His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) (22 page)

“Midtown, with Shandra.”

“Right. Your mural’s done. Congratulations. Shandra’s so excited to catch up
with Darby. She couldn’t stop talking about what happened after the two of you got back Sunday. She really opened up with your mother and me. That was the first for her.”

“That’s great, Dad. She’s the one who first guessed there was a problem. She’s the reason that family has the chance to get better. We’ll talk to Darby and her mom when Ms. Parker comes by later. But from what I can tell since the after-school bus dropped Darby off, she’s doing much better.”

Bethany paused, hanging on the line when he could hear how busy things were around her. And he knew she hadn’t called him—when she always called her mother about family things—just to talk about his therapy and Shandra.

“Mike’ll be heading back outside in a minute,” Joe offered.

“Oh. Then I should let you go.”

“Should you?”

Joe eased onto the bench Mike had shown him how to lean on for support while they worked through standing stretching poses. He gazed around the backyard, at the swing set he’d built, the old volleyball net that always needed repairing, and the secondhand playhouse that the younger kids dragged him and Marsha into for tea parties with their imaginary friends.

“Actually . . .” Bethany exhaled into the phone. “Mike left me a message the other day, and I—”

“Thought you’d call me to talk about it?”

“No. But when I picked Shandra up she mentioned your next session with him was this afternoon, so I—”

“Called me to check up on him, too?” Joe heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Travis, not Mike, walked out of the kitchen through the sliding doors. “So you didn’t have to talk to Mike yourself?”

Bethany cleared her throat. “No, Dad. I—”

“Your mother and I don’t ask. But that doesn’t stop folks from keeping us in the loop about you kids. Sounds to me like you and Mike have plenty to talk about these days.”

“I know we do.”

Joe had heard Bethany sound lost like this before. When she’d been a hurting teenager. Then an angry one. And then a scared young woman working hard to make her way back to everything she was meant to be.

“Then why are you talking to me,” he asked, “instead of Mike?”

“I’ve tried calling him a few times.” There was a new tremor in her voice. This was a different, excited-sounding kind of lost that made Joe smile. “I dial the phone, and then I hang up. I just . . . can’t. I thought maybe you could tell him something for me.”

“Mike’ll be right out. Tell him yourself.”

“Actually, I’ve got to go, Dad. More parents are showing up.”

“Then call back.” Joe peered past Travis—and the worry on his son’s face—to the clock on the kitchen wall. “We’ll be done in a half hour.”

“I’m sorry I’m interrupting your therapy. It’s no big deal.”

“What’s no big deal?”

Something was definitely wrong with his child. Or, definitely right. Either way, Joe had no intention of planting himself in the middle of it. Marsha was the matchmaker, not him. He’d already meddled enough, working with Mike when sparks had been flying from the start between the young man and Bethany.

“Will you at least tell him that I called?” Bethany asked.

“I’ll give him the message. But whatever you two have to talk about, honey, it’s only going to get harder the longer you put it off.”

Mike appeared on the patio, stopping next to Travis, both of them listening.

“I’ve got to go,” Bethany said after a long pause. “I love you, Dad.”

“Bethie—”

She’d already hung up.

I love you, Dad.

Such a simple, four-word sentence. One Joe lived to hear from each of his kids. But only when they were ready to say it. Which meant he never took a single day like today for granted—when all the hard work and financial strain and challenges of fostering kids paid off, and one of them turned to him when they needed something. Anything. Even if all he could do was get out of the way and insist that they did for themselves.

“I love you, too,” he said under his breath, plunking his phone onto the picnic table.

“I have a message from Bethany?” Mike crouched to roll up the yoga mat he’d laid out on the grass.

“So it seems.” Joe traded a long look with Travis.

Mike pulled his own phone from his oversized duffel bag. He checked the phone’s display and frowned.

“Did she say what it was?” he asked Joe.

“Not exactly.”

Travis confronted the guy. “You wanna tell me why my sister hasn’t wanted anything to do with you or the rest of us for days?”

“Oh . . .” Joe leaned back against the picnic table, smiling at the sound of a bunch of the kids playing next door with Bud, Camille’s forever barking puppy. “I think Bethany wants plenty. She just hasn’t decided what to do about it yet.”

Travis glowered at Mike. “Have you?”

Mike pushed to his feet, his bag of exercise tricks forgotten.

“Not exactly,” he said, as if the noncommittal answer bugged him almost as much as it did Travis.

They watched the kids and the cocker spaniel race through the back hedges and head toward the front of the house, the warm August afternoon drenched with happy barks and laughter. Joe thought back to that morning’s walk with Marsha, and how it could have been his lowest moment. This was his first official day of leave. But he’d been with his bride of thirty-five years. And instead of rushing to work, he’d admitted that he was too weak to keep up the charade that he didn’t need more time to heal.

