A Father For Zach (5 page)

Uneven footsteps on the stairs alerted him she was on her way down, and he worked the shirt over his head and down his chest. Then he leaned back against the kitchen counter, palms flat, fingers curled around the edge.

Wondering what was going to happen next.

She took two steps into the room and stopped, frowning. “Your shirt’s wet.”

“I rinsed it out. It’ll dry.”

“You can’t wear a wet shirt. Why don’t you throw it in the dryer?”

He shrugged and tried for a smile, but he only managed to coax up one side of his mouth. “I’m not accustomed to sitting in a woman’s kitchen without a shirt.”

“Oh.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth, and he watched as uncertainty gave way to decision. “I have a shirt you can wear.”

She disappeared before he could respond, and he heard her rummaging through some boxes in the front of the house. She returned with an Atlanta Braves jersey. A large one. Her husband’s?

Holding it out, she gave him the glimmer of a smile when he hesitated. “Wrong team?”

“I’m okay in this, if you’d rather…if that was your husband’s.”

Her smile faded. “It was, a long time ago. I used it as a sleep shirt for a while. No one’s worn it in years. I’m not even sure why I brought it. It has no sentimental value, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He
had
been thinking that. Until she’d mentioned she’d slept in it.

Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and took it from her. “Okay.” After turning his back, he stripped off the T-shirt, slipped the jersey over his head and wadded his own shirt into a ball.

“Why don’t you let me throw that in the dryer? By the time you leave, it will be ready to put back on.” She took a step toward him and held out her hand.

He gave her the glob of damp fabric. “Thanks.”

She disappeared again, through another door off the kitchen, and a few seconds later he heard the distinctive sound of a dryer at work.

When she reappeared, she hovered near the door. Tuck
ing her hair behind her ear, she clasped her hands in front of her and shifted from one foot to the other. “Would you like to sit?”

She was nervous. Really nervous. Because he was in her kitchen again? Or because she didn’t want to explain the incident with Zach?

Probably both.

It had been a long time since he’d had any occasion to practice social graces. Longer still since he’d dealt with a nervous woman. But he dug deep for whatever skills might be in hibernation, hoping they thawed quickly.

Adopting a relaxed posture, he crossed the room and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. There was no sense avoiding the obvious topic, but maybe he could lead into it.

“Will Zach be okay?”

She took the chair on the opposite side of the small table, keeping the expanse of oak between them. Resting her hands on top, she folded them into a tight knot and focused on her knuckles.

“He should be. He’s always tired after one of these episodes, and sleep is the best thing for him. I expect he’ll be a little clingy for the next few days, though. This was a bad one.”

Moistening her lips, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened. Most kids don’t freak out over spilled spaghetti sauce.”

“He thought it was blood.” He said the words quietly, watching her. As long as she’d given him an opening, why pretend he hadn’t heard Zach’s comment?

“Yes. It goes back to an incident he witnessed when he was four.”

Silence descended, broken only by the distant caw of a gull.

When it lengthened, Nathan spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She unclenched her hands and massaged the center of her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “But in light of what happened earlier, you need to hear the story. That way you’ll understand if Zach isn’t his usual perky self for the next few days.”

She reclenched her hands and swallowed. “Every Saturday morning, my husband and Zach used to go up to the corner convenience store to buy the weekend paper and a cinnamon roll. It was a ritual they both loved. Two years ago, while they were in the store, an armed robber came in.”

Her voice faltered, and Nathan caught a shimmer in her green eyes. He wanted to reach over and cover her clasped fingers with his own. But he resisted, afraid she would be offended—or spooked—by the gesture.

“One of the other customers later said David turned to tuck Zach behind him. To protect him. The robber claimed he thought David was intending to rush him. To try and stop him.” Her words were shakier now. But he also heard a hard undercurrent of anger. “So he shot my husband in the chest. Twice. Then he ran off while David bled to death on the floor and Zach watched.”

