C's Comeuppance: A Bone Cold--Alive novel (14 page)

Yesterday—Friday—had been a repeat of that with the exception of the hour he’d taken to himself after lunch. He’d sat in Fletch’s office and ordered all calls to be held. He’d fingered Fletch’s expensive pen collection and finally settled on a Mont Blanc. He’d unscrewed the top and made flourishes with the nib on BCA stationery, before settling to the task that he didn’t want to do, but knew he had to for his peace of mind. For his soul.

He wrote Abby a ‘Dear Mary’ letter. Well, in effect, he wrote four. Each one got simpler, although he tore up the fifth, the one that just said “good-bye.” He decided that sounded a bit too much like a suicide note, and he’d be damned if Abby would have the pleasure of hypothesizing about that on the airwaves.

He settled on the fourth one. His decision to ask her to marry had been a bad one. Hers to accept had not been well thought out. It was a mistake they should rectify now. She deserved better than he. She needed stability, she needed loyalty—two qualities that he lacked. He told her money wasn’t the answer to everything and they should both be glad that he had the courage to make this decision before it went too far and her heart was broken.

He’d folded the note precisely and put it in an envelope, sealed it. He slid it into his jacket pocket, arranged Fletch’s desk back to its original state, and left the office.

Last night, when Abby had gone to the bathroom for the last time, he’d slipped from bed and put the note on the coffee table in the living room where she would drop the morning paper for them to read together. He’d thought to awaken first, go out to get breakfast. Be a coward. But if he were alone now, she must have beaten him to it.

He sat up. Abby’s side of his bed was cold and he didn’t hear the shower. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds of the condo. Street noise drifted up through the open window and source of sunlight. A slight breeze shook the blinds and they rattled.

“Abby!” he called, but he got no response. Jerking the covers off his naked form, he hastily pulled on a pair of discarded silk boxers before going into the living room.

She was at the front door. Her chin was tipped up, a decided deer-in-the-headlights look to her eyes. She had her small overnight bag with her, the one she had quickly reinstated into his bathroom after he’d proposed. There was no smell of coffee; the newspaper was unopened on the countertop. His note was still on the coffee table, still propped where he had left it. Abby wasn’t going because of him. Abby was going because of something else.

“Abs?” He stood there, hands on his hips. His fingers picked at the elastic in the waistband of the boxers and his eyebrows furrowed. “Abby, what’s going on?”

“I’m going, C.” She confirmed his suspicions. With stilettos in hand, Abby was slinking away.

“I don’t understand.” It might not hurt to play the injured party here.

“Don’t you?”

“Abby, maybe you should have awakened me so we could discuss this.” He shifted his weight. “Whatever this is.” God, he was good. Maybe Fletch should push for a movie contract next.

“There’s a note on the counter.”

His eyes drifted to a sheet of paper towel rolled up and left in his regular coffee mug. Black lines seemed hieroglyphic at this angle. “Going to the store?” She tapped her fingernails on the door knob.

“Go-ing. Like in good-bye—whatever was I thinking?”

“Whatever were you thinking—”

She sighed and removed her hand from the door. She took a couple of steps toward him but set down neither tote nor handbag. He didn’t need her looking toward the coffee table now, so he shifted his weight toward the kitchen, made her watch him. “Whatever was I thinking to agree to marry you.”

C crossed his arms on his chest. “That’s not what you were saying Saturday when the big rock appeared.” He walked to the countertop and shook his mug. No sound. “Like where is the big rock?”

She splayed her fingers. The ring perched jauntily on the middle finger of her right hand.

“See, we are still engaged. Would you like to tell me what this is all about?” He decided on a devil-may-care approach and settled on a barstool. “Like, am I the last to know?”

Abby dropped her shoes and stepped into them. Her short skirt hiked on her thighs and C blew out his breath appreciatively. “No, you’re not the last to know. Why don’t you just read the note?”

“I’m not a visual learner. Enlighten me verbally.”

“C—” She rolled her eyes and studied the ceiling.

“You do owe me an explanation. Or, at the very least, an engagement ring.” Was she really keeping his ring?

“I think I get to keep the ring. Stress and all, you know.”

