Out of the Shadows (5 page)

She remembered her confession. He’d hardly controlled the discussion. Would’ve been a lot better for her if he had!

Teasing and flirting had never been part of Patrice’s personality. Yet with Wade, the two seemed to go hand in hand as naturally as the stars went with the inky sky. “Well, you’re not a
complete
oaf, anyway,” she said, blinking up at him.

“Keep looking at me that way,” he said, one hand on either side of her face, “and you’re gonna find out real fast what a barbarian I can be.”

Immediately, Patrice tensed, for his left palm was touching her scar. She tried to wriggle free of his embrace, but he held tight.

“No need to pretend it isn’t there, Patrice. I saw it in your office and again in your foyer. I’m a cardiologist, remember? I’ve seen thousands of scars. I’ve
made
thousands of scars.”

She bit her lower lip, closed her eyes.
Please, Lord,
she prayed,
make him—

He wove his fingers into her hair, combing it back and exposing the scar, then pressed his lips to the gnarled, angry flesh on her cheek, her temple, the corner of her eye. Slowly, he made his way to her forehead, her chin, the tip of her nose.

This wasn’t what she’d meant when, seconds ago, she’d asked for Divine intervention…

…but when Wade’s lips found hers, she realized it was exactly what she’d been wanting.

The familiar flutter of fear rolled in her gut. Too much too soon had brought her nothing but pain in the past.

Well, a girl can hope,
she quickly tacked on.

The pleasant chatter they’d enjoyed during those last minutes in the restaurant continued during the drive home. Wade chose a collection of old country and western tunes to entertain them this time, and now and again, sang a line or two with Willie Nelson or Patsy Kline. Patrice enjoyed every note, even though his singing voice reminded her more of a rusty hinge than any melody she’d ever heard.

When he parked in front of her house, he turned in his seat and placed a big hand on her shoulder. “Since you already know what a clod I am, I guess it won’t do any harm to invite myself in for a cup of coffee….”

Her heart fluttered. She could barely make out his features in the darkness, yet somehow she knew those bright hazel eyes were boring into her, hoping for an affirmative answer. As she’d dressed for dinner, she’d determined to be pleasant and polite, nothing more, no matter what he said. But things had taken an odd turn somewhere along the way. There didn’t seem to be much point in pretending she wasn’t…interested.

“High-test or decaf?” she asked.

His quiet chuckle warmed her, right down to her toes.

“Decaf, if you have it.”

As they walked up the flagstone path, he casually draped an arm across her shoulders. Patrice liked the way it felt, and resisted the urge to lace her fingers with his.

“Let me just check on Dad,” she whispered, locking the door. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home in the
kitchen. I baked chocolate chip cookies this morning. Do me a favor and have a few.”

Wade nodded as she headed for the back of the house. She knocked softly and called, “Dad?”

“Come on in, Treecie.”

She opened the door a bit, poked her head through the opening. “So who won the boxing match?”

He chuckled. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Fell asleep before the first round ended.”

“Hungry?” she asked, stepping into the room.

“Not in the slightest.” He indicated the half-empty plate of cookies on his bedside table. “If you don’t stop doin’ stuff like that, I’m gonna be big as a house.”

She fluffed his pillows, smoothed the line-dried sheet over his blanket. “How about a nice cup of chamomile tea?”

“Thanks, but I’m about ready to turn out the light.” He winked. “You get back to your doctor. Just be careful, y’hear?”

The accident hadn’t dulled his paternal senses one whit. “Don’t worry. Things are going to be different this time.”

“Oh, really?” He inclined his head. “How so?”

Truthfully, she didn’t know, exactly. “Well, I’m taking my time, for starters.”

“Good girl.” He gave in to an enormous yawn. “Now give your old man a good-night kiss.”

One hand on either side of his whiskered face, she pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Don’t stay up too late, now. Tomorrow is Halloween and we have
plans
to make!”

“How could I forget?” she teased. “There must be a dozen scarecrows and pumpkins on the front porch!”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t seen nuttin’ yet. I made a tape today while you were at work.”

