Archer's Voice (A Sign of Love Novel)(47)

He took a bite and sat back, and his face took on that same dreamy expression that had been on his face after our first kiss. I grinned. Good?
He nodded his head, still chewing. You were right, you're a really good cook.
I smiled. Thank you. I used to cook at our deli. My dad and I came up with all of the recipes. We used to cook and bake together.
I stared off behind Archer picturing my dad flicking flour at my face and then pretending it was an accident. I smiled slightly–the memory bringing a warmth to my chest, not the tightness I had experienced over the last six months whenever my dad's memory came to mind.
You okay? Archer asked, looking at me concerned. My lips curved into a wider smile, and I grabbed Archer's hand, squeezing it lightly.
Yeah, I'm good.
Suddenly rain started falling gently outside the kitchen window and I looked over, furrowing my brow slightly. I looked back at Archer when I saw his hands moving in my peripheral vision.
It's not supposed to storm tonight, he said, obviously reading my mind.
I breathed out, and smiled, relaxing my shoulders.
Archer studied me, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.
I got up and went to his front door, calling to Phoebe, who was already on the porch. I brought her inside and she settled herself on the rug in the living room.
I returned to the table and Archer and I got back to our food, neither one of us saying anything for a couple of minutes as we both continued eating.
After we'd eaten, Archer helped me clear the dishes and clean up the kitchen. As I dried a plate he had just washed, I said, "Archer, something happened at the diner today that I wanted to ask you about."
He looked over at me, his hands in the sudsy water and nodded.
I set the dry plate in the cabinet and signed, A woman came into the diner today and… I paused, thinking about my wording. She didn't threaten me exactly–more like a warning, I guess. But she told me to stay away from you.
Archer was staring intently at my hands, and his eyes darted to my face, his brows furrowing. He cocked his head to the right, but he looked wary almost as if he knew what I was about to say.
Victoria Hale? I said and immediately, his jaw hardened and he turned his head, looking down into the sudsy water. He was still for several seconds before he brought the pan he had been scrubbing up out of the water and threw it into the other, empty side of the sink, causing a loud, sudden clattering sound and making me startle.
He brought his wet hands back and raked them through his hair, then stood stock still, that same tick in his jaw clenching and relaxing again and again.
I touched his arm gently, and he didn't look at me, although his body relaxed slightly.
I drew my hand back and paused for a second, taking in his tense body and strained expression, thinking that I'd never seen Archer Hale angry. I'd seen him wary, and shy, and uncertain, but never angry. I wasn't sure what to do.
He took a deep breath, but said nothing, looking over my shoulder, his mind suddenly somewhere far away.
Will you tell me about her, Archer?
His eyes darted back to me, clearing. He took another deep breath and nodded, yes.
We dried our hands and left the last of the dishes in the sink, moving into the main room. I sat down next to him on the couch and waited for him to speak.
After a second, he looked at me and said, When my uncle was dying, his head seemed to… clear a little sometimes.
He drifted off again for a second, gazing over my shoulder momentarily and then snapping back to the present. His eyes found mine again.
It was almost like that cancer ate up some of whatever it was that made him… different mentally. He had these moments of normalcy that I'd never witnessed in him before, or at least not for extended periods of time.
Sometimes during those times, he would confess things to me–about all kinds of stuff. Things that he had done in his life, how he had loved my mother… A brief flash of pain crossed his features before he went on.
One day, I came into his room and found him crying, and he pulled me over to him and kept telling me how sorry he was. When I asked him why, he told me that when I was in the hospital right after I was shot, he brought one hand up to his scar unconsciously, rubbing it gently and then brought his hand back down, the doctors told him that my voice box could possibly be repaired, but that there was a limited time frame in which to do it. He paused again, his jaw clenching a few more times, bitterness filling his expression.
But then he told me how he'd told Victoria about the scheduled surgery, and she started planting it in his head that it would be better if I couldn't speak. If I couldn't speak, I couldn't be questioned. She exploited his paranoia so that he cancelled the surgery and missed the opportunity for me to ever talk again.