Bittersweet by Shirlee McCoy (11)

The day passed quickly.

Very quickly.

Dozens of customers. Dozens of orders. Plenty of things to distract Willow from her memories. She had moments when she almost forgot the fear, long minutes where she barely felt the shivery awareness of the hall and its dark shadows.

“Looks like that was it,” Chase said, closing the register and eyeing the clock. “Last customer came in just under the wire. You want me to turn the sign?”

“Sure.” She grabbed a few empty trays from the display case. “And you don’t have to stay and help me shut things down. I know you have a lot of schoolwork.”

“Meh,” he shrugged, his shoulders scrawny beneath a white button-down shirt. Like Byron, he’d worn that and slacks to work. His were a little more wrinkled than Granddad’s, but she thought that it was sweet that he tried.

“What’s that mean?”

“I’ve just been thinking that I might need to work a little more. Lark is growing up, and she’s smart. She deserves to go to college one day.”

“Your mother had life insurance, right?”

“No. We were barely making it, and she didn’t have extra to spend on something like that,” he said defensively.

“I’m not judging, Chase. Just asking.”

“She didn’t,” he said in a softer tone.

“So you’re paying for college with what you earn here?”

“I took out a loan for my tuition. I’m saving as much of what I earn as I can, so Lark has the opportunities she deserves.”

“She doesn’t expect you to do that. You know that, right?”

“I know that it’s what my mother would have done. I’m not going to do any less.”

“I don’t think your mother would want you to curtail your own education for your sister.”

He shrugged again, reaching past her to grab a few empty trays from the display case.

“Chase,” she said when he started to walk away.

“What?” He didn’t turn to look at her, and she knew she’d stepped on his toes, questioned the plans that he’d made, made him feel like a young, foolish kid instead of the young man he was trying to be.

“I think what you want to do for Lark is one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard of, but you’re family. I’m going to treat you like family. So let me make this very clear. You’re going to keep going to school full-time. You’ll work here when your schedule permits, and you’ll get paid accordingly.”

“You don’t have any right—”

“No. I don’t. But I can tell you this—once you get your degree, you can get a job that pays way more than what you’re making here. With that, you’ll really be able to help your sister.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.” He finally met her eyes and offered a sheepish smile.

“Well, maybe it’s time you did. If you drop out of college, you’re going to limit your earning potential, and that will limit what you can do for Lark.”

“You know what?” he asked.

“What?”

“I guess maybe I should go home and get some studying done.”

“Good plan,” she said, and he grinned.

“I’ll be in tomorrow at one. See you then.” He walked into the kitchen. She heard the trays dropping into the sink, the back door opening and then closing, and then she heard the silence. She was alone. The store closed, darkness pressing in against the windows. The nightmare just a thought away.

Eric is dead.

Jax’s words, voicing a fact she’d already known.

If only knowing it could take away her knee-jerk fear of the hall, she’d be just fine.

“You are just fine,” she reminded herself, jumping when she heard the back door open again.

Chase coming back for something he’d forgotten.

That’s what she thought, and she walked through the hall she hated and into the kitchen to prove it to herself.

Only, Chase wasn’t there.

The kitchen was empty.

Just Willow and a pile of dirty pans that needed to be scrubbed, trays that needed to be washed and stacked, ingredients that needed to be put away.

“Hello?” she called, the shakiness of her voice pissing her off. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Nothing.

But fear had dug its talons in, and it wasn’t going to let her go. Not until she checked every inch of the shop to make sure she really was alone.

She opened the walk-in, searched the pantry, then, when she couldn’t avoid it any longer, walked back into the hall. Her skin was clammy, her heart thumping erratically. The hall was brightly lit, but it felt dark. She glanced in the tiny bathroom. Empty. Of course. Walked into the office.

It was empty, too, the stacks of mail Brenna had told her about lying on the desk, the old wall safe closed up tight, the cookbooks still on the shelves. Everything looked normal, and she thought she must have imagined the sound of the door closing, because there was absolutely no one there.

“No one,” she said, the words echoing loudly in the silence.

She grabbed the mail, rifling through it until she found the envelope with her name on it. Sure enough, the return address was the office of the attorney she thought must be representing Eric’s family.

As if they needed an attorney.

Maybe they thought they did. Josh had to have known what had happened. Or at least suspected it. Was this his way of buying her silence?

