Anna Adams - Her Little Secret

For the first time in a long time, he felt a little hope.

He drove to the town’s new overpriced luxury market, parking next door at the Honesty Sentinel because everyone who wanted to see and be seen had already taken all the open spots at Posh Victuals.

The second he hit the aromatic air inside, his stomach muttered with guttural hunger. He flattened his hand against his belly, but in the Babel of dinnertime shopping, no one else noticed.

He waited in line at the Poshly Prepared Pasta counter. A high school girl, wearing a checkered napkin folded artfully into a cap, finally got through the three customers before him.

“What may I feed you, sir?”

As if she were wearing a toga and offering grapes. “What do you have that will make a four-year-old girl happy?”

“Huh?” She glanced around the counters as if seeking help. No one materialized.

“I have a friend who’s just arrived in town with her four-year-old daughter, and they haven’t eaten. I’d like to take them some dinner.”

Lowering her voice, she leaned toward him. “I’m supposed to talk you into buying the more expensive stuff, but take the spaghetti. Kids always like spaghetti. I have a little brother, and he can’t get enough of the stuff we make here.”

“Perfect. Pack it up.”

“Just for the girl? Would you like a whole dinner? Or a child’s spaghetti?”

“Dinner for three.”

“Okeydoke.”

“Do you have a meatless sauce?”

She nodded.

“I’d better take two orders of that.” Cassie hadn’t eaten meat for years before she’d left, and she might have persuaded her daughter to eat the same crazy way.

With deft hands, the girl packed a meal in takeout cartons. Pasta, a container of sauce, a larger one without meat, and garlic bread, so rich with spicy scents his stomach grumbled again. Louder.

The girl must have heard. Her mouth twitched, but she was too polite to mention it.

She added vegetable antipasto, a tossed salad and two containers of tiramisu. He stopped her in time to ask for crème brûlée for Cassie.

“Just warm everything up. If you boil the pasta for two minutes, it’ll be better than new.” She leaned in again. “I add olive oil to the water. Amazing.”

“Thanks.” He found her badge beneath a wavy ponytail. “Rita.”

“My pleasure. Here’s hoping your friends enjoy.”

His friend had probably changed her mind about letting him in—and changed the locks.

Back at Leo’s house, he parked in the driveway behind Cassie’s rental and carried their dinner to the front door, tapping the newly painted porch with his fingertips to make sure it was dry. He rang the bell and then waved the bags in front of the wood to spread the delicious aromas. That market might have a froufrou name, but their cooking smelled great.

Nothing happened on the other side of the Warne door. He backed up and looked around one of the porch stanchions, but the blinds remained shut tight. If the lights were on, not one sliver of illumination leaked through.

He rang the bell again. Would she really change her mind? Could she lock him out of her life again?

The door opened, and Cassie stared at him, accusation and embarrassment on her face.

“How long did it take you to decide?” he asked, fighting a smile.

She stared at his mouth, and resentment firmed her beautiful lips. “I’m letting you in, but it doesn’t mean anything.” It should have sounded churlish, but her sad eyes made him feel responsible.

“Whatever makes you feel all right, Cassie. Where’s—” he cursed himself for the three seconds it took to say her name “—Hope?”

“That’s why I don’t want you around. I don’t doubt you mean well and, obviously, I’m some sort of penance to you.” She lowered her voice. “But every time you look at my little girl, you’ll see that man.” She said it without a shudder, as if that didn’t happen to her. “Or you’ll wonder why I kept her.” She took both bags.

He caught the door in one hand, half expecting her to close it, and then he took back the heavier bag. “I’d never hurt you—or Hope.”

This time her daughter’s name stopped her for a second. “Not on purpose.” She nudged him with the other bag. Cassie, who’d never had a violent bone in her body, actually tried to push him outside. “But you can’t help—and your feelings hurt me more than anything he ever did.”

It was a kick in the gut. He swallowed—twice—before he was able to speak. “Don’t ever say that again.” The connection between his mouth and brain seemed to break. Finally, he managed to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Don’t compare me to him.”

He turned for the door, but she caught him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he believed her because her eyes shone with unshed tears and her mouth trembled. “It just came out. I didn’t mean—”

“Let it go. There are some things you and I can’t talk about.” Nor could he explain he’d been walking through life blind, not living since she’d left him. “I was surprised about Hope. A man doesn’t expect his former—” He glanced toward the kitchen. “I never thought about you having a baby and me not knowing, but none of this is her fault. I want her to feel comfortable around me, and you’d better want that, too, because someone has to look after her while you visit your father.”

Maybe Hope could hang out with one of the nurses for the few minutes it would take for him to—“I’m the closest thing to family he’s had for the past few days. You need me to remind him who you are.”

VAN’S SPEECH, half apology and a whole lot of assumption, hung in the air.

Cassie stared, her mouth half-open until she noticed she was catching flies and closed it. “Remind him?” The bag slipped in her arms. She managed to catch it. “You honestly think he won’t know me?”

Van eyed her right back as if he was worried she might also be losing her memory. “I told you that, Cassie.”

“I didn’t understand.” She turned with the bag, not certain where to go next. “How am I going to make sure no one tells him about—I don’t care if he hates me, but I don’t want him to hurt her.” Van’s reaction to Hope had proved she was right to shield her daughter from everyone in Honesty. “Plus, I don’t want him to get worse. Making him angry could easily make him sicker.”

“What are you talking about? You think he hates you?”

She lifted her head, an animal scenting a challenge. “I liked you better when you couldn’t hide anything you felt.” Including the fact that he’d blamed her, too. “He thought what happened was my fault.”

“He was scared. Still is, but he doesn’t hate you.”

Trust Van to protect her father. She went toe to toe with the only man she’d ever loved more than her dad. “I could never blame Hope for something like that. That’s how I know his love wasn’t enough, and he does blame me.”

Deep down, she realized she was still accusing Van, too. She couldn’t help it. His rejection—turning from her in their bed, stepping away from her as they’d gazed together out of their kitchen window—those moments lived under her skin, thorns too sharp to bear.

They’d argued until he had no more words, and hers only made him angry.

“Your father isn’t well.”

“He was fine five years ago.” A new rush of resentment shocked her. She had to get a grip. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Seeing you and being here brings it all back.”

“I didn’t like your answers to our problems then. I still don’t.” Answers. Nice, antiseptic way to describe ripping out her own heart and throwing it onto a barbed-wire fence.