A Mom for Callie (16 page)

The first time or two she heard his taped recording, she thought nothing of it. Lots of people stopped by the market and ran errands after work. Add in the fact he had a daughter to care for and his inability to answer the phone made perfect sense.

By the third and fourth time, however, she was starting to wonder.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Betsy flipped open her cell phone once again, Kyle's position on her contact list all but memorized. When she reached his name she pressed Send, the all too familiar succession of rings starting once again.

And once again, as it had all evening, Kyle's phone went to voice mail. There was no ignoring the truth any longer. If his phone were off, it wouldn't take five rings to reach his recording. Which meant he was screening calls and deliberately avoiding hers.

She closed her hand over the phone and snapped it shut, her body sinking back against the splay of pillows that stretched across the hotel bed. It had been a trying day, the kind of day that made a person want to pull the covers over their head until it was all over. But Kyle
was
her covers. He was all she'd thought about
during the prep session with Marsha that morning and the television interview that afternoon. In fact, it was the sensation of his arms around her that had gotten her through some of the roughest questions.

Yet now that she finally had an opportunity to call him, to hear his voice, he wanted nothing to do with her or her phone call. But why? Was he angry that she left a note rather than calling?

No. He couldn't be. She'd explained that in the note. He'd been working a double shift when she left, his intended task to track down more information on the suspected gang-member-turned-graffiti-artist. The last thing she'd wanted to do was disrupt his concentration. It made perfect sense.

So then why was he avoiding her? Why was he sending her calls to voice mail and not returning any of them? Had something happened? Had there been a break in the case that prevented him from getting to the phone?

No. Angela would have called. She promised.

Closing her eyes against the tears that threatened to fall, Betsy curled into the fetal position, her mind and body completely spent.

 

H
E WAS HALFWAY UP THE DRIVEWAY
before he heard it, a persistent tapping that called his attention to the one place he would have preferred to ignore. Turning his head from the sun, he looked across the yard to Betsy's kitchen, Angela Murphy's hand waving wildly in his direction.

Cranking the window open, the woman flashed her megawatt smile in his direction. “Hey there, Kyle. How are you?”

“Okay. And you?”

“Good…busy.” Frowning suddenly, his partner's wife lifted a watering can into the air with one hand and gestured him over with the other. “C'mon over, I don't feel like having the whole neighborhood eavesdropping on our every word.”

“Planning on talking dirty to me, Ang?” he asked, a smile tugging at his face in spite of his foul mood.

She stuck her tongue at him. “That's Betsy's job, not mine.”

At the mere mention of his neighbor's name he stiffened. A full twenty-four hours after taking off for New York without so much as a word, the calls had started. At first, her messages had been cheerful enough, her sweet voice testing his willpower like never before. On the fifth try, she'd hung up without leaving a message.

And she hadn't tried again.

Which suited him just fine. He had no desire to waste another thought on someone as thoughtless and self-centered as Betsy Anderson. He'd had enough. More than enough, quite frankly.

“Are you coming?” Angela called as she continued to alternate her attention between watering plants and sizing him up. “I can't keep standing at this same window. If I do, I'd be setting myself up on murder charges.”

“Murder charges?”

“Yeah. Negligent drowning of innocent plants.”

“I'm thinking that wouldn't be much more than a misdemeanor.” He took a step closer to the window. “So, when's our resident celebrity coming back?”

“It was supposed to be this evening but her editor shoved another interview at her for tomorrow morning.” Angela waved to him once again, this time gesturing
him around the back of the house. “Meet me in the back.”

His protest went unnoticed as Angela left the window. Sighing, he did as he was told, his feet leading him around a yard he had become all too familiar with the past two weeks. When he reached the back, she was waiting, her free hand holding the door open for him.

“I felt bad that I missed her call this morning, she sounded awful on my machine. But I was at the gym.”

“Whatever.” He stepped onto the sunporch, his eyes riveted on the empty computer table in the middle of the room. “It's not my problem.”

Angela stopped beside the plant cart in the corner of the room and turned around, her eyes pinning his with surprise. “What's not your problem?”

“Betsy. Her mood. Her trip. Her anything,” he said, the bitterness in his voice evident to anyone within a ten-mile radius.

“Excuse me?” Angela's eyes narrowed as her hand tightened around the handle of the watering can. “What's this about?”

“What?”

“This…this attitude.”

He leaned against the wall only to push himself off it and pace around the room. “Attitude? Attitude? I don't have an attitude. I have anger and lots of it. And rightfully so, if you ask me.”

“I see that.”

“I had Betsy figured out the moment Tom told me who she was…the
moment
he told me.”

Smacking the watering can onto an open shelf, Angela folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. “And what, exactly, did you have figured out, Kyle?”

“That she was self-centered, concerned only with herself and her career. Like my lovely ex-wife.”