Or maybe his way of making amends?

With Eric dead, she had no need for revenge and no desire to bring his family down. She’d have to call the lawyer and tell him that. She should have done it before, but every time she’d picked up the phone, she’d chickened out.

She wasn’t sure why.

Maybe she’d been afraid that the voice on the other end would sound like Eric’s.

She frowned, carrying the envelope into the front of the house. No one was there, either. It was just as empty as it had been when she’d walked out of it.

Her imagination getting the best of her, and she’d let it, because no matter how much she tried to shake the past, it just didn’t seem to want to let go of her.

She tore open the envelope, angry and irritated and tired, because she’d barely slept since she’d been back. There was a check inside. Of course there was.

Twenty thousand dollars. Just like before.

The note was different this time.

* * *

* * *

That was it, and it pissed her off.

Warm regards? From a family whose golden child had raped her?

She strode back into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, ready to burn the hell out of the damn thing.

But the back door opened, and a man stepped in, his face shadowed by a hood, his coat wet from winter rain.

Suddenly she was back in time, walking into the shop after delivering chocolate to Sally Jefferson’s birthday party, hearing Eric call to her, seeing him standing in the hallway, blocking her path.

Feeling his hands, smelling his breath—alcohol and mints and something foul and horrible.

She was there again, only this time she was screaming, fighting the hands that were reaching for her, shoving against a chest that was rock-hard and immovable. Screaming and screaming and screaming, like she hadn’t been able to do before.

She slammed her palm into his jaw, would have hit him again, but he grabbed her wrist, pulled her arm down. His grip . . .

Light?

Gentle?

“It’s okay,” he said, and she realized he’d been saying that all along, that the words had been bouncing around in her brain, ricocheting off neurons alive with panic and fear, slipping right back out of her head again.

The last scream died in her throat, and she was looking into blue eyes with flecks of silver in them. Staring into a face filled with compassion and understanding and sorrow.

“Damn it,” she muttered, yanking away from Jax’s hand, sinking down onto the floor, her back against the cupboards, her head resting on her bent knees.

God! She was shaking, every muscle twitching.

Jax slid down beside her, not touching her, just . . . there, waiting while she caught her breath, centered herself, and remembered that she really was okay.

Then, as if he knew she’d reached that point, his hand settled on her nape, his warm fingers kneading muscles that ached with tension.

“It’s okay,” he said, the words as soothing as his touch.

She melted against him, because she had nothing left to hold her up. Every bit of her strength had seeped out. She leaned into his side, let herself be wrapped in his arms. He didn’t speak again, and she couldn’t speak, so they just stayed where they were, the silence of the shop broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows.

* * *

They sat for a while.

Twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Jax wasn’t keeping track of the time. He was too busy calling himself every kind of idiot.

He should have knocked.

He’d been in too damn much of a hurry, his mind still on the evidence report he’d handed over to the judge. He’d been calculating how quick the turnaround time might be, how soon he could have the warrant in hand, how far Phoebe might get before then. That was his only excuse for entering the shop as if he were family and belonged there.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against Willow’s hair.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” she said, her voice hoarse from the screams that had seemed wrenched from the deepest part of her soul. “I’m pretty sure I was trying to break your jaw.”

“You barely touched me.”

“That’s not the way I remember it.” She lifted her head, and they were looking into each other’s eyes. Hers were glassy, the pupils dilated. A few strands of hair had escaped her bun, and he brushed them from her cheek, his fingers lingering on warm, silky skin.

“How do you remember it?”

“I got in a pretty good hit.” She touched the place where her palm strike had landed. “I don’t see a bruise.”

There wouldn’t be one, because she’d landed a glancing blow. A good hit, if he hadn’t seen it coming and dodged it.

He knew she wouldn’t remember that.

She’d been gone, sucked into a vortex created by her fear and his piss-poor timing. He’d had it happen to him—disparate things all coming together to form the perfect storm, the mega-trigger that sent him over the edge into full-out panic. It hadn’t happened in years, but he could still remember the feeling of terror that had overwhelmed every rational thought and taken away any choice he had in how he would act.

He could also remember the humiliation that came after it.

“I don’t bruise easily,” he said lightly, and she offered a tentative smile.

“Good, because I wouldn’t want to have to explain—”

“You’re not going to have to explain anything. Because the only two people who need to know the details already do.”

