Man with a Past (6 page)

But when would she have time to put herself out there? Make friends so Max would have friends? She'd budgeted carefully and had enough cash to see her through the repairs, but little else. If she couldn't open before the tourist-vacation season began when everyone traipsed through the little town on their way south to beaches and overcrowded resort parks, she'd be forced to take an outside job. And that left her without daycare. Who would watch Max all day every day? Wilson couldn't handle Max on his own for long.

Distracted, she turned and ran into Joe. Or rather, into Joe's damp shirt that was presently molded to the incredibly wide, warm chest she'd discovered as she'd helped him onto the porch.

“Sorry, I—didn't see you.”

How she could miss him was anybody's guess though.

Joe's rough hands were gentle as they gripped her upper arms to steady her, and Ashley stared up into his dark blue eyes, surprised at the sensations coursing through her. And not so surprised at all.

A deep, secret part of her wanted Joe to pull her to his chest and hold her, just for a second. One big, comforting hug that would mean nothing and yet allow her to regroup after such a trying day, month. Year.

But of course that couldn't happen. Not if she wanted to maintain a professional relationship.

“No problem.”

She wet her suddenly dry lips. “I forgot to show you to your room.”

“I changed in the utility room.”

She forced her thoughts back to reality. “It
is
a problem. I left you standing in the kitchen after you jumped off the roof to—” His words caught up with her and she sputtered to a confused halt. “You changed?” she asked, eyeing his shirt again.

Somewhat sheepish, Joe indicated a duffel bag lying on the rug by the utility room door. “I forgot and left it on the porch earlier when I saw your kitchen flooding. My clothes are a little damp, but better than what I had on.”

“You must be cold.”

“Not quite.”

The muttered comment brought her attention to his face and she froze at the masculine gleam she saw in his eyes. No, he didn't look cold. He looked hot. Very hot. Heat emanated from his body so much so his damp clothes ought to have steam rising from them the way he stared at her.

A tingle shot through her and Ashley suddenly realized she hadn't stepped away from him. Joe still held her, his thumbs lightly smoothing over the tender insides of her arms. Back and forth, slowly.

Swallowing, she stepped away, acutely aware of him as he looked her over from her head down to her bare feet. Her toes curled against the wide
plank floors and she wished she'd taken some time recently to paint her toenails. At least treat herself to a professional haircut instead of saving money by trimming the ends herself.

Guilt niggled again. Why did she care what he thought?

“Missy, you back?” Wilson entered the kitchen from the living room. “Max is stirrin' around. I'm gonna show Joe where I put his daddy's things, but it won't take long. You fixed that chicken you bought the other day?”

She laughed wryly. “You know I haven't.” Ashley headed toward the refrigerator. “One fried chicken, coming up—and chocolate pudding for dessert.”

The old man winked at her, his expression softening. “You're awful good to me, missy. How'd you know what I wanted?”

Even Joe chuckled at that one.

 

“W
E PUT ALL
Teddy's things right in here.”

Joe followed Wilson into a downstairs room and his nose tickled from the musty air. It appeared to be a sitting room, maybe a music room, located at the front of the large Victorian.

“Your daddy and I stacked it all along the wall there.”

Pulled from his perusal of the room, Joe frowned. A lifetime reduced to lining a wall?

Wilson fumbled until he found the light switch
and turned it on. Dust-layered sheets covered the furniture, sad in their neglect, but the walls were painted a soft shade of yellow with cream trim. Thick moulding wider than any he'd ever seen lined the ceiling and floor, craftsmanship and pride in every detail. The moulding and walls needed to be washed down and repainted, the old wool carpet shampooed and cleaned. It would require a lot of elbow grease and work, but Ashley had definitely snagged a good deal.

Then again, so had Wilson.

“You need anything else, I'll be in my chair.”

“Thanks, I'll be fine.”

Joe waited until Wilson shuffled his way down the hall before he searched the room and found his mother's rocking chair in the farthest corner. He breathed a sigh of relief.

She'd spent every evening of her life in that chair, slowly moving back and forth as though rocking the troubles of her day away. He pictured her there now, head back, smile in place as she asked him and Jack about their day at school.

Joe walked over to the boxes closest to the chair and pulled up one of the flaps tucked down to hold the rest closed. Inside were his mother's dishes, the ones her grandmother had given her when she'd married his father.