“Did Molly help?”

“I should say so. That woman has the most ear-piercing scream I ever heard. She oughta rent that voice out to the movie stars, for the scary parts of monster movies!”

Laughing, Patrice turned out the lights. “G’night, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he was saying as she closed his door.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Wade said when she entered the kitchen. “I rooted around in your cupboards until I found the coffee, got a nice head start on the brew.”

With the back of his hand, he brushed chocolate chip cookie crumbs from his lips, then took a swallow of milk. “These are great,” he said, using a half-eaten cookie as a pointer. “So you’re a good cook, I see.”

“I’m no gourmet,” she said, taking two mugs from the cabinet, “but I can whip up a respectable meat-and-potatoes meal when the situation calls for it.”

He nodded approvingly. “Most professional women I’ve known seem scared of kitchens.”

She wondered what it was about him that brought out this outrageously flirtatious side of her. Grinning, she said, “There’s not a gadget in this room that scares me, mister.”

Suddenly, the friendly light in his eyes dimmed. “Yeah. You’re all kinds of brave, aren’t you.”

Patrice had no idea what he was talking about, and said so.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Far be it for me to tell you how to run your life. Seems to me,
though, you’d live a lot longer if you’d stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

She could see by the caring expression on his face that he meant well, could hear the concern in his voice, too. Still, the advice irked her. “I’ve been on my own for a long time, Wade. I can take care of myself.”

He took another bite of the cookie. “Well, you won’t starve to death, that’s for sure.”

At least the mischievous grin was back. Patrice hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed looking at it until it disappeared. Finally, the pot hissed, signaling that the coffee was ready. “You take yours black, right?”

He turned a kitchen chair around, straddled it and rested his forearms on its back. “Brave as a lion, memory like an elephant. Maybe you should’ve been a veterinarian.”

She chose to ignore the remark, pouring milk into the creamer, instead. Wade took his time drinking the first cup of coffee, then helped himself to a second. For the next twenty minutes, he talked nonstop about guilt and blame and personal responsibility. Finally, lectured out, he stood and put his mug into the sink. “Promise me you’ll at least think about what I’ve said.”

She did her best not to reply in a bored monotone. “I’ll pray on it.”

His eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “Pray on it? What good do you think that’ll do? Religion, prayer, guilt—tools used by organized religion to make us feel beholden.”

She’d pray, all right, but not about whose fault the accident was. She’d ask God to give her the strength, the wisdom, the words that would turn Wade’s heart toward Christ.

He placed both hands on her shoulders. “I’m serious,
Patrice. You’re a terrific woman. You should be living a full, happy life. How are you gonna do that if you’re emotionally exhausted from lugging around guilt that isn’t yours?”

Narrowing her eyes, she regarded him with sudden suspicion.
I’ll live a full, happy life—as long as I keep a safe distance from romance!
she thought. If only she could back up the tape, erase this whole episode.

With no warning, he gathered her to him in a warm, protective embrace. Automatically, her arms went around him.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he sighed into her hair. “You’re as bighearted and pigheaded as they come,” he added, kissing the top of her head, “and while that’s a tempting combination, I have a practice to run. I can’t be—”

She broke free of his hold and stood, hands forming fists at her sides. “So who asked you to be my protector? I told you, I can take—”

“—care of yourself,” he finished for her. “I know, I know.” He opened the door, then clicked it shut again. “I never meant to insult you. I hope you know that. It’s just that, for some reason, you worry me.”

Patrice couldn’t help admitting that she was touched by his concern. “There’s no need for that. I’m fine.”

Wade grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers. In the dim light of the foyer lamp, his eyes glittered like amber as his gaze flicked from her mouth to her throat to her eyes. She wondered what that thick, dark hair would feel like beneath her fingertips, and held her breath as she waited for his kiss.

He inhaled sharply and stepped back. “Take care of yourself, you hear? Because…”

Because
what?
she wondered. What did he care if her guilt was deserved or not? During the pause, Patrice thought maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t intend to kiss her, after all.