He nodded. “Well, no, I don’t really know.” He shifted on the barstool, leaned on the counter. “I’ve never been dumped like this.”

“You were always into new experiences. I decided to give you one.”
“No dice, Abby. You’re walking out?”

She set her jaw and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Consider me gone.”

“And this is because—”

“Oh, C, you are so impossible!”

He decided on righteous indignation. “You didn’t have to say yes! Did the stone just dazzle your eyes? In a week’s time, have you discovered something about me you didn’t know? Huh, Abs? Whatever could you know now you didn’t know two months ago?” He felt heat spreading up his neck and across his face. “Is there someone else?” Now
that
would be the insult!

“No, no, no, and NO!” She studied her feet before raising her eyes to his. “I can’t do it, C. I just cannot put myself out there like that. I can’t be what you want.”

“Which is?”

“God, that I know. I don’t think you do. But I’m not it. For you, I’m an easy lay, a wonderful dance partner, someone to pull into the spotlight but never share it equally. I don’t want to be in your shadow!”

“I’m not asking you to give up anything! Have I said ‘quit work’?
Have I said stay home and have babies?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“And I’m not going to.”

“Oh, C, all men are ‘going to.’ You aren’t capable of an equal relationship.”

“Yes, I am.” He warmed to the topic. “Look at T! He and that harridan are as fifty-fifty as anything I’ve ever seen.”

“And where was she this week?”

“Spending his money building that god-awful mansion with a revolving floor to catch the sunlight on the grand piano! Can you believe?”

Abby shook her head. “I’m not going to make you repeat that. I’m not. My point is there is no such thing as fifty-fifty, not even in T’s beloved marriage. No matter what you think.” She started back toward the door. “I’m out of here. Out before we have a pre-nup, out before we have a divorce. Out before there are children or pets or reputations in worse tatters than they already are. I can’t do it, C. I can’t be absorbed by you. On the other hand, I can’t make you grow up either.” She opened the door, went halfway through, turned back. “Two things. One, I am keeping the ring. Just call it an advance on pain-and-suffering. Besides, I need a new car. Two, make sure you read that paper towel.”

“Abby, stop! What—what are we going to tell everyone? What are you going to tell them at the network?”

She tapped her toe. “Don’t want them to know I bailed out on you? That
I
ditched
you
?”

C took a deep breath. “I want our stories to be the same.” He paused.

“Whatever happened to the truth?”

“If you wish.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re giving in awfully easy. I don’t trust you.” He shrugged. “Okay, let’s just say it was mutual. How’s that?” He nodded. “Read that towel, C.”

The door had clicked behind her for a good minute before C lifted the towel from its holder. He smoothed it out on the counter. The note had been written with a great deal of emotion. The two-ply was torn in several places.

“C,” it read, “I’ve slept with you for a year. But when we made love this week, something’s gone from you. I don’t know where you left your heart, but I suggest you go find it. If you thought I had it, you were wrong. A.”

Ditched! No one had ever ditched Edward Charles Samuels! Not in junior high, not in high school. Not in the easy bar relationships in New Orleans or the myriad one-night stands that followed them on the road. He’d always been the one to call it quits, to say good-bye. He’d even filed for his divorce.

Now, Abigail Sander was walking out on him? How dare she? Who did she think she was? Some princess too good for the likes of him? Bet her family tree was no more diverse than his! In fact, he thought as he started drawing the paper towel into a tighter and tighter ball in his fist, it probably resembled a telephone pole!

His ire stoked, C tossed the towel toward the refrigerator. It hit the floor with a soft slide.

He started laughing. Where was his good sense? How lucky was he? Abby ditched him—he was the injured party! He was the good guy!

Stumbling to the living area, he rolled across the back of the sofa and retrieved the note he’d written.
Bingo!
Let her keep that ring. He could buy another and he knew the finger it would fit on perfectly.

The hollow in the pit of his stomach was gone. He’d just made a good decision.

Chapter Thirteen

“M
iss Jemma?”

Jemma finished dumping the chalks and crayons into their bin in the Sunday school classroom before turning to face her questioner. “Yes, Harrison? You forget something?” She reached for the scissors and leftover strips of construction paper. Today’s lesson had centered on the baby Moses and the kids had been weaving baskets.

