Ann Christopher - Redemption's Kiss

I couldn’t keep our family together.

Oh, yes, she wanted to hurl all that ugliness right in his face, but something stopped her. The touch of God on her shoulder, maybe, or a moment’s grace. It could have been the sudden intrusion of Allegra’s smile and Jillian’s unwavering determination to make things work, as much as she possibly could, with her child’s father.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it.

So she swallowed the nastiness, which felt bitter going down and settled in her belly like a lead cannonball, and said, simply, “Thank you.”

Beau turned those clear hazel eyes on her. “You’re welcome.”

A second was about all she could stand and then she had to look away. Beau waited, saying nothing and kicking her anxiety level even higher.

Why was he here? When would he leave? Desperate for something to do that wouldn’t reveal the relentless shake of her hands, she went to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, which Blanche had put to soak in a bowl of buttermilk.

Chicken…chicken…what’d she do with it now? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She’d have better luck trying to fillet a bowl of yak brains.

Think, Jill.

She had the pan. She had the chicken. Oh—flour. She needed flour. And then she needed to get a grip. “If that’s all, Beau, I need to—”

On her way to the far cabinet to get a few more ingredients, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and stopped cold. Underneath the smooth golden tones of his skin, he looked pale and clammy, with a distinct green tinge.

Well, so what?

She tried not to care, but then he gritted his teeth in a discreet cringe and there was no ignoring that.

The man was in pain. Enormous pain. Terrible pain.

“Beau,” she said sharply. God, was that her voice with all that anguish in it? “Sit down. You’re in pain—”

“I’m fine.”

Stubborn idiot. There were times when she was positive mule’s blood ran through his veins.

“—and you probably need your meds.”

Letting his eyes drift closed, as though he could take a quick nap standing up and then commence running a marathon—no problem—he swayed on his feet. “I don’t take any meds.”

He didn’t take—

What?

Screw the chicken. Screw lunch. Aghast, she stalked back to stare him in the eye when she called him what he was—a maniac. She was so furious she really thought she could spit out a nail or two if she put her mind to it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sweeping her arms wide to encompass every crazy thing he’d done this morning and those he’d been working on for years, she screeched and didn’t care how many paying guests heard. “Trying to win the Martyr of the Year award?”

Those eyes flew open, blazing green now with the fervor of a zealot. “I’m no saint.”

She snorted. “I think we’re all clear on that, thanks. Take your meds, Beau—”

“No.”

“Why not?” Jillian tried to get a grip on her overactive protective gene, but it was impossible when he was so haggard and yet so proud. She could do a lot of things; he was right about that. She could change the oil in her car, install storm windows and do a darn fine job as a single parent. The one thing she could not do and would never be able to do, not if she lived for another thousand years, was ignore his pain. “For God’s sake, why not?”

“Because it reminds me!”

“Reminds you of what?”

He faltered, his expression filling with so much self-loathing and shame that she was surprised he didn’t grab the nearest chef’s knife and jab himself under the fingernails in punishment.

Opening his mouth, he hesitated again, and when he finally spoke it was with the helpless sincerity and vulnerability of someone unearthing a piece of his soul and exposing it to bright sunlight for the first time ever.

“All the work I have to do on myself.”

Jillian stared at him.

Well, what the hell was she supposed to say to that? That he didn’t have work to do? Or maybe she should emphasize the obvious—that he had so much work to do he really needed to look into overtime and weekend options.

If she was smart, she’d just wish him good luck and tell him to get started on it down the street at his own house and well away from her. Why did he have to wallow in his determined martyrdom right here in her house?

Only, he didn’t look like he was wallowing or seeking pity. He looked like a man stating a simple fact without realizing that the simple fact tore her to shreds.

He had work to do on himself. Fine, Beau. Fine.

“Do all the work you want,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.”

A shadow crossed his face, maybe because he knew she was lying.

“But I don’t intend to watch you kill yourself.” She waved a hand to the heavy oak bench against the wall under the far window. “You can sit down, or you can leave. I’d prefer that you leave, but it’s your choice.”

He didn’t miss a beat, the bastard. “Sit with me, Jill.”

She resisted for a second, hating him.

He waited.

The shallow harshness of his breath finally did her in. They’d sit. He’d gather a little strength. Then he’d leave. Brilliant. She had a plan.

“You have one minute.”

Furious, she marched the few steps to the bench and sat. He followed with painstaking care, planting a foot and then the cane, a foot and then the cane.

A thousand deaths claimed her in those few seconds while she glared off in the other direction and tracked his progress with her heart in her throat, ready to spring up and catch him if he wobbled or fell.

He didn’t, thank God.

Arriving at last, he sat with a poorly stifled groan and stretched out that bad leg, rubbing his thigh. Seinfeld, sensing his discomfort in the unerring way pets do, ambled over and watched, making sure he wasn’t needed. When Beau was settled at last, he rested his chin on Beau’s lap and looked up at him with concern in his dark brown eyes, while Jillian worked hard to hate both man and dog.

“The Celtics called,” Beau said. “They want me to play forward for them. I told them I’d think about it.”

This was not funny. She would not laugh at his jokes, nor would she admire his strength, determination and humility. He would not affect her; she wouldn’t let him.

“Fifty seconds,” she said, not looking at him. “Tick tock.”

“Can I see Allegra today?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause during which he apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I get more time with her every week?”

No. Hell, no. A billion times no. If only she were petty enough to keep a girl from her devoted father. Life would be so much easier that way.

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to me?” What?

Jillian whipped her head around, prepared to blast him to kingdom come, but his wry half smile stopped her and dried the words right out of her mouth.

“Just thought I’d ask. While you’re being so agreeable. It was worth a shot.”

Okay. Game over. She’d tried to be a mature adult, but she had another seventy or eighty years of growing up to do before she’d be ready to deal with his teasing. Time for him to go. Lunging to her feet, she took a step toward the door.

“I think we’re done here—”

To her utter astonishment and horror, he took her hand and, before she could protest or snatch it away, laced their fingers. Too bad her body didn’t know that she’d written him off forever and that it should not, therefore, physically respond to him ever again.

Heat flashed through her, a potent and unnecessary warning that although some things had changed, other things could never change. The scorching touch of his skin still undid her and their hands still fit together like the pieces of Allegra’s giant alphabet puzzle upstairs. Whether she wanted to fit with him or not didn’t matter. She just did.