And for the first time since his heart attack, instead of his hating the dawn, it had felt like a new day. A fresh start. Because Marsha had been there, no matter what. Even if everything else in their lives had to change now, they were facing this next chapter together. Their love would be there to see them through.

His gaze turned to the insightful young man who seemed so reluctant to be forming the same soul-deep connection with Bethany.

“She’s back in the city this afternoon,” Joe said, meddling after all. “Some big to-do at the youth center she volunteers at with one of my other daughters.”

Mike smiled. “Her mural. It must be time to unveil it for the parents.”

“Might be a good opportunity for you to get that message from her in person.” Joe promised himself he was done. This was the end of it. Except none of the rest of what he thought was happening mattered, unless he was right about one other thing. “That is, if you love the girl.”

Mike dropped to the bench on the other side of the table. Travis sat beside Joe, forearms braced on the scarred wood, staring at Mike.

“Do you?” Joe’s boy asked. At the flash of almost misery on Mike’s face, Travis swiped a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God. You do.”

Mike kept his focus on Joe, the panic in his gaze saying that he was only now realizing the truth himself. “You really think I should go down there? I left her a message. She hasn’t called me back.”

Travis crossed his arms. “What the hell? Go after her!”

Mike snorted. “Says the guy who not so long ago wanted to rearrange my face because you caught me kissing her.”

“That was different.”

Joe held up his hand. “Do you love her?”

“Yes, sir.” Mike’s response was halting. He sounded as rattled as Bethany had over the phone. “Sunday night . . . We talked about things I don’t think either one of us expected to. I didn’t at least . . .”

Joe nodded. He’d worked with enough troubled young men searching for answers to understand how hard those kinds of words could be to say.

“She talked about her past?” Joe asked.

“Bethie doesn’t talk about her childhood,” his son said.

“Well, she did.” Fury flashed across Mike’s face. “Some of it. Enough of it.”

“Damn,” Travis said. “No wonder she’s spooked.”

Joe smiled at the exchange that was like listening to his two oldest boys bickering. “She hasn’t given many people a chance to know that part of her.”

“Can you blame her?” Travis asked. “Especially after all those losers she’s dated, like Carrington.”

Joe patted his son’s shoulder, leaving his palm there for support. Travis and Oliver had been overprotective of Bethany from the get-go. “She started guarding that heart of hers when she was only a little thing. She’s gotten damn good at it over the years.”

“Until Cowboy Bob here came along.”

Joe squeezed Travis’s arm and let go. He watched Mike from across the table that had been the site of countless Dixon family meals and conversations, and priceless, life-changing confrontations just like this one.

“I do love her,” Mike said to himself, as if he were the only one there. “I want to love her and help her and be with her for as long as I can.”

“And how long would that be?” Travis wanted to know.

Joe pushed himself slowly to his feet.

“That falls firmly into the
none of our business
column. Assuming . . .” he said to Mike, “that you’re going to get yourself showered and changed and into Atlanta to see after my daughter. That’s all I’m going to insist on. Don’t leave her alone in this, no matter how much she thinks she wants to be. Whatever happens next, you two owe it to each other to figure it out together.”

Travis and Mike stood, too.

Travis held out his hand to Mike, almost begrudgingly. “Don’t mess with her heart, and you won’t have any more problems with me.”

Mike hesitated.

“Thank you,” he said as he shook.

“Marsha’s been after me to invite you for dinner.” Joe had told his wife that morning that maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Now his physical therapist sounded like a man who needed the support of family around him, almost as much as Joe’s daughter did. “We’re having everyone over Friday night. It’ll be a zoo. You should join us.”

“For family dinner?” Mike asked.

And Joe had thought the guy sounded nervous before. He steered Mike toward the sliding door to the kitchen. Travis followed them inside.

“Assuming Bethie hasn’t kicked you to the curb by then,” Joe’s boy added with a laugh.

Chapter Fourteen

By the time Mike arrived at the Midtown Youth Center, the last of the crowd from Bethany’s mural presentation had been making their way down the granite steps of the two-story redbrick building. A volunteer heading out to her car had directed Mike to the center’s common area, saying that Bethany and Shandra were in the activity director’s office with one of their students. He’d found his way, his footsteps echoing through the quickly quieting building.

Bethany and Shandra and the man the volunteer had called Shawn were in a tiny room composed mostly of windows, hunkered down, quietly talking with a mid-thirties-looking mother and her little girl. Bethany’s student from her last class, Mike gathered. Shandra sat on the floor, Darby in her lap, quietly sharing a picture book. The adult conversation going on around them seemed intense, but something about it told Mike that good things were happening for the family Bethany and her sister had championed.