A second box held his mother's collection of carnival glass, all carefully wrapped. He pictured
his father packing them and locked his jaw, angry with himself for not being there for him. Angry that he'd been convicted, and that Jack—

He tried to pretend it didn't matter, that he understood, but he didn't. How could Jack think that he'd—

All the anger in the world wouldn't alter the past.

He inhaled and sighed, determined he wouldn't spend his life bitter over something he couldn't change. Maybe one day Jack would come back, call, something.

The third box held Christmas ornaments, some glass and fairly expensive, collected over the years. Some were faded and worn and made by him and Jack in school. A cross made from craft sticks, a candy cane from pipe cleaners. A snowman made from a gym sock. He smiled at the mix and pictured the family Christmas tree in all its glory.

A small box, taped shut instead of the flaps being crossed over each other caught his eye. A knot gripped his stomach. Joe swallowed as he removed the box of Christmas ornaments from the seat of the rocking chair where he'd set them.

Legs weak, he sat down in the creaking rocker. Surely his father hadn't— But why would he keep them?

The box on his lap, Joe carefully peeled the tape off the side, but instead of popping up after being released, the flaps stayed down. He hesi
tated, imagining the scent of baby lotion. He lifted one flap, then another, and pink greeted his eyes.

Joe reached inside the box and gathered his hands full of baby-soft, pink material. A couple sleeping gowns, several dresses, blankets. Tiny pink bibs and booties that would barely fit his thumb. He closed his eyes and brought them all to his face, inhaled over and over again. The scent was faint, so faint maybe he imagined it, but it didn't matter. It was there. It was Josie.

He didn't know how long he stayed in that room. The storm passed over. The light overhead flickered but didn't go off. Finally, Joe carefully placed everything back in the box and pressed the not-so-sticky tape into place.

Undecided as to what to do with it until he was shown which room would be his, he placed the box in the seat of the rocking chair. His mother would watch over Josie's things just like she watched over Josie in heaven.

A
SHLEY COULDN'T HELP
but stare at Joe. Since he'd returned from going through his father's things he hadn't said two words. And rather than being hungry from all the work he'd done, he pushed his food around his plate and looked as though he'd lost his best friend.

“Something wrong with the chicken? Is it too salty?”

“'Course it ain't too salty,” Wilson answered. “The boy's just tired that's all. Ain't you, Joe?”

Joe nodded once in response.

Ashley didn't think that was it, but she wasn't about to press him for details when it was none of her business. She ate the last bite of her noodles and stood. “You're feeling the fall, aren't you?” she asked as she carried her plate to the sink. “I have some over-the-counter pain reliever if you'd like some.”

“I'm fine. I'd like to turn in though,” he said softly.

“Of course. I'll show you to your room.” She waited while Wilson and Joe exchanged good-
nights, and Joe grabbed his duffel. “Your room's upstairs,” Ashley murmured as she led the way out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front stairs. At the top she turned right and entered the first door on the left. She tried to see the room through Joe's eyes, but gave up and watched for some sign of reaction instead.

She'd already repainted the white ceiling, and the walls were now a soft, robin's egg blue. Plain white curtains covered the windows and gave privacy without blocking out the light, and she'd placed a hand-stitched quilt of blue, taupe, yellow and soft burgundy at the bottom of the bed. A lighter-weight cream-colored blanket covered the sheets, ready for use when the hot days turned into cool nights.

“The bathroom is through there,” she said, pointing. “And there are plenty of towels under the sink. Help yourself. Just leave them in the hamper and I'll get them when I change the sheets on the bed.”

Joe remained quiet and her hand gripped the antique doorknob. “If you need something else—”

“It's fine,” he murmured, his voice rough and gritty.

“Are you sure?”

Joe dropped his bag to the floor and ran his hands over his face, rubbing harshly as a gusty sigh escaped his chest. “It's the nicest room I've had in a long time, Ashley. I like it.”

Relief swept through her and she smiled. “There are two closets in this room.” She bit her lip and wished she could've taken the inane comment back. The man only carried a duffel. He obviously didn't need two closets and she'd sounded like an idiot suggesting it. She blamed her nervous chatter on his mood. Quiet and brooding on a man of Joe's size and appearance would make anybody agitated.

“I'll, uh, let you get settled in. If you need that ibuprofen, it's in the cabinet by the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Max's cries drifted to them and Joe jerked a thumb toward the door where she stood. “Max is crying.”

And that was obviously her cue to get out. She let go of the knob. “That he is. Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning.”

Joe turned in time to watch as Ashley fled the room, then followed and gently closed the door. Rain hit the window in a soothing medley that matched the blue decor, but inside he was anything but soothed.

