Come Back to Me Page 9

  Her mom’s shoulders drooped, and she bent her head, massaging her brow. “This is different, honey. Your dad did his best.”

  “He did? Really, Mom?” Jamie sprung from the stool and paced behind the counter bar. “He was there physically, but he resented me. He was never present emotionally. I wasn’t on the agenda.”

  “What are you talking about, honey? Your daddy loved you.”

  Jamie shrugged, her stare hardening. “He never told me so. I know what happened, Mom. I can do the math. He was a longtime bachelor when you got together. He didn’t want a baby. He probably didn’t even want to be married, and then you got pregnant—”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice came out angry, and her eyes shot daggers. Despite her age and small stature, Jamie’s mom wouldn’t be cowed by Jamie’s insinuations.

  Megan’s stomach knotted, and her shoulders tensed. Time to vamoose. Their highly personal conversation had her backing out of the room. Megan’s family had enough of its own dysfunction. She didn’t need any more, thank you very much.

  Being as unobtrusive as possible, Megan grabbed her things from the couch, murmured an excuse, and headed for the door.

  Purse on her shoulder, Megan had one foot out the door as Megan’s mom set her daughter straight.

  “Your dad was depressed,” she choked out. “He did the best he could. I promise.”

  Megan clicked the door shut, aborting Jamie’s response. Depression, grief . . . they could eat a family alive from the inside out, devouring life and hope. Megan could attest to that.

  She hoped Jamie and her mom could work things out for all their sakes. How long would it be before Alan gave up and started looking somewhere else? Or someone else went looking for him?

  15

  One Sweet World

  March

  The glimmer of morning sunlight peeking through the sheer curtains disappeared as Alan attempted to straighten his necktie for the third time. With a growl of frustration, he stomped to the light switch and flicked it on, then undid the tie again.

  The mirror above the child-sized dresser didn’t help. He had to bend his knees in order to see what he was doing. The room—his bedroom—had been transformed into a child’s room, courtesy of a hand-me-down bedroom suite from Rebecca’s sister, Abby, and her husband Joel. A few gouges and a half dozen dirty streaks marked the white wood that Chris intended to sand and repaint. The upside was Alan had a real bed to sleep in the last few weeks. It turned out to be less comfortable than the air mattress he’d been using, but at least it was off the floor.

  Alan lifted the collar of his crisp, white shirt and crossed the wider end of the tie over the narrower one. As he threaded one end through the loop he’d created, Chris and Rebecca’s voices traveled through the wall.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Chris asked for the umpteenth time.

  For cripe’s sake, man, she’s sure.

  “Because I’ll just tell them I can’t go. They can send Tom. His baby’s not due for another four months.”

  Rebecca’s voice, always softer and milder, sounded weary. “It’s fine. I’m not due for almost two weeks. You’re only going to be a couple hours away, and Alan’s here. First babies are known for being late anyway.”

  The woman didn’t seem to do anything that could trigger labor. As per the midwife’s orders, she’d been spending most of her time lying on her left side or sitting with her feet propped up, chugging water like a camel that’d just reached an oasis after weeks of wandering the desert. Alan didn’t pay close attention, but it had something to do with her blood pressure going up.

  This time the tie knotted perfectly, and he pulled on his seldom-worn gray suit coat, typically reserved for weddings and funerals. He’d considered canceling this job interview since the one he’d gone on last week had turned out so well. The guy had all but offered him the job on the spot. Just a few cursory calls to his references and Alan would be an account executive in outside business-to-business sales of digital payment solutions.

  He lifted his chin, examining whether his knotted tie was centered and even. His thoughts drifted to when he’d gotten his last job, how Jamie had squealed with excitement and showered him with kisses and congratulations. Yeah, he was past ready for a replay of that pride shining in her eyes.

  Today’s interview was for an advertising sales position for a national media company. Alan preferred selling tangible assets with proven value rather than advertising, the first thing business owners cut when times were tough.

  “Hey, you got a minute?” Chris poked his head in the door. Dressed in casual khaki pants and a Polo with the brewery logo over his left breast, he should’ve looked cool and confident. Instead, dark circles hung below his eyes and his hair stood on end in places, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Rebecca complained she couldn’t sleep well due to the baby’s nocturnal activity. Must’ve been keeping Chris up too.