“I know, but—”

“Willow, I’ve been where you are, weak-kneed and wrung out, embarrassed because something completely innocent made me go into full-out fight mode. When you go through hell, sometimes the demons follow you out. That’s just the way it is. Every survivor knows it.” He stood, offering her a hand up.

“Thanks,” she said, and he wasn’t sure if she meant for the help or for the words.

He didn’t ask.

The best thing he could do was clean up the shop and then get her out of it. A visit to the hospital, a nice meal, a few hours away. They’d do her good.

They’d do him good, too.

He needed to know that she was okay, because watching her panic, knowing she was reliving the attack, it had shattered the hard shell he tried to keep around his heart.

He handed her a glass of water, and then turned off the gas burner. She’d had something in her hand when he’d walked in, something that he’d thought she was trying to burn.

There. Next to the stove. A piece of paper that looked like a check. He lifted it, frowning as he realized what it was. “This is a lot of money.”

“Yes.”

“It looked like you were getting ready to set it on fire.”

“I was.”

“Can I ask why?”

“You can ask anything you want.”

“Are you going to answer?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I think it’s from Eric’s family.”

He looked at the check again, read the name of the issuer. James Rhodes, Attorney-at-Law.

“Looks like a law firm to me.”

“I did a little research. He works for some high-powered politicians in the D.C. metro area. Eric’s family is—”

“Close to there.”

“Right. I don’t think it’s a stretch to think that there’s a connection.” She took the check from his hand, shoved it into her purse.

“Have you called?”

“It’s a lot easier to just avoid,” she admitted.

“What are you afraid will happen?”

“Nothing that is realistic.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I keep imagining that I’ll dial that number, and someone will answer, and I’ll hear Eric’s voice. Every time I get up the courage to call, that thought runs through my mind, and I don’t.”

“Then I’ll do the calling.”

“Jax, it’s not your problem, and you don’t need to handle it.”

“You’ve been making it a habit of being wrong about what I should and shouldn’t do. First you thought I shouldn’t be worried about where Eric was and what he was doing. Now you think I shouldn’t help you out.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Says who?”

“Me. You’ve already said that you don’t want to get involved with anyone.”

“Did I?”

“You implied it, and I’m good at taking hints.”

He didn’t deny the truth, even though there were a lot of moments lately when he wasn’t sure if it was the truth.

No denial. Instead, he took the coward’s way out and ignored her comment, and what might have been her unspoken question.

“Helping you out isn’t the same as getting involved.”

“And rain isn’t the same as melted snow,” she replied. “Except that it is.”

“Would it be so bad if I did get involved, Willow?” he asked, and she frowned, grabbing a handful of ingredients and heading for the pantry.

“I guess you’re the only one who knows the answer to that.”

“And I guess for right now it wouldn’t be.”

“You know what the problem is with that?” She turned, her freckles dark against her pale skin, her eyes spring-blue and beautiful, and he knew he wasn’t just an idiot. He was a fool, because she wasn’t just any woman. She was Willow, and only a fool would keep his mouth shut and let the possibilities turn into what-might-have-beens.

“I don’t just want right now,” she continued. “I had it for years and years, and in the end, what I got out of it was a good friend and a nice life and nothing that I couldn’t walk away from.”

“That says a lot about your ex,” he said.

“It says a lot about me, too, but we weren’t talking about that. We were talking about us.”

“There will be no us, because I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of me,” he admitted, running steaming water over chocolate-coated pots. The scent of it wafted into the air, mixing with vanilla and the tangy aroma of rum-soaked cherries. There was a jar of them beside the sink, opened and nearly empty.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide if the risk is worth the gain? Or at least be part of the decision-making process?”

“Let’s try not to be too logical. Okay, Willow? It’s an unreasonable fear. There’s no logic to it.”

She smiled. A real smile this time. “I guess that’s something we have in common. Unreasonable fears.”

“And Miracle. We have her in common, too. I think I met her mother this morning.” He offered the information as a distraction, and she seemed happy enough to take it.

“Millicent’s housekeeper?” she guessed, taking a clean pot from his hand and drying it.

“We’ll have to get a DNA test to prove it. She refused to allow it.”

“You’ve petitioned the court?”

“I just sent the file over. We asked to have it expedited. I’m hoping we’ll get the warrant by morning. Once it’s in hand, we’ll obtain a DNA sample. If she doesn’t take off before then.”

