No Perfect Hero(81)
“Oh, Ms. Wilma...” For once I don’t question my impulses.
I just go to her and wrap my arms around her and pull her in. She makes a startled, proud sound but then leans into me, her thin arms curling around me.
She’s strong, and she hugs me so fiercely, so tightly, clinging to me. I’m glad I trusted my instincts. She’s a proud, powerful woman, yes.
But even proud, powerful people need comfort now and then.
After a moment, though, she pulls back, smiling brightly despite her streaming eyes, then sniffs and wipes at her cheeks before gripping my shoulders. “Honestly, ever since you’ve come to Heart’s Edge, he’s been better. He’s always had a temper. It’s almost a relief to see him snapping off everywhere again instead of grim and brooding, bottling it up inside.”
“Try being on the other end of his tantrums and say that,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, he wouldn’t dare with me, darling,” she says, her smile turning wicked. “And I dare say you’ve found your own ways to keep him in check?”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know if I’m keeping Warren in check so much as we keep pushing and pulling on each other until the strings stretched between us are so taut, they’re ready to snap.
But there’s a look in Ms. Wilma’s eye that's too much when she pats my shoulder.
“I did wonder if I’d ever have great-grandchildren. I’m not that old. It’s not too late.”
I choke, spluttering, somehow managing to gag myself on nothing but air.
But I’m saved from a dozen awkward denials by the sound of a car door slamming outside. It must be Warren, thank God.
He was supposed to be joining us for dinner, but he promised to stop by Stewart’s shop to pick up my car first so I wouldn’t be begging for rides to work tonight. Apparently, the Mustang will probably last another week with the short-term fix, but Stewart promised he’ll do whatever he can to get the part in by then.
I called my sister to let her know, but she didn’t answer.
Later, I got a terse text that she’d PayPal me the cost, but when I told her it was on the house thanks to small town hospitality, she didn’t answer.
Ugh.
I guess Hawaii’s not going so well.
It’s that kind of cold splash though – the slow motion demolition of a real, loving marriage that’s so closely connected to me – that pushes Ms. Wilma’s starry-eyed daydreams of grandchildren and not-so-subtle hints from my head.
But I’m still breathless and nervous when the front door slams open and I hear Warren come thudding in. He’s normally not this noisy.
He moves like the wild animal he is, this prowling beast of pure raw power so utterly in control of his body that he can move his massive bulk without making a single sound. But today he looks tired as he trails past the living room door out in the hallway, just a glimpse loping past as he calls “Grandma? Haley?” before stopping and backtracking to lean on the living room door.
The oddest transformation passes over his face as he sees us standing in front of the mantel, Jenna’s portraits lined up behind us, Ms. Wilma’s face still damp from crying.
Underneath that swarthy tan, he goes pale, then red, before somehow going blank.
I hadn’t realized how much he’d relaxed, the warmth in his eyes erasing the constant hostile tension that was always the norm at first – until suddenly that tension returns. It radiates out of him like sharp, jabbing spikes, ready to launch at me and Ms. Wilma at a second’s notice. His jaw tightens, clenching, working back and forth, muscles slowly ticking underneath his beard.
“Your car’s ready,” he snaps off, his voice oddly toneless, before a quick flick of his wrist sends my keys sailing toward me.
Instinctively, I lurch forward to catch them, grasping them in both hands and clapping them together fast enough to make my palms sting as the edges of the keys cut into my skin.
“Warren?” I ask, but he’s already turned away, broad shoulders rolling like moving mountains, an earthquake of silent anger.
Ms. Wilma clucks her tongue. “Oh, don’t be that way, dear. I thought you were all going to stay for dinner?”
“Not hungry,” he flings back over his shoulder, lifting a dismissive hand. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to fucking talk about without me anyway.”
“Swear jar,” a tiny voice pipes up from the hallway.
But Warren’s already sweeping out, and I hear the crash of the front door before his footsteps thud on the porch so violently it’s like I can feel them kicking my heart.
Tara peeks around the door, her eyes wide, her face drawn, her lip sucked in.
“Why’s Mr. Warren so mad?” she whispers, a little crack in her voice, and Ms. Wilma sighs.
“He’s not angry at you, darling dear,” she says. “He’s just hurting, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.” She turns her gaze on me. “I’m so sorry, Haley. I don’t mean for you to get caught up in our little family mess.”
“It’s fine,” I promise, even if I don’t know if I feel fine at all when I don’t know what I’ll find when I get back to the duplex. But I offer a brave smile and rest my hand lightly on her arm. “You’re just trying to make me feel at home. And I can always take him a plate.”