  Alan glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ve got five, and then I’ve got to get to this interview. Shoot.”

  “I’m heading out. I’ll be in Altoona most of the day. They wanted me there two days, but I’m going to see if these guys can stay late tonight and do it in one.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, tapping his fingertips together. “And then I can come back late tonight or worst case, first thing in the morning, by breakfast.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” Standing straight now and staring at his reflection—from the chest down, due to the kiddie-sized mirror—Alan adjusted his cuffs. “She’s fine. I’ll be around.”

  Chris nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m usually not so anxious. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Alan chuckled. “Uh, you’re gonna be a dad soon. It’s okay to be a little nervous. And excited. And scared.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I already gave it all to God, and that’s usually enough.” He stared at Alan as if that statement could possibly make sense to someone whose experience with God was next to nil. “Still can’t seem to find any peace though. Can’t say why.” Chris backed out of the doorway.

  Alan followed, thinking of the best route to take to get to the interview. Morning rush hour had ended, he could—

  “Hey, good luck.”

  His gaze bounced to Chris, and he followed him into the living area. “Yeah, thanks. I think the one I interviewed for last week is in the bag. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go on this one though.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to have another option,” Chris said as he grabbed his overnight bag and set it alongside the door.

  Rebecca waddled in from the kitchen and plopped onto the couch, water bottle in hand. “Knock ’em dead, Alan.” A prayer book and a novel slid toward her as the cushion compressed under her weight.

  He grinned. Yep. Another quiet day in the maternity ward. “Thanks. I’ll catch you guys later.”

  As he opened the door, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, shining so brilliantly that Alan had to squint. He noticed as he descended the steps that the daffodils had emerged. Everything would be greening up. He’d have a new job. More income. And his mother-in-law would be going home.

  And then he’d do whatever it took to make amends with Jamie. Nothing would stop him from getting back together with his wife.

  ***

  Megan inched her MINI Cooper along the paved driveway beneath towering evergreens on either side. Their long, droopy limbs and soft, dark needles reminded her of a twisted cross between Tolkein’s Ents and Sesame Street’s Snuffleupagus as they bobbed in the breeze. The porch of Tim’s century-old, two-story home came into view, a pair of painted white rockers resting beneath a couple of empty hanging baskets.

  She parked the car and leaned on the steering wheel, gaping up at the peeling cornflower blue paint on the gingerbread spanning the second-story eaves. Good luck painting that.

  It all seemed surreal—Tim, a homeowner, living out here, going to church on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, hanging out with
the Happy Hollister, as she’d taken to calling Tim’s girlfriend. He’d even taken in a stray cat, of all things. A white, shaggy, cockeyed thing with one blue eye and one green eye. Lady Whiskers, he called it.

  Her beer-pounding, dog-loving, sleep-till-noon big brother had become a teetotaling, church-going, cat person. All under the Hollister’s watch. Megan hoped the Hollister had wriggled into her big girl panties this morning, because meet-the-kid-sister night was on.

  A storm door trimmed in white swung open as she climbed the two steps of the stoop.

  “Hey. Right on time. C’mon in.” Tim, his feet bare beneath his gray track pants, ushered her inside with the wave of an arm. Lady Whiskers descended the stairs then rubbed her chin against the base of the newel post. She sat, staring at Megan as if she were the remnants of last week’s stale kibble, and twitched her tail.

  “How’s my little lady?” Tim cooed at the feline, scratching under her chin.

  Megan rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen, where it smelled like red sauce and oregano. “I’m fine too. Thanks for asking.” And she was supposed to endure this evening sans alcohol? If she shared Tim’s faith, she might ask God to help her. As it was, she’d work on making this the shortest sibling meet-and-greet humanly possible.

  As she turned the corner into a blue-and-white-checkered galley-style kitchen, a plump blonde with dancing blue eyes and a ridiculously huge smile squeezed from the booth in the breakfast nook. The Hollister.