The air whooshed out of Nathan’s lungs and his stomach contorted as her stark words sank in. No wonder Zach had freaked out at the sight of spaghetti sauce all over his new friend’s chest. No wonder Catherine was so protective of her son. No wonder she was wary around strangers.

He saw her bottom lip quiver. Watched as she dropped her chin and closed her eyes. Heard her suck in a harsh breath.

“I don’t know what to say.” He wasn’t a word man. Never had been. And he’d never cared about that deficiency—until this moment. Heart aching, he wished he could dredge up some sentiment that would console this traumatized woman. “Sorry doesn’t come close to capturing how badly I feel for your loss.” It was the best he could do.

“Thank you.” She kept her head down. Took another breath. When at last she looked up, she seemed more in control. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cry. I decided long ago that tears wouldn’t change anything.”

He wanted to tell her it was okay to weep over such a loss, but he didn’t know her well enough to offer that kind of advice. So he stayed with the facts.

“Does this kind of thing with Zach happen often?”

“Not anymore. He hasn’t retained much memory of the actual incident. But he has a vivid emotional memory, according to the child psychologist I took him to for a year. Meaning the sight of blood can trigger a very strong response. In the beginning, even a cut finger could set him off. Now, it takes a lot of blood—or what he thinks is blood—to produce an extreme reaction like he had today.”

Nathan folded his own hands on top of the table. “Did they catch the guy who shot your husband?”

Her eyes hardened, the green irises chilling to the color of jade. “Yes. Within thirty minutes. He’s in prison now, and if I have anything to say about it, he’ll stay there for the rest of his life.”

She shoved back her chair with enough force to startle Nathan, then rose to pace the room despite her limp, her posture taut, the planes of her face sharp with agitation. “I’ll never forget sitting at his trial, listening to the defense attorney try to excuse his behavior and make a case for a
reduced sentence. He’d come from an impoverished background. He was raised in a broken home. The system had failed him by not recognizing the need to remove him from a dysfunctional environment. He got in with a bad crowd. It was society’s fault.” Sarcasm dripped from her words as she mimicked the arguments that had been put forth.

Swinging toward him, she gripped the back of a chair, her eyes flashing with anger—and another emotion that was all too familiar to him.

Hate.

“The sympathy card didn’t work with me. When I looked at that creep who exhibited not one single shred of human decency, who never once expressed an iota of regret for what he’d done, I didn’t see a victim. I saw a killer. A violent criminal who got exactly what he deserved. I hope he rots in prison for the rest of his life. Along with all the other malicious felons who don’t deserve any more consideration than they gave their victims.”

As Catherine’s merciless assessment quivered in the air between them, Nathan tried to breathe. Tried to keep his stomach from curdling. Tried to distance himself from her tirade.

But he couldn’t.

Because his participation in the armed robbery of a convenience store was what had put him behind bars for ten years.

No one had been killed in that incident. But they could have been. He and Trace had both been nervous. If someone had tried to stop them, he didn’t think his partner in crime would have hesitated to use his gun. In the heat of the moment, as his own panic and self-preservation instincts kicked in, he might have, too. And in the process,
he might have snuffed out the life of a good man like David Walker.

That was the harsh truth of it.

Meaning he was no better than the man Catherine hated.

As the silence between them lengthened, her knuckles whitened on the back of the chair and her chin tipped up. “I’m sorry if that sounds callous. But it’s how I feel.”

“I can understand your bitterness.” Somehow he got the hoarse words past his choked throat.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and he could feel the tension vibrating in her body. “My father thinks I’ll never find peace until I forgive the man who killed my husband. But he doesn’t have to deal with a traumatized child. Nor did he lose the partner he loved. When I asked him how a caring God could let such a thing happen, he didn’t have an answer that made sense to me. And he’s a minister.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to understand God’s ways.”

“No kidding.” She gave a derisive snort.

“I didn’t think He cared, either, until two years ago.” The revelation came out before he could stop it, catching him off guard. He didn’t talk much about his newfound faith. A lot of his fellow inmates had ribbed him about it, and he’d learned to keep this thoughts to himself. His cherished relationship with the Lord had been fragile in the beginning, and he’d done his best to protect it. Nurture it.