He cupped her chin with one trembling hand, brushed the hair from her face with the other. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, how much I want to—”

“I had a lovely time.”

Wade blinked several times before a low chuckle began bubbling deep in his chest. “That was the general idea,” he said. “And for your information, so did I.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she teased, “because I’d hate to add
that
to my guilt burden, too.”

His soft laughter wafted through her hair as he hugged her. “You’re something else, you know that?” He sighed into her ear. “You’re in big trouble now, missy.”

She looked up at him, into his sparkling hazel eyes, willing him to kiss her.

“Something is happening here,” he whispered, lifting her chin, “and I don’t know whether to run from it or straight at it.”

Patrice trembled as his muscular body pinned her to the wall. She inhaled crisp aftershave and sweet cookie breath.
If he isn’t the guy for me, Lord,
she prayed,
speak now or forever hold Your peace.

When his lips touched hers, Patrice gasped. The soul-stirring taste of him sent silent shock waves straight to her heart. Weak-kneed and light-headed, she felt his arms encircle her, providing surefooted and much-needed support. Slowly, his fingers combed through her hair, traced down her shoulders and back, gently caressed her cheeks. His lips skimmed, light as feathers, from her earlobes to her throat to her forehead, before sliding back to her slightly parted, waiting lips.

Between kisses, he stammered and stuttered, and his words made no sense to her. “It’s been…never thought I’d…you’re like…Patrice, oh Patrice….”

When he said her name, it was a soft spring breeze, rustling the pines and sending dogwood petals floating gently through the air. Liking the way he’d warmed her lonely heart, she wanted to learn more about this strong-willed man—until her decision to keep a safe distance echoed in her head.

He seemed to sense her sudden mood swing and gradually ended the delicious kiss. “I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” he murmured shakily. He kept her close, though, and looked deep into her eyes. “That’s a lie. I know exactly what’s gotten into me.”

A tightrope walker could have balanced on the taut thread that linked their gazes. Wade stood back slightly, his eyes sliding over her features, reminding Patrice where his lips had been mere seconds ago. She waited for him to tell her exactly what had gotten into him.

“I sure could use another cup of coffee,” he said instead.

Small talk over the minimountain of chocolate chip cookies was companionable, and when he stood to leave the next time, she wanted to stop him. Wanted to feel his big, protective arms around her again, making her forget the horrible nightmares that disturbed her sleep. Wanted him to prove to her that the guilt and remorse she’d heaped onto her shoulders all these years truly
was
misplaced.

“Wait,” she said.

He’d made a stack of cookies while they talked, and now he was straightening a teetering column. “For what?”

He sounded pleased, even happy, that she’d asked him
to stay. “Let me pack a few of these for you to take home.”

Grinning, he said, “Do you do this often?” Wade gestured toward the cookie pile.

“Only when I’m upset. Baking…soothes me.”

Wade chuckled softly. “From the looks of things, something had you
real
upset.”

She was stuffing a small grocery sack with sweet treats when he bent to kiss her temple—the one with the scar. Her hands froze.

“Beautiful,” he rasped.

Her heart raced as she clutched the bag to her.

“Well,” Wade said, “guess I’d better get home.” He hugged her and a cookie crumbled between them. He kissed the top of her head. “Lock up tight when I’m gone, you hear?”

Nodding against his hard chest, she wondered about the myriad of sensations spiraling through her. What she felt with Wade was nothing like what she’d felt all those other times. If that had been love, what was
this?

W
ade never really paid much attention to his home, such as it was, but those few hours at Patrice’s house made him see it differently. “Not your stereotypical bachelor pad,” his sister had said, the one and only time she’d seen it.

He’d laughed along with Anna—and quickly dismissed her opinion. What did he need with suede sofas, an intricate stereo system, and sophisticated lighting designed to romance a woman? His beat-up foldout bed and mismatched lamps suited him just fine. The only females who’d ever seen them were Anna and his cleaning lady. If anyone had asked him, he would have said that’s how it would stay—until he saw the way Patrice lived.