“Lila? You think Betsy is like Lila?”

“A carbon copy,” he spat through clenched teeth. “Three nights ago she sat at that picnic table right out there and painted this elaborate picture of life as a published author. Do you remember that?”

“I do. Do you?”

“You bet I do. And I remember her sitting there, lamenting the fact she only travels for two, maybe three weeks after her book comes out. So much for that, huh?”

Angela's mouth gaped open as anger filled her eyes. “Wait. Let me guess. This last-minute trip to New York makes her a liar?”

“Among other things.”

“Such as?”

He continued to pace around the room, the windows and walls fading into the background as he focused on his anger and the reason for it. “After you and Tom left the other night we talked. I allowed myself to get taken in—to believe her when she said she wanted us to be a team. To get over the hurdles of our past together.”

The hint of a smile passed across Angela's face. “Hurdles, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Waving a dismissive hand in the air, the smile disappeared. “And what makes you think that's changed?”

“I think the fact that she took off for New York without so much as a phone call says enough, don't you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He started pacing again. “She took off. For three days. And I found out from Tom! I think that speaks volumes about where I fall in her life, don't you?”

“Maybe…if it were true.” Angela stalked across the room in his direction, her charge barely slowing as she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him through the back door.

“What the hell, Angela?”

“When's the last time you checked your mailbox?” she asked as her pull became a push the moment they reached the break in the hedge.

“About ten minutes ago.”

“And you didn't see it?”

“See what?”

“Betsy's note. She told me she was leaving it in the box beside your door.”

He stopped halfway to his back door. “She left a note? In my mailbox?”

“That's what she said.” Angela breezed past him en route to his back stoop, her fingers snapping in his direction for the key. “Did you even go through your mail, Kyle?”

Had he? He couldn't remember.

Following his partner's wife into his home, his gaze fell on the pile of mail he'd dropped on the kitchen table—a pile that had increased day by day. When Angela spied it, she rummaged through the ads and envelopes until her hand emerged with a soft-pink envelope that bore his name in flowery handwriting.

“Read it,” she commanded.

With a careful finger, he ripped open the top of the envelope and extracted the matching pink note.

When he reached the bottom of the note, he read it again, a lump forming in his throat as he realized the enormity of his mistake.

“She left without telling you, huh?” Angela retraced her steps to the back door and then stopped. Turning around she pointed a finger at him. “Betsy is special. You better get that through your head before it's too late.”

It never ceased to amaze her how quickly life could change. One minute it could be alive with hope, the next fraught with the kind of reality that squashed hope in its tracks. But she'd learned a lot over the past twelve months.

She'd learned that time stood still for no one—a fact that presented two options. Roll over and let it pass you by or jump in and do the best you can.

For months she'd done the former—losing herself and her dreams in the process. And it had cost her dearly, robbing her of the one thing everyone needed. Hope.

Without hope, there was nothing. And that was something she didn't intend to experience ever again.

Allowing herself just one last look at the break in the hedge that separated her home from Kyle's, she inhaled slowly, deeply. Writing was her dream. It always had been. And while she truly believed she could continue to live that dream
and
be in a loving and committed relationship, Kyle, apparently, did not. His loss.

She had a book to write. And a home to return to.

Neither of which could happen soon enough as far as she was concerned.

Turning her back to the window once and for all, Betsy made her way over to the computer table and the work in progress that awaited her on the screen. Slowly but surely, her fingers took over, the story she'd crafted in her head finding its way out into the open with twists and turns even she hadn't seen coming.

She worked throughout the day and into the evening, the sun lowering across the room until she had to switch on the floor lamp angled overhead. Her work provided an escape and she was grateful. She'd spent more than enough time and energy on Kyle Brennan.

It was nearly ten o'clock before she realized she hadn't eaten. Not lunch, not dinner, not even so much as a snack. And while she would have preferred to keep going, the ever increasing protests rising up from her stomach were becoming harder and harder to ignore.

Betsy stood and wandered into the kitchen to examine the contents of her refrigerator. Last week's pizza was surely bad by now, as was the sub sandwich she hadn't finished before she left for New York. A glance at the clock brought a question mark to the notion of takeout just as her cell phone began to ring.

She flipped it open. “Hello?”

“So you made it back, safe and sound.” Angela's voice, loud and boisterous, seeped through the phone and into her ear. “They kept tacking on so many days I was beginning to wonder if they were going to keep you there permanently.”

“They wouldn't do that because then they wouldn't get their book.” Leaning against the counter, Betsy gripped the edge with her free hand. “I didn't tell them
about all the progress I was making in the hotel room each night.”

“Good. I'd have been crushed if you hadn't come back.”

She couldn't help but smile. With the unexpected kiss-off from Kyle still smarting, it was nice to know that someone, at least, felt so strongly about her. “I want to thank you for everything these past few weeks. You've been amazing.”