Inside he shook and couldn't seem to stop. It had started when he'd held Josie's things. He'd done his best to control his emotions during dinner, but not any longer.

He was finally out of prison. Finally on his own.

In a beautiful room in a beautiful home. Free.

And not free at all considering that outside this room, the whole town would watch his every move.

With his back to the door he slid down the length of it until he sat on the floor.

Last night he hadn't been able to sleep for excitement, fear. Wondering what would come next and now—

Everything was nice. Pretty and homey. Ashley Cade had obviously worked hard to make the room welcoming for whomever was willing to take on the job.

The thing was it was too perfect. Too good to be true. He didn't want to touch anything because he didn't want to mess it up. What would it be like to sleep on a real mattress again? On a big bed with plenty of room instead of a lumpy pallet? Soft sheets surrounding him instead of rough, scratchy ones? What would it be like to awake to the sun instead of a bell announcing roll call?

After a good ten minutes passed, a good ten minutes where he sat there to soak it all in, Joe rolled to his knees and got up to enter the bathroom.
His
bathroom.

First he'd shower without twenty other guys around. Scrub off the rain and the dirt, and hopefully, ten years of memories.

When he finished he'd lay on that pretty bed, stare at his room, and plan the life he was determined to have. Plan on how he would make up for the ten long years he'd lost.

 

A
SHLEY AWOKE
to a combination of Max crying and sunlight glaring in her face.

Right on schedule.

She turned over and hoped against hope Max would stop whimpering and go back to sleep.

How did other single mothers do this? Day after day, week after week. Year after year?

The thought brought a tug to her heart. She was tired, exhausted from too little sleep and weepy from PMS, but no matter how tired or grumpy or hormonal, she never regretted Max.

Although moments like this made her wonder if this was how her mother felt before she'd abandoned her in a bus station.

The incident was blurred by time and fear. One moment her mom, a thin shadowy figure with dark hair and a soft voice, had been there, and then she wasn't. The police were called. And at five, Ashley was placed into temporary foster care while police hunted for her mother or a relative, then delivered her to the children's home.

Had her mother had the same problems? The same fears? Had she left her to try and give her a better life, or because she simply didn't want her anymore? It was a question she'd never know the answer to.

Max's cries increased in intensity and Ashley flung back the covers and got out of bed. She hurried through the bathroom and into the nursery
to find Max holding on to the bars of his crib and watching the door for her.

She smiled. “Hey, little man. What's the matter?” Ashley picked him up and snuggled his warm, stocky body close. “You're ready for breakfast, huh? You know the drill.” She laid him back down and talked to him nonstop while she quickly changed his wet diaper. That done, she picked him up again and carried him with her down the hall to the stairs.

Halfway down she hesitated, wondering if she'd lost her mind or if the scent in the air could actually be coffee. From the broken coffeemaker?

On the last step, she stopped and stared at Joe. “You're up.”

And he was gorgeous. The man had on jeans and a T-shirt, his chest honed with muscle. The shirt clung to him, delineating six-pack abs like those shown on TV.

She looked down at her bleach-spotted nightshirt and holey summer robe and wanted to groan—not that she needed to impress him or anything. Not that she wanted to. Still, it would've been nice to have made some sort of impression besides…this.

“I didn't know when you wanted to get started.”

She bit her lip and glanced at the clock above the stove. She didn't want to start this early, that was for sure. “Oh, well, not just yet. Max is hungry and I'll have to get him settled before—”

“An hour? Two?” Joe leaned his hips against the countertop behind him, a coffee cup in his hand.

Coffee? Her gaze zeroed in on the steaming mug. It
was
coffee. “Two.” She shook her head, dazed. “I can't think straight yet. Did you fix the machine?” She stepped down and hurried over to the coffeemaker, forgetting in her haste for a cup of brain power that doing so put her in such close proximity to Joe.

“A wire had come loose, that's all.”

Max began to whimper again and she bounced him in her arms, her mouth watering at the smell of the hot, rich brew.

“Thanks. I don't think I could've gone another day without coffee. That was the start of my problems yesterday.”

She thought she saw a smile flicker across Joe's face before he turned away and reached into an overhead cabinet. “Take care of Max while I pour you a cup.”

She didn't argue. Instead she carried Max over to the countertop, which butted up against the fridge where she left his canned formula. She measured the powdered mixture into an already prepared bottle of store-bought water and shook. When it was well mixed, she turned and noted three things at once: a steaming cup of coffee waited for her on the table with the powdered
creamer and sugar beside it, a chair was pulled out ready for her to sit down and…Joe was gone.

