Whisper Me This(67)

A man like his father. Not the man his sisters wanted—needed—him to be, but a violent man, capable of atrocity.

The gun in his hands. The recoil. The wet tearing sound of a bullet entering flesh.

God. He should not be here, should not have accepted Maisey’s trust. The last thing she needs in her life is a man like him.

But it’s too late to run. One thing he has always done throughout his adult life is keep his promises. And so he stays where he is, keeping watch, as the long slow minutes tick away. He’s still there, watchful and wide awake, when the morning light seeps in around the curtains.

Maisey stirs as the light touches her face. He wants to block it, to shelter her from what this day holds, but he sees the memory of grief move across her face as her eyes open.

“You’re still here,” she says, her voice husky with sleep.

“I promised,” he answers. Their eyes meet and hold, and the unbearable, beautiful intimacy of the night before is still right there between them.

Despite all the promises he made to his better self during the night, he’s about to cross the room and kiss her, when the sound of an opening door and light footsteps in the hallway freeze him in his tracks.

Elle wanders in, yawning, and flops down on the couch beside Maisey. Tony’s mind scrambles for words to answer the question that’s surely forming in her mind, but she doesn’t ask questions. “Hey, Tony,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world that he spent the night. “You want some cereal? Grandpa’s got Froot Loops.”

“I think Tony might want a real breakfast.”

“I can make eggs,” Elle says. “Mom burns everything.”

Elle’s presence has brought Tony back to his senses. He takes a breath and a simultaneous step toward the door. “Thanks for the offer, but I should go. I have things to do before the funeral. I’ll call Mia to come and get me.”

“The least I can do is drive you home,” Maisey protests. “Don’t bother Mia. She’s probably still sleeping.”

Which is true enough. Mia is not an early riser. Of course, any one of his sisters will come get him if he asks, but then there would be explanations and innuendos and conversations he doesn’t want to get into.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’ve got a big day.”

“I’m sure. Give me a minute to get ready.”

She yawns and stretches, then shuffles out of the room, loose-jointed with lingering sleep. Tony can’t help watching the way she moves, can’t stop imagining the feel of her drowsy body molding against his, of allowing himself to deliberately bury his hands in her tangled hair, pressing his lips against her neck . . .

“You could ask her out,” Elle says. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Tony opens his mouth to utter some sort of denial, but no words come out.

“I’m not stupid,” she goes on. “I see the way you look at each other.”

He clears his throat. “This is hardly a time to think about dating—”

“Why?”

“It’s your grandma’s funeral today, remember? I think your mother has enough to worry about. What is that look supposed to mean?”

The child sits cross-legged on the couch, resting her chin on both fists and eyeing him with an expression that is entirely too knowing. He decides not to wait for her answer. “I’ll be outside on the porch.”

“You’re coming to the funeral, right?” Elle calls after him. “And bringing Mia?”

“We’ll be there.”

He breathes a sigh of relief when the door bangs shut between them. His whole careful system of controls, checks, and measures is unraveling at an alarming pace, and Elle has just sped up the process.

What if? he asks himself. What if I did ask her out? Later. After the funeral.

You’re forgetting who you are, his memory answers. You’d better find a way to remember.





Leah’s Journal

I’d promised myself I would leave him, but as it turned out, the leaving wasn’t easy. I had two tiny unborn babies to consider. I was a high school dropout. My only skills were a smart mouth and a stubborn streak.

I missed a visit to my doctor, waiting for my bruises to heal. At the next visit, he put me on bed rest. Through the long, boring weeks from then until the babies were born, Boots pretty much left me alone. He said he was busy making money for us. If so, I never saw a penny of it. His mother would come over and help. She wasn’t much for cleaning, but at least she washed the dishes and did the laundry.

She didn’t talk much, but one day when I was lying on the couch, feeling sorry for myself, lonely and tired enough that the tears got away from me, she put her hand on my forehead for just an instant. It was a hard hand, callused and rough, but the gentleness eased me. Her words did not.

“Poor child. You’re good and in for it now, I suppose.”

I didn’t ask her what she meant. I think I didn’t want to know.





Chapter Twenty-One

I have never been to a funeral.

It’s not that there haven’t been deaths in my life; it’s just that for one reason or another I’ve never actually attended the service that marked them. Dad’s only sister, Aunt Del, succumbed to cancer when I was ten. One of my classmates died tragically just before high school graduation, the casualty of four-wheeling on rough terrain. Various acquaintances of Mom’s church family also “went to sleep in Jesus,” as she always said.