“Nah.” He looked at the toe of his shoe, stubbed it on the linoleum. Finally, he looked at her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. “We got ten minutes before church starts. That enough time?”

“Hope so.” He perched on the low table. His tone was somber, and for a nine-year-old, seemed very out of place.

“Is something wrong, Harrison?” Jemma sat in a chair so their eyes were level.

“No, but I got a question.” He studied his hands and clenched them between his knees. “Miss Jemma, my daddy’s in heaven, right?” He avoided her eyes and concentrated on the blackboard where they’d written this week’s Bible verse.

Jemma felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She’d taught children’s Sunday school for ten years and thought she’d heard it all. Obviously not.

“Yes, your daddy’s in heaven.”

“So, does he know what’s going on down here? Like with me?” He finally looked at her. His brows were furrowed and his mouth set in a straight line.

“I think there’s some debate on that, Harrison. Maybe the preacher would be a better source for you on that one.” She paused. “Have you done something you wouldn’t want your daddy to know about?”

“No.” His tone changed slightly. “But I’m thinking about it and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Jemma leaned an elbow on the table and rested the side of her face in her hand. “Why don’t you just spit out whatever you’re worried about?”

He took a deep breath. “The new baby,” Jemma nodded, not wanting to miss any of this logic, “well, when the new baby comes, he’ll be my brother.”

“Or sister.”

He shook his head. “I told them I didn’t want a sister.”

Jemma motioned for him to continue.

“Anyway, when the baby comes, Sam’ll be his daddy, right?”

“Right.”

“And he’ll call Sam Daddy, right?”

“Right.” Jemma drew the word out, caught onto the angst.

“But I call Sam Sam.” He cocked his head and folded his arms across his chest. “Won’t that confuse the baby?”

“Not right away. So you’re—”

He cut her off. Having worked up his courage to approach the subject, it seemed little was going to stop him now. “So I was wondering if maybe I should call Sam Daddy or Dad and then I thought, what would my real daddy think of that? And I asked Bertie and she said my daddy loved my mama and me so much he’d only want us to be happy. But I thought maybe I should ask you, too, since we’re the ones that talk about God and Jesus and I don’t want to hurt my real daddy. And I don’t want to ask the preacher and then I thought, what’ll Grandpa think and I don’t want to hurt him.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I got a problem.”

Jemma sat still and tried to absorb his speech. “Have you talked to your mother?”

“No. I think maybe she would like for me to call Sam Dad because she always talks about us being a family. And I heard Grandmother tell Mama when they didn’t think I was listening that she was looking forward to having another grandbaby. Except this isn’t
really
her grandbaby, not like Hannah and me. But if she’s going to think about the baby like it’s really hers, then maybe I could think about Sam like he’s really mine.”

Jemma blinked. Hannah. Lyla’s daughter lost in a sudden storm along with her husband. She swallowed. How to answer him? “Harrison, you’ve done a lot of thinking on this and I’m proud of you for it. Have you asked Sam about this?”

“No.” He swung his legs. “I thought I’d decide it for myself first.” He looked at her. “If you were Sam, what would you think, Miss Jemma?”

“If I were Sam, I’d be honored to have you call me Dad.”

“And my real daddy?”

“Just what Bertie said, Harrison. He loved you and your mama so much, he only wants you to be safe and happy. Sam seems to have done both of those things.”

He nodded. “Grandpa won’t like it.”

“Why don’t you let your grandmother take care of that?”

“Like we usually do, huh?” He hopped off the table and stood in front of her. “Thanks, Miss Jemma. Now I can think about it better.” His slick soles slid across the floor. Once on the carpet, he ran down the hall in the direction of the sanctuary.

The bell rang for church, but Jemma didn’t move. She was already late for the choir’s rehearsal of the morning anthem. She put her head in her hands. It should be so simple for Harrison to just call Sam Dad, but he had put a spin on it that showed him to be a thinker and worrier. Oh, child, she thought as she stood and took a final look around the classroom, you know, it just doesn’t get any easier.