But it was strong enough now to withstand ridicule and attack. And somehow he sensed Catherine could benefit from hearing a little piece of his story. “Some bad things had happened to me, too, and I was angry at Him—and the world.”

Her grip on the chair eased a fraction. “What changed your mind?”

“Love.” It might not be the profound answer she’d been looking for, but it was the truth. “I finally opened myself to love from my siblings—and from God. It changed my life—and taught me that despite the bad stuff, goodness does exists as a strong, sustaining force that casts light into the darkest places. It also taught me how to forgive.”

Quiet descended in the room, Catherine apparently as surprised as he was by his unexpected eloquence.

As she straightened up, there was a soul-deep sadness in her eyes—and resignation in their depths. “You’re a better person than I am, that’s all I can say.”

“No.” His dissent was swift. “That’s not true. In spite of a terrible tragedy, you’re doing a good job with Zach. And you’re creating a new life for the two of you. That takes strength—and a lot of courage.”

Once more, he caught a suspicious sheen in her eyes before she turned away. “It doesn’t take courage to do what you have to do. And any strength you think you see is an illusion.” She pulled open the freezer and buried her head in the icy depths. “If you want to wash up, I’ll put the pizza in the oven. Zach won’t sleep long.”

Taking the cue, he rose and pushed through the back door. And as he headed to the sink in the guest quarters where he always cleaned up, he mulled over the dilemma he now faced.

He had hoped coming to Nantucket would give him a fresh start. One unencumbered by his checkered history. J.C. and Marci had both encouraged him to leave the past behind after he was released from prison, to focus on the future. And they’d done everything they could to help him. They’d offered moral support. They’d rented Edith’s cottage for him for the entire summer to help smooth his tran
sition back to the civilian world and give him a chance to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. They’d even plied him with art supplies.

But maybe it had been a pipe dream to think he could start over with a blank canvas, he conceded, a pang echoing in his heart as he sudsed his hands. Maybe he’d never be able to wash away the taint of his mistakes. Sooner or later, people would learn about his record. He’d hoped it would be later, after he’d established some credibility and trust in the community. But if other residents felt even half as strongly about people with criminal pasts as Catherine did, he was doomed.

Grabbing a towel, he dried his hands and debated his next move. Should he keep his secret for now, hoping that in time his friendship with her might grow to the point where his past was less important? Or should he be upfront and put the outcome in God’s hands?

No answer came to him as he hung the towel back on the rack and stepped into the room he’d transformed over the past five days. Maybe he should sleep on the decision. And pray for guidance.

Opting for that plan, he headed back to the house to eat pizza.

And hoped it didn’t get stuck in his throat.

“That was good, Mrs. Walker. Thank you for inviting me.”

As Nathan wiped his lips on a paper napkin and crumbled it into a ball, Catherine examined his plate. Half of one of the two pieces of pizza he’d taken remained.

The episode with Zach must have killed his appetite. And her angry tirade hadn’t helped. She hadn’t meant to rant about the man who’d taken David’s life. But as she’d
feared, once she’d opened the floodgates, her fury had poured through.

Unfortunately, her intuition that this man, too, had endured heartache and would understand her feelings appeared to have been off base. Since he’d returned from the guest quarters, he’d distanced himself. An almost tangible tension crackled in the air.

Stifling a surge of disappointment, she attempted to restore the easy give and take that had begun to develop between them. “I’m glad you stayed for dinner. And let’s make it Catherine. I think we’ve moved past the
Mrs.
stage, don’t you?”

Zach spoke up before he could respond. “Do we have any cookies, Mom?”

“I think I can round up a few.” She rose and walked to the pantry. “Would you like some coffee, Nathan?”

“No.” He stood, too. “I need to be going.”

“Already?” Zach gave him a disappointed look.

“It’s way past quitting time, champ.” Nathan leaned over and tousled Zach’s hair. “And I have things to do tonight.”