Whisper Me This(92)

The pain is physical, a deep ache that nearly doubles him over.

Not a heart attack, he reminds himself over and over again. Just panic. Just memory. It will pass.

But there’s a new intensity to the familiar pain. He’s already let Maisey under his skin. He’s tired of his rituals and rules, and holding the barrier is so hard. Years ago, he swore he would never risk becoming his father, would never risk exposing a woman to that sort of treatment.

He’ll hold to his vow. If he can help Maisey, he’ll do it. Protect her, support her, the way he protects and supports his mother and his sisters. But nothing more. No matter what his traitorous heart tells him. No matter that his body responds to thoughts of her, even now, with desire.

“I am the son of my father,” he whispers. “I swear on his grave that I will not forget it.”





Chapter Twenty-Eight

No hiding this time.

We have a table at the Emerald of Siam, right out front and center, where Marley can’t help but see us. Once again we show up plenty early to claim our table and order our food.

The waiting is purgatory for me, but everybody else seems contented.

Mia and Elle sit across from me, heads together, chattering. The two of them are dangerous, and I don’t want to know what they’re planning this time. I’m sandwiched into a bench seat between Dad and Tony, my heart rivaling the rapid tempo of the music playing through the speakers.

Dad is vague and confused tonight.

“Long way to come for Thai food,” he says, trying to navigate chopsticks with moderate success. “Why didn’t we eat in Spokane?”

“Marley,” I tell him. I like to say her name. It makes me feel sorrowful, but also real. Not my imagination. Not a thing I made up. “We’re here to listen to Marley sing.”

And to make it up to her for being left behind, if we can. But that I keep to myself.

Tony’s bulk beside me doesn’t help much. A little shiver of fear runs through my body. Not a shiver. A frisson. Such a wonderful little word. So underused.

A frisson of fear. And a big old bucket of nausea.

Normally the smell of lemongrass and curry makes me ravenous, but tonight it turns my stomach to acid. I sip at a glass of house wine, white, and wait, wait, wait, for what seems an eternity. By the time the band finally troops onto the stage, it’s all I can do to stay in my seat, fingers white-knuckled around the chair.

Marley doesn’t see us at first. She’s busy assessing the crowd as she launches into the first song. But her eyes, inevitably, find us. Her gaze lingers on the small blue bear sitting on a pink blanket. The taped-together photograph of our mother, a pink bundle cradled in each arm. Just for an instant, the hard shell cracks, and her face goes soft.

I hold my breath, realizing too late that springing this on her in the middle of a concert might seem like an emotional ambush. I will her to keep singing, not to fall apart here in front of an audience. So far, the sins she holds against me are my mother’s, but if I mess up her song, she’ll never forgive me for that.

I needn’t have worried. Her voice doesn’t falter. Her professional persona slides back into place, and she redirects her focus to other parts of the room. For the rest of her set, she avoids even a glance at our table.

Her sound guy, on the other hand, glares at me pretty much nonstop.

When the band takes a break, Marley comes over.

“Are you going to make a habit of this sort of thing, now? Groupies?” Her right hand, as if it has a life of its own, reaches toward the blue bear, stops, and falls back to her side.

“We need to talk.” I hear my mother’s tone coming out of my voice, and soften it. “Please.”

“I don’t understand what you want,” she says.

“You look like her,” Dad says. His eyes fill with tears. “Like Leah. I thought you would look like Maisey. I didn’t think—”

“None of you thought,” Marley snaps. “Or you wouldn’t be here. What is it going to take to convince you that I don’t want this?”

“You came to the funeral,” I protest. “If you don’t want anything to do with us, then why did you bother?”

Marley shifts her weight, one foot to the other. “Honestly, I wanted to know. What kind of woman abandons her child? That has always been the question.” Her eyes settle on me. “I used to worry about you, taken away by a mother who could forget her own baby. Can you imagine? Me, worrying about you. And all the time there you were with your awesome new dad and your beautiful life—”

“She told me you were a figment of my imagination! She sent me to counselors who told me I made you up. How did I know to look for you? To worry about you? You have to give me a chance.”

Her lips part. Her eyes soften. She strokes the bear’s ears with her fingertips. And then she shakes her head, more as if to ward off flies than to say no, but the meaning is the same.

“It’s too late. Not your fault. I see that. But I can’t do this now. You’re just going to have to accept that.”

“Marley—”

“Tell you what. You want to know this side of the family? I’ll introduce you to our father. And then you will leave me alone. Deal?”

“I don’t know if that’s wise,” Dad whispers.