“Tell me something I don't already know.”

“You've been a great friend.”

“Keep going.”

“A terrific sounding board.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a tremendous motivator.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely. I'm not sure I'd be this far along in my book without you. Your support and your enthusiasm, and most important, your friendship, has meant so much to me.” And it was true. Angela Murphy was the one constant since she'd driven into Cedar Creek two weeks earlier. Well, Angela and Paxton Bridge, anyway.

“I—I don't know what to say.”

A muffled thump in the background caught her by surprise. “What was that? Are you okay?”

“That—my dear friend, Betsy—was my darling husband…falling from his chair.”

She gasped. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, he's fine. But you should see him right now. Boy, is he proud of himself.”

“Why?”

“His theatrical reaction to my not knowing what to say.”

“Ah.” She wiped an apple on her shirt and then took
a bite, the crunch much louder than she intended. “Oh. Sorry about that. I kind of wrote through lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“And dinner.” Grabbing a napkin from the holder beside her potted violet, she wiped some juice from her chin. “By the way, thanks for watering the plants. They look great.”

“Phew.”

She laughed. “You were worried?”

“A little, yeah. I don't exactly have a green thumb. Mine tends to be kinda black. Like death.”

“You did great.”

“Hey, any chance you'd want to come over this weekend? I think it's time Tom and I reciprocated the barbecue thing. I'd like to ask Kyle and Callie but I can rethink that if you'd prefer.”

Just the mention of Kyle's name made her shoulders droop.

Shaking her head free of a future that wasn't meant to be, she set her apple on the counter. “I really need to get some more writing done. After making them wait for so long for this book, I can't help but feel they might appreciate it being turned in early.”

“Can you do that?”

“I think so. I've been on fire today. Getting away from—” She stopped, swallowed and started again. “Getting back to my own place will only speed the process.”

“Getting back to your own place?” Angela sucked in her breath, the sound echoing through Betsy's ear. “Wait! Are you leaving?”

“I think it's best. I called Mr. Riley earlier today…told him I was going to head out sooner than previously
anticipated. I told him he could keep the rent until he finds another tenant.”

“But why?” Angela wailed. “I wanted you here while you wrote and then later, when you hit that post-book phase.”

“Post-book phase?”

“Yeah. The part where you go to the movies and read books. I was hoping I could talk you into a shopping trip or a spa or something.”

She closed her eyes against the longing to stay.

Angela's idea sounded great, it really did. But knowing Kyle was next door, and that he wanted nothing to do with her, was simply more than she could take.

“Then come to New York when I finish. The shopping is
un
believable.”

 

H
E WAS FLIPPING THROUGH
the channels when the call came, his partner's name popping up on the caller ID screen.

“Hey, Tom. What's up?”

“Incoming!”

Stretching his feet across the coffee table, he rolled his eyes upward. “Watching war movies again, partner?”

“Consider yourself warned.”

“Warned? About wha—”

A pounding at his door cut him off midsentence.

“That,”
Tom said. “Good luck.”

Confused, Kyle dropped the phone onto the couch and rose to his feet. When he reached the front door, he yanked it open to find Angela Murphy on the other side.

And if her tousled hair, wild eyes and slipper-clad feet were any indication, she was
mad.
At him.

He gulped. “Hey there, Ang…what brings you by at—” he glanced over his shoulder at the cable box “—eleven o'clock?”

“Stupid men,” she hissed as she pushed her way past him and into his family room. “Stupid, stupid men.”

“What'd Tom do now?”

She glared at him. “Tom's got nothing on you, buddy.”

He puffed out his chest and inhaled sharply through his nose. “You're not telling me anything I don't already know.”

Smacking him in the stomach with the backside of her hand, she leaned close, her eyes locked on his. “Give it a rest, Kyle.”

“What? What'd I do?”

“For starters, you're stupid.”

He snorted. “You covered that when I opened the door.”

“Next, you're an idiot.”

“Isn't that the same as being stupid?”

She glared at him again. “You're stupid for not seeing what's in front of your face. You're an idiot for letting it walk out of your life without a fight.”

“She—she's leaving?” he whispered.

“You're darn straight she is. And it's all because of you. You and your Lila-created bitterness.”

Slumping onto the couch, he brought his elbows to his thighs and his face into his hands. “When?”

“A few days.”

“A few days,” he repeated.

“Yeah…a few days. So what are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do?”

“Stop her!” Angela shouted.

Raising his eyes to meet hers, he swallowed, hard. “I've made a mess of things, you know that. I'm the last person who can stop her.”

She dropped onto the sofa beside him. “Do you love her, Kyle?”

“Yes.” The answer sounded so simple to his ears, felt so easy on his tongue.

“Then you're the
only
person who can stop her.”