  She stretched a hand toward Megan, her smile growing impossibly wider. “I’m Holly. You must be Megan. I’m so happy to finally meet you.” Megan detected the slightest drawl in the way she smothered the vowels in “you,” rendering it closer to a “y’all.”

  “You too.” Megan accepted the proffered hand, one lacking both nail polish and jewelry, and gave her a once-over. While not especially pretty or fashionable, she might be cute if she dropped twenty pounds and adopted a hairstyle that wasn’t straight out of the 1980s—big bangs and a longish bob devoid of any layers. What had drawn Tim to her? She certainly wasn’t part of the big-breasted, bubble-headed cohort of party girls from which he usually chose his girlfriends.

  Stifling her lingering questions and pasting on a smile, Megan held the Hollister’s hand firmly in hers and shook. “We finally meet.” How was that for avoiding anything remotely complimentary?

  “Tim’s told me so much about you. I’ve been nagging him for months to get together with you.” She elbowed Tim, who had come around to her side.

  He squeezed her against him, no small feat considering her girth—

  Megan’s conscience pricked as Tim kissed the Hollister’s forehead, his affection for her obvious. Her thoughts were more catty than those of Lady Whiskers, who proceeded to rub her chin against the Hollister’s shin as she wound between the couple’s legs, her crooked, nubby tail sweeping behind her.

  Megan resolved to stifle her cruel impulses. For Tim’s sake, she’d give the Hollister a fair shake and resist the urge to shake the stuffing out of the girl.

  Tim moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and scanned the contents. “What can I get you, Megan?”

  “I guess a glass of chardonnay is out of the question?” She twisted her ring and glanced up at him without lifting her face. She couldn’t help but crack a grin.

  He met her amusement with disgust, slamming the refrigerator door so hard that a vinyl lunchbox perched on top fell to the faux tile floor.

  Megan raised her hands in mock surrender. “Touchy, touchy. Iced tea or soda’s fine. Whatever you’ve got.”

  Tim seared her with an angry look, but the Hollister brushed past him and pulled down a tall glass from the cupboard. “Ooh. I bought loose tea this afternoon and brewed it. I was hoping you’d like it. It’s a fruit medley with apples, strawberries, blueberries, and pears.” She flashed Megan a smile.

  “Sounds fabulous!” Megan faked a return smile and then caught Tim’s disapproving gaze. The second the Hollister’s back turned, Megan stuck out her tongue.

  Tim’s glare lasted about two seconds before he broke into a smile, shaking his head and stepping out of the way.

  The insipid dinner conversation detracted from the meal, which actually tasted quite good. Chicken parmesan and green beans with a homemade shoo fly pie for dessert. Apparently, the Hollister had some kitchen skills. She also appeared to wield some sort of magic since she had Tim helping in the kitchen as well.

  After the table had been cleared and wiped clean, Tim motioned for the Hollister to sit beside him. He pushed out a third chair. “Megan, come sit with us.”

  From her vantage under the archway between the dining and living rooms, Megan glanced at the wall clock. Almost nine. She’d hoped to be making an escape by now. She’d endured almost two hours of the new-and-improved (bland and boring) Tim and played nice with the Hollister, whom she blamed for Tim’s turn from holy terror to holy roller. If she left now, plenty of time remained for her to . . . whatever. Check out new Snapchat filters, clean out her makeup drawer, tweeze her eyebrows. Anything but more insufferable, uncomfortable conversation.

  Tim’s expectant eyes and stupid grin made it hard to bail just yet. The Hollister’s face had that overeager puppy look too.

  “Sure. I’ve got some stuff to do at home though. Can’t stay long.”

  Tim clasped the Hollister’s hand on the table, grinning. “This’ll only take a few minutes.” He didn’t spare a glance for Megan.

  “We wanted to get together sooner.” The Hollister’s eyes gleamed, and her cheeks flushed.

  What was this?

  Megan’s gaze darted between the two of them, bubbly, giddy. Oh, no. She homed in on their hands. Tim’s large hand engulfed the Hollister’s smaller one, so she couldn’t see if a ring hid beneath, but surely, she wouldn’t have missed something so obvious. Besides, they’d only known each, what, six months?

