Chapter 48
Sitting with Charles in an Indian restaurant located on Main Street in Greenville, Sarah found herself relaxing deeper into his company.
Until he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.”
“Who was the guy?”
She felt an eyebrow lift, “What guy?”
“The one you wrote about in your manuscript?”
“What do you mean?”
He angled his face and softened his gaze, “Sarah . . .”
She looked away, “I wrote the book partly as therapy. It was cathartic to get it out. But writing about it and speaking about it are two different things.”
“I understand.”
He said it in a way that told her he did.
“You do?”
He nodded.
Sarah noted his face had returned to the stoic look he’d worn at their first few meetings before he answered, “Mom kicked my father out when I was six. It was a painful time. I couldn’t talk about it for a long time either, but I wrote about it in my first book.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many people do. It was over thirty years ago now. I was young, but I remember.” His eyes darted up then down, as if he was unsure whether to continue. He swallowed then said, “Writing wasn’t the only way I dealt with my feelings about it.”
“You mean the carpentry?”
He nodded, “You know the shoe cupboard near the door at the cottage?”
“Yes.”
“The mother and baby deer on it represent me and Mom. Happy and safe after my father, the bear, was no longer with us.”
Sarah’s memories about the carving flooded back. The bear, the beast, the bully.
She stared right into his eyes, “He was an abuser?”
He nodded, “Rarely with me, but with Mom, it was regular.”
The sad droop to his eyelids told Sarah he had seen a lot more than any child should have been subjected to.
Her hand reached out for his before she could stop herself. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled, a full-mouthed one, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, “Thank you.”
The zing she was used to feeling when he touched her came again. She pulled away. He gave her an awkward smile. Was he sensing this too or was it all in her head?
She fidgeted with the ring on her finger for a moment. Charles had shared an important part of his past with her. She liked it. In particular she liked the way his face looked when he allowed himself a full smile instead of his normal half-cornered one. It made him look younger, less tired. The way he was looking at her now showed the vulnerability she’d caught glimpses of. He was trusting her, but finding it difficult. She couldn’t stop the sensation that he was nothing like Linda had accused, nor was he like Jacques or Paul. He was . . . something else.
She released the ring and heard herself say, “He didn’t treat me well. He could be nasty and say cruel things.”
“Like Jack Barrett in your book?”
She nodded, “My ex’s name is Jacques Barnard. This might sound silly, but it felt like justice, giving the antagonist in my book a similar name as my ex.”
To her surprise, Charles’s mouth lifted into a mischievous grin.
He leaned in, as if they were conspirators, and whispered, “I named the serial killer in my first book after my father.”
Sarah laughed. Charles joined her. How happy and relaxed he looked when he laughed. She wished he would do it more often. Why didn’t he?
She lifted her hand and pointed, “See this ring?”
He looked, “Yes.”
She lowered her hand to her lap, “I bought it when I broke things off with Jacques. To remind myself not to settle for less than I deserve ever again.” She shook her head, “My mother thinks I’ve raised my standards too high, because I won’t give second chances, but I can’t do it anymore. My heart can’t,” She looked at the ring again, “So I bought a ring with five diamonds. One for each year I wasted with the wrong man.”
She peeked up in time to see Charles smile, “Too many people settle.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And what’s the story with Paul?”
She groaned, “He didn’t think I had any talent as a writer.”
Charles’s eyebrow lifted, “He said that?”
“More or less.”
“What an idiot.”
Sarah laughed, “Yes.”
In a tone that sounded a little too nonchalant, Charles asked, “Anyone special now?”
“Nope.”
Charles nodded then looked away. A shiver passed through Sarah’s heart. Did she dare think this line of questioning was due to interest? In every single one of Joan Morgan’s romance novels, a man only asked questions regarding a woman’s boyfriend status if he was interested in filling the role himself. Was he interested in filling the role himself? Was she one hundred percent sure she wanted him to?