“She won’t.”

“That’s what Kane said. I hope you’re both right.”

“I do too. She needs to answer for what she did, but she also needs a chance to make it better.”

“She abandoned her baby in an alley. Left her behind a Dumpster when temperatures were below freezing. It would be damn hard to make that better.”

“Poor choice of words. I guess I just meant she needs a chance to explain in a way that Miracle might understand one day.”

“Would you understand?”

“Maybe. It would just depend on motive. Is she young?”

“Eighteen. She looks younger. Skinny as a stick and pale. She needs some good food and some rest.”

“She probably needs to see a doctor. She gave birth a couple of weeks ago, and she’s cleaning house for Millicent. That can’t be healthy.”

“We’ll take her to the hospital once we get the warrant. The doctors will know if she’s recently given birth. If she’s got any health issues, they’ll treat her.”

“I’m sure she’ll love having her privacy taken away from her,” Willow said, her sarcasm as obvious as the freckles that dotted her cheeks.

“She gave up her rights when she broke the law. You know that, Willow. Don’t let your emotions make you forget it.”

“If she broke the law. You’re assuming Miracle is hers.”

“I don’t assume. I gather facts and evidence. What I’ve gathered points to Phoebe Tanner. If the judge agrees, we’ll move forward. Do I feel sorry for her? You’re damn right I do, but I’m not going to let my feelings get in the way of justice.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Just put away the last pot and wiped down the counter. Then she turned to face him, those stray pieces of hair dancing around her cheeks and her nape.

“I’m not letting my feelings get in the way, either. But . . . she’s a kid. Kids do stupid things, and she’s going to be scared out of her mind when you bring her to the hospital.”

He hadn’t thought about that. Not much anyway.

He’d compartmentalized things, broken it down into bite-size pieces of information that made sense. Phoebe had given birth to Miracle. She’d left her to freeze in an alley. She needed to be charged with child abandonment and, probably, child endangerment. She needed to be brought to justice.

And she needed compassion.

He knew that.

Just like he knew that she was young and naïve, and that she might have thought giving her daughter up was the only way to save her.

But maybe she’d also believed that God sometimes used modern medicine to do it. Maybe she’d been fighting a losing battle with Elias, begging him to let her take Miracle to the doctor. Maybe she’d been just desperate enough to try to do it herself.

And then what?

Had the clinic been closed?

Had she been too afraid to drive to Spokane by herself?

He’d seen the way she’d been raised—in a cabin in the woods, with nothing and no one around. How much did she really know about the world and how it worked?

“You’re frowning,” Willow pointed out. She’d untied her apron, pulled it over her head, and hung it from a hook near the door.

“Just thinking that I’d hate to go up against you in court. You’d always win. I’ll make sure Susan comes to the hospital when we bring Phoebe. She can explain what’s happening.” The only female deputy in Benevolence, Susan was tough as steel, but she had three daughters. All of them teenagers. Jax figured she’d know how to comfort a scared young woman.

“It’s the right thing to do, Jax. Which means we both win.” She pulled a couple of pins from her hair and it fell around her shoulders, thick strands of deep red silk that floated and fluttered as she moved.

She’d worn a dress again. A soft blue one that matched her eyes. He’d noticed it before, but only in a perfunctory way. He’d been focused on calming her down, making sure she was okay.

Now...

He wanted to run his hands along her sides, let them settle at the curve in her waist, tell her how beautiful she was.

It would be dangerous as hell, but he thought he could do it anyway. Maybe they’d both be okay with it. Maybe they would be more than okay with it.

Maybe that thing called hope—the thing that made Kane and Willow believe that Phoebe would stick around—would well up inside him one day, take hold of his heart and convince him that it was better to go after what he wanted than it was to stand around wishing that he could.

Then again, maybe he’d go to the hospital, look at Miracle, and remember his baby sister. Remember how it had felt to watch her die. Remember all the reasons why he couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t open his life to those possibilities.

“Are you okay?” Willow asked, and he met her eyes, realized that she’d grabbed her coat and her purse and was standing at the door.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? You look like . . .”

“What?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Like I feel when I walk into the shop.” She took his hand, tugged him to the door. “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air. That always helps.”

So does being with you, he almost said, but hope hadn’t quite landed in his heart, so he just flicked off the lights and followed her out into the rain.