He could see it in the way Bethany was hugging her arms around herself. In the smile she and Shandra exchanged when Darby laughed at something in the book and ran to show her mother. Mike was witnessing a normal, happy, safe moment. Thanks to the community art program Bethany had been instrumental in bringing to life.

He checked out the floor-to-ceiling mural that dominated an entire wall of the common area. It was the cumulative work of four different classes, Bethany’s residency essay had said. Done by kids ranging in ages from five to thirteen, it was the culmination of months of volunteer hours.

It comprised images from all over Atlanta, enthusiastically painted in a crayon box of colors. Trees and buildings and sidewalks and cars. Pets and families and friends. They were miniature masterpieces, some little more than blobs of hastily applied paint, others crafted with more precision. Rendered with passion and excitement, each tiny tableau was a reflection of the fun and exuberance and the imagination of childhood. Mike pulled out his phone to capture a few pictures. Several boys and a girl ran up to show off their squares to their parents.

Bethany finally noticed him from inside the office. Her instant smile erased his doubts that maybe he’d made a mistake in coming. The mother was standing and taking her little girl’s hand to leave. Darby gave Shandra a huge grin. She turned to Bethany, who smothered her in a hug.

The director opened the office door. The little girl waved and followed her mom out. Bethany and her sister watched them go, looking worried but happy and more than a little relieved. And then Shandra caught sight of Mike.

“Hey!” She rushed over. “My mom texted and said she was coming to pick me up tonight.”

“What?” Bethany approached more slowly. “When?”

“Dad told her Mike was coming.” Shandra rummaged in her backpack for her smartphone. “She just texted. She’s out front at the curb. See ya later, Mike.”

“Wait a minute.” Bethany would have headed after her.

Mike caught her arm.

“Your mom left Chandlerville right after I did,” he explained, “after your dad talked me into coming. Your family seems to have warmed up to the idea of us spending time together.”

Bethany hustled him away from Shawn. The man had leaned against his office’s door to watch, along with two other adults who’d joined Shawn after straggling in to collect their offspring.

“What do you mean, Joe asked you to come?” Bethany demanded when she and Mike reached the hallway.

“He gave me your message.”

“What message?”

Mike ducked his head. “He seemed pretty sure that you don’t know what to do with what you’re feeling about us, any more than I do.”

“Oh.”

“I should have come and found you sooner.” Mike smiled. “But I’m glad I got to see all of this. You’re in your element here. Helping kids discover their love of art. Making sure another child isn’t being hurt the way you were.”

“It’s . . .” His compliment seemed to make her uneasy instead of proud. “It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s always the same thing.”

He remembered feeling powerless to help Jeremy, and furious with their parents for not realizing that doctors and hospital rooms and the best equipment and medicine money could buy were only a small part of what their son—both their sons—needed.

“Making troubled children feel safe,” he said, “can change their world. So can inspiring them. I saw your mural. Your project’s a success.”

Bethany eased closer, into his arms. “The kids did all the work.”

“You know better than that.” He kissed her. “I know better than that.”

She smiled.

And then she punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” He rubbed the spot. “What was that for?”

“You. Inviting my family to meddle in our business.”

“I can’t picture your family ever waiting for an invitation. Besides . . .”

He thought of his own art project. The one he’d worked on nonstop the last two days, until he’d had to bug out for his session with Joe.

“Besides?” The flash of doubt in her eyes had him kissing her sweetly.

And then with more heat as her tongue feathered across his lips. Sampling. Needing. Promising. Flashing him back to their meadow. Her soft skin. Her sweet sighs of surprise. Their shared excitement and discovery and total abandon. He realized he was raising her onto her toes. He made himself ease off.

“I should have come and found you sooner,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “You were giving me time.”

“I was giving myself time,” he admitted. “I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she rushed out. “We both wanted more, remember? And I totally get why you live your life the way you do. But I . . . I don’t think I can do this.”

“This?”

“No more pretending, remember? And I can’t keep pretending that I’m going to be okay once you’re gone. I thought I could be. I really did. But I can’t, Mike. Not after Sunday.”

He could feel his pulse racing, his heart hanging on every word.

“I want more,” she blurted out, inhaling before continuing. “More of tonight, helping Darby and her mom get her brother the counseling he needs, so they can stay together as a family. More working with my kids here with Shandra. More time with my family and friends in Chandlerville. More of my painting. Even if I never finish another canvas, I’m going to keep trying. And all of that’s hard enough for me to imagine sticking with, without wondering if you’ll be around, when you’ll go, or even if you . . . realize how much I need you to stay. It’s terrifying, Mike, how much I want you to stay, even though I said I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Mike dug his hands into his pockets, staring at the boots that had taken him away from so many moments of his life that he hadn’t minded letting go of.