  “We told Mom this morning.” Tim met Megan’s gaze then glanced at the Hollister, whose smile stretched so wide even her molars were visible. “I’ve asked Holly to marry me—”

  “And I said yes!” The Hollister’s exclamation ended on a squeal.

  The chicken parmesan soured in the pit of her stomach. Megan knew they expected congratulations. She knew her brother wanted her to share in his happiness. She knew these things, and yet she couldn’t muster an ounce of joy. None. She was given a moment’s reprieve by the kiss that now ensued.

  Tim’s hands framed the Hollister’s face, partially buried in her hair. She gripped his arms, tugging him to her. Megan averted her eyes.

  By the time they’d ended their lip-lock, Megan had summoned the expected expressions and words. She clapped her hands together and bounced in her seat. “Oh, that’s fantastic! You guys . . .” She wagged a finger at them. “You really surprised me. I don’t even see a ring.”

  “Oh.” The Hollister glanced at her bare hand. “We’re going to shop for one together.” She gazed at Tim, animated pink hearts practically shooting from her eyes.

  Tim blushed. He blushed? Tim didn’t blush. “I was gonna wait until I had the ring, but I kinda jumped the gun. Couldn’t wait to make her mine.” He squeezed her against his side.

  Megan forced another smile. What was the hurry? Pretty doubtful that the Hollister had other suitors lined up. Even less likely that she was pregnant. If she were such a Bible thumper, surely they weren’t—oh. Maybe that was Tim’s hurry? Either which way, she’d be having a long talk with Tim. But not now. She wasn’t so heartless that she’d ruin their big announcement. Not to mention she wanted to talk to Tim in private, without the intrusion of the soon-to-be little missus.

  If Megan stayed any longer, the evening would devolve into a discussion of bridesmaids’ gowns, wedding colors, and honeymoon destinations. How could she extract herself from this little lovefest without seeming rude?

  Megan coughed, moved her hand to her throat, and coughed again.

  The lovebirds stared. Didn’t they under
stand the international sign for choking? What now?

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Perfect timing. Thank you, whoever is interrupting me with a stupid text message.

  Megan smiled as the Hollister nudged a glass of water her way. “Thanks.” As she lifted the glass to her mouth, she slipped the phone out and held it up. “Sorry. This could be important.” And it could be a notice that I’ve used fifty percent of my allotted cell minutes this month, but you’ll never know.

  With a swipe to the phone, Megan caught the sender’s name.

  Alan?

  She read and re-read his message, not sure what to make of it. Thirsty? Crap day and I can’t go back to Chris’s yet.

  16

  Save Me

  Megan gripped the steering wheel as she swung into the shopping plaza parking lot, the car’s headlights illuminating the small, bare trees lining the base of a large retaining wall. The big- box electronics store’s brilliant yellow and blue sign sat at a jaunty angle above the large sliding glass doors. She circled once, searching for a spot from which she could see Alan exit.

  She pulled in between a battered red KIA and a black Cadillac Escalade, watching as a couple of teenage boys exited and loped toward their vehicle, each with a bag in hand.

  Within seconds of the engine clicking off, cold air seeped into the car, sending a chill up her spine and a sense of unease through her middle. For the hundredth time since she’d left Tim’s, she questioned her judgment in agreeing to meet Alan for a few drinks.

  She’d been so grateful for his interruption at Tim’s that she’d have agreed to muck out stalls at one of the half-dozen Amish farms she’d passed. Beyond that, she liked Alan well enough, she’d grown weary of Jamie’s failure to reconcile with him, and, boy, after facing the prospect of the Hollister as her sister-in-law, she could sure use a drink or two. Or five.

  The fact that Alan had asked her to meet him here, however, set her on edge. He wanted her to drive. What did he have planned for the night? He could do as he pleased, but if he intended to get sloppy drunk and have her see him home—well, he’d better think again. After the attitude he’d copped in November when he’d escorted her from the bar and practically forced her to take a ride with him instead of what’s-his-name, she wouldn’t be delivering him to wherever he called home these days. Had he mentioned Chris’s place? No way was she dragging his sorry behind past the self-righteous stare of his super-pregnant sister-in-law.