was a good-looking man.”

If he'd passed on his looks to his son, he must have been, Meg couldn't help thinking.

He shrugged. “Guess neither of them was smart enough to look deeper.”

“People rarely do.”

His grunt was presumably agreement.

“Why did she wait so long to get in touch with you?” Meg asked.

“I...don't know.” Now those lines on his forehead, coupled with the tightness of his jaw, even the set of his shoulders, gave him a bleak air. “Probably figured what was done was done.”

Meg stopped, not liking the implication. “Is that what you think?”

He faced her, eyes desolate. “Maybe.”

“It's not too late, Jack.” She was a fine one to urge him to reconcile with his mother. But her situation was different. Her parents wouldn't think they'd done anything that required forgiveness, and if, in some alternate universe, they came asking for it, they'd go away empty-handed. “Your parents might both have thought they were doing the best thing for you. That's...that's different from them never having loved you at all.”