 

N
O ONE WAS AT THE DESK
when Joe walked through the doors at Ridgewood, so he kept walking down the hall and around the corner, past the cafeteria. Several people were already sitting at tables, some in wheelchairs, some with canes. A few looked up as he walked by, but only one continued to stare.

“Mrs. H.,” he murmured, nodding as he tried to slip by her.

“Mr. Brody, back again?”

Joe paused, unable to keep going when Mrs. H. had the decency to talk to him. Grouchy or not.

“Yes, ma'am. I hope to be around a lot until he's released.”

Behind the glasses, her penciled-in brows rose. “I'm sure he'll like that. He's missed having his boys around.”

He got the hint. Joe nodded and glanced down the hall, more weight on the foot already pointed toward his father's room. “Yeah, well, nice seeing you. I have to be at work soon.”

A small smile curled her lips and she nodded regally, a queen dismissing her servant. “A job already? Very good, Mr. Brody, you've done well.” She lifted a bony hand and shooed him. “So go on with you. We wouldn't want you to be late.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Joe did as ordered, and a
minute later he knocked softly on his pop's door before entering.

“Come on in, Marcie. I'm ready for my tray.”

Joe shut the door behind him. “Hey, Pop.”

“Joe!” Ted Brody laughed and waved him over to the bed. “Didn't think I'd see you so soon. Grab a seat. Where'd you spend the night? Did you make it to the bank and the safety deposit box before they closed?”

He shook his head. “Didn't need to. I got a job fixing up your friend's old house for room and board.”

His father's head dipped several times in a nod. “I figured Wilson would help you out. Hoped so anyway. So that woman, the one who owns it now, she didn't mind hirin' you on?”

Nothing like getting to the point. Joe stared down at his hands. “She doesn't know about my record if that's what you're asking.”

A sharp whistle split the air.

“I don't like it, either, but Wilson said to let her get to know me before I tell her the truth. That way she has something else to go by.”

His pop nodded his agreement even though his frown deepened. “Wilson knows her so he ought to know what's best.”

“I still don't like it,” Joe stated honestly. “She's going to be furious when she finds out.” He paused. “She, uh, has a little boy. A toddler.”

His dad sent him a hard stare. “You okay?”

Joe stared down at the floor. “He's a bit older than Josie,” he murmured. “But it seems like every time I look at him, I see her.”

His dad reached out a hand, his grip comforting where it clasped his forearm. “You been to see her grave yet?”

Shamed, he shook his head. “No. After running into Hal yesterday I'm trying to keep a low profile. That was another one of Wilson's suggestions. To work and stay quiet and let people get used to me again.”

“Don't let anybody treat you badly, Joe. Hear me? You went to prison for something you didn't do. Don't let them treat you like you're still there. Hold your head up high. Wilson's my friend, but he ain't always right.”

 

A
N HOUR AFTER FINISHING
her cup of coffee, Ashley made the same trip down the stairs except this time, she'd showered and dressed both Max and herself, and she could now claim to be halfway awake.

“There's my boy,” Wilson greeted from the living room. “He keep you up again?”

Ashley carried Max over and placed him on Wilson's lap as she had nearly every morning for the past few months. The awkwardness that had existed between them and Wilson when they'd first arrived was long gone.

“Not too bad. He got up a few times.” Three, but who was counting? She glanced around. “Where's Joe?”

Wilson smiled when Max wrapped his baby fingers around one of his. “Haven't seen him since I've been up. Do I smell coffee?”

She smoothed her hand over Max's head and went into the kitchen. “Yeah,” she said loud enough to be heard over the morning news. “Max and I came down earlier and Joe had fixed the machine.” She poured Wilson a cup of coffee and doctored it with creamer and sugar before carrying it to him. After setting it on the side table where Wilson could reach it, she plucked Max up and set him on a blanket on the floor.

“There you go. You play down here while Wilson gets his fix.” She dropped her hands to her hips and wondered the best way to broach the subject she wanted to discuss. With Wilson, it always paid to be direct. “So…what's going on?”

Wilson paused in the act of lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if Joe is so talented at so many things,
why
is he willing to work for nothing?”

“Max got you up more than once last night, didn't he?”

Her gaze narrowed. “You're avoiding my question.”

“He's a good boy.”

She inhaled and sighed, her suspicions confirmed. “Wilson Woodrow,
what
is going on?”