“And what if I told you I wanted more, too?” he admitted. “Would that make this easier, or more terrifying for you?”

“What if I . . .” Wrinkles of confusion formed between her eyebrows. “What if I told you that I loved you?”

Mike brushed back a lock of her bangs that had escaped the same sparkly headband she’d worn for their date. She was so sweet. Too sweet to have endured so much and still be this strong. Too sweet for the likes of him.

“Then I’d feel brave enough,” he said, “to admit that I haven’t known a lot of love, not the kind you deserve. But whatever there is of it inside me, it’s already yours.”

Bethany followed Mike through the side entrance to the loft, up his private stairs, and into his studio. He led her past his enormous desk, deeper into the outrageously masculine space until they’d reached the far end of the room—where her unfinished landscape of the Dixon house stood on an easel. Beside it was a worktable littered with the paints and supplies she’d gathered for her first session in the loft.

“Wh . . . when did you do this?” she asked.

“That night you stormed out of here. When you were ready, I wanted you to have something to come back to.”

“But . . .” A piece of Bethany had been here with him all this time. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to speak to you again.”

“Neither was I.”

But he’d moved her into his workspace anyway.

Track lighting had been redirected, creating a perfect pool of illumination around the easel, bright enough to spotlight color and texture and detail. Not so harsh that her eyes would strain as she worked. She scanned the craziness of her supplies, screaming their disarray at the minimalism of his creative space.

She stared at her painting. The ethereal brushwork, the wash of color, deepening and softening in seemingly unplanned seeps of green on cream on white and the palest of grays. Frustration rushed back, at everything the piece could be, and everything it wasn’t yet.

Her first love had been her art, he’d said, and she almost hated it now.

Mike studied her work with a critical eye. “It’s an amazing perspective.”

“It’s empty.” She saw only the ghostly heart of the near-transparent house. “Like no one lives there.”

“But you want to.” His hand rubbed down her spine. “I can feel how much you want to—”

“Belong,” she finished for him. She wanted to belong completely to the life and passion and love of her foster parents’ world. “But this? I look at it, and it feels . . .”

“Lonely?”

She curled an arm around him, a little numb from the things they’d said at the youth center.

Love wasn’t a new thing for either of them. But fighting to hold on to it was. And she’d had a head start—the time she’d spent back with her family the last few months, letting her need for them in, in spurts and starts. Hearing Mike say he wanted to try the same thing with her . . .

Risky
was too weak a word to describe them now.

He dug his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his photo app, arriving at his picture of her portrait of Camille.

“Did you feel lonely when you painted her?” He handed over the phone.

Even unfinished, her niece’s beauty shone through. Camille’s impish smile, her sparkling green eyes, her dark curls bouncing.

“Every time I look at her,” Bethany whispered, “I feel like I’m home.” She stared at her attempt to capture the Dixon house. “But then it’s like I can’t breathe when I think of how much I need all of them.”

“So exhale, and let yourself need them.” Mike turned her away from the easel, into his arms. “Need them and me and whatever you have to while you’re here. Get lost in it, get comfortable with it, until you finish one of your paintings. Until you know that you’re home.”

“Here?” She blinked. “In your studio?”

“I have some work to do in the darkroom on my project for the next JHTF gala. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll give you the codes to the doors. Come and go as you please. Or”—he led her toward the desk—“we could work together on making sure your art stops feeling lonely.”

Bethany followed. “Together?”

Working with Harrison Michael Taylor.

“On something different for both of us,” he said with that charming, easy smile. “Without you tossing away everything you’ve already done, and without me continuing to do my thing alone, like I’m nursing some damn grudge against the world. It could be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Sit.” He settled her behind the desk, in his chair.

He stood behind her, reaching around to drive the keyboard and mouse. A digital art program sprang to life on his enormous monitor.

“Close your eyes.” He waited until she did, and then he clicked away with the mouse. “It’s only a rough start. I did a lot of it in the middle of the night, so use your imagination.” He sounded as nervous as she’d felt following him around her studio at Dru and Brad’s. “But for a first attempt, I think the results are promising.”

She felt him kneel beside her.

“Open up,” he said.

She did, dying to see what he’d done. And then she stared, until her eyes insisted on blinking.

“It’s . . .”

She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Her thought.

Any
thought.

He’d transformed his iPhone shots of her stop-and-start paintings from her studio into something unexpected and confusing and exciting—just like everything else about the man.

She took over the mouse and scrolled through each series of photos, some black and white, others full color. He’d cut and cropped and matted the pictures of her paintings together, layered them on top of one another in one collection, side-by-side in another. In the next, he’d worked in photos that he’d taken of the kids outside Marsha and Joe’s house the day he’d arrived to meet Joe for the first time.