Dozens of times, he’d been invited to women’s houses. Except for the blond nurse whose town house resembled the sty of a certain Muppets character, his other lady friends had lived in organized style.

So why did Patrice’s place seem so…
different?

Like a home.

Wade blew a stream of air through his teeth.
Home is more than a place to store your clothes, eat TV dinners, spend the night,
he thought dismally.
It’s where a man goes to be with his kids…and the love of his life.

Things he’d never have.

A year ago this time, he would have been heading out the door in a tux and shiny black shoes, on his way to one gala or another. Either that, or rushing to pick up some model wannabe for dinner and dancing.

Wade put the soda bottle on the end table, aimed the remote at the TV and hit the on button. He tucked one hand under his head and squinted at the screen, determined to block Patrice’s pixie face and sweet voice and cozy home from his thoughts. He scrolled through the channels, but nothing—not even the super-sucker vacuum cleaner on the shopping station or the lion-hyena war on the science station—could take his attention from Patrice.

It was the chocolate chips,
he thought, grinning to himself. But when he closed his eyes and licked his lips, cookies were the last thing on his mind.

After that McMonkey display in Emily Kirkpatrick’s room, he should’ve known she’d be animated, funny, sweeter even than those homemade cookies. Even if the shenanigans with the sick kids hadn’t told him a thing or two about her personality, the visit to her office should have.

Black-and-white photos of hospitalized kids lined the walls. Numerous illnesses kept them tethered to their beds by plastic tubes, slouching weakly in wheelchairs, leaning on IV poles—yet every child in the pictures had one thing in common: a Patrice-induced smile. On her bookshelves, she’d proudly displayed lumpy animals, flower vases, and candy dishes made of modeling clay—
mementos for the young woman they’d lovingly dubbed Monkey Lady.

She’d been caring for her father for more than a decade, but Wade hadn’t noticed a trace of distress in her demeanor, hadn’t heard a hint of bitterness in her voice. Her dad’s cheerful attitude seemed proof that not even
he
had detected so much as a note of regret or resentment.

Wade started counting Patrice’s qualities on his fingers: smart, good sense of humor, a big heart… The spotless house told him she was an “attention to detail” kind of gal, and the tasty cookies she’d baked from scratch said she enjoyed the sweet things of life, too. With all that going for her, who’d expect her to have eyes that would inspire poetry, a figure like the porcelain ballerinas his mom used to collect, and a voice so velvety he couldn’t
think
of a word to describe it.

And then there was that kiss….

He caught himself grinning from ear to ear, like some girl-crazy schoolboy. Wade blocked the TV’s flickering light with the crook of his arm, and shook his head. If he wasn’t careful, this thing could take a nasty turn; if he didn’t watch his step, he’d end up asking her out a second time, a third, even—and he couldn’t let that happen. Anyone with eyes could see that she was an innocent, and he didn’t have a clue how to behave with a woman like that!

Again he thought of their kiss. She’d felt so small, so vulnerable in his arms, that Wade had found himself wanting to shield her from all life’s woes. He’d kissed quite a few women in his time, but he’d never felt
that,
not once, not even for an instant.

Weird, because he got the sense Patrice had earned the right to say, “I can take care of myself.”

If he believed that, why did he want to protect her,
anyway?

Because she was one of those people, he told himself, who shouldn’t
have
to struggle, that’s why. She deserved to have someone there, right beside her, to lean on at the end of a hard day, to fend off any trials and tribulations that dared force their way into her world.

Wade didn’t know if he had what it took to be that someone, and the admission saddened him more than he cared to admit.

After tossing and turning for more than an hour, Patrice gave up trying to sleep and headed downstairs for some herbal tea. With her mug on the end table and a plate of chocolate chip cookies beside her on the sofa cushion, she cuddled under an afghan, scanning the morning paper. Unable to concentrate, she folded it neatly and laid it on the coffee table.

Maybe the plot of a good novel would take her mind off the evening with Wade…and that incredible, indescribable kiss….

Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flanked the fireplace, Patrice ran a fingertip along the spines of ancient volumes and settled on the family Bible. Maybe, printed on one of its crisp, gold-trimmed pages, she’d find the answer to the question that had kept her awake:
Do You want Wade to be a part of my life, Lord?

As she slid the Good Book from its shelf, a photograph fluttered to the hearth. Even as she bent to pick it up, Patrice recognized her mother’s familiar blue script, identifying the event and the date:
Timmy, first day of school.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sudden, over-
whelming sadness that brought her to her knees. Sitting back on her heels, Patrice clutched the Bible in one hand, Timmy’s picture in the other. And holding her breath, she slowly turned it over, gasping softly at first sight of her little brother’s pale yet cherubic cheeks, at his gap-toothed smile, at eyes too big…too filled with pain for a face so young.

She hadn’t seen this snapshot in more than a decade, but she remembered the day well. It had begun like every other, with her fervent prayer for Timmy: “Make him well, Lord!” Even before breakfast, he had been sent to his room with a paternal admonishment never to put sugar in the saltshaker again.

Patrice couldn’t help but smile at the bittersweet memory of the feisty child who, despite his diminutive size and infirmity, never once complained. Even as a girl, she’d suspected that Timmy knew, somehow, that his life would be short. Why else would he have worked so hard to squeeze so much living into every moment?

Back then, she hadn’t understood why the Almighty didn’t answer her plea. In truth, she didn’t understand it any better now. Timmy had as much right as any boy to climb to the treetops, to chase fly balls in left field, to race two-wheelers with a mob of his pals, right?

The
why
of Timmy’s death would remain a mystery, at least until she joined him in Heaven. She believed without question that the Lord had taken Timmy to Paradise for reasons of His own, believed just as strongly that she had no right to question those reasons.

Wasn’t that the basis of faith?

Her mother’s death, however, was another matter entirely…. Anger swirled in her heart, in her mind.
Dangerous territory,
Patrice reminded herself.

Standing, she tucked the photo back into the Bible and
returned to her corner of the couch. Resting her head against the back cushions, she closed her eyes.

“So, how’d it go?”

Patrice lurched and let out a tiny squeal. “Dad,” she said, one hand pressed to her chest, “honestly!”

“Sorry,” Gus said. “But you’ll thank me later.”

Grinning, she sat up. “Thank you? For scaring me out of the last ten years of my life?”

“Sure,” he said emphatically. “Those are the years you’d spend in an overpriced nursing home, anyway.”

Rolling her eyes, Patrice groaned. “Maybe this weekend I’ll drive you down to Water Street, so you can audition at the Comedy Club.”

He chuckled. “There’s something else you have to thank me for—”

She waited for his punch line.

“—that rip-roarin’ sense of humor of yours.”

“Wow,” came her dry reply. “And here I thought being thankful that I got your eyes was enough.” She regarded him carefully. “You feeling okay?”

“Never better.”

“Then, what’re you doing up so late?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“And we could go back and forth like this till dawn….”

“Good point,” Gus said. And winking, he added, “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Happens to the best of us, sometimes.”

Patrice sipped her tea. “How ’bout I fix you a cup of—”

“No, thanks. I mostly just came in ’cause I thought I’d forgotten to turn out the lights.” It was his turn to look suspicious. “You okay?”

The question surprised her. She could only hope it didn’t show on her face. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” he said, pointing with his chin, “there you sit, family Bible in hand, Timmy’s picture poking out….”

Another sigh. “Well,” she answered, forefinger following the contours of the Bible’s gilded letters, “maybe I am feeling a bit wistful.”

He rolled closer to the couch. “You’re a good kid, Treecie. Have I told you that lately?”

Gus said it a dozen times a day. Oh, he substituted a number of words for
good
—terrific, fantastic, super, wonderful—but the meaning was always the same.

“So, how’d it go?” he repeated.

She flopped back against the couch cushions. “My date with Wade, you mean?”

Gus nodded, grabbed her mug and took a sip of the tea.

“I’d be happy to make you a cup, Dad.”

“Nah. Not thirsty,” he said, returning the mug to its coaster. Then he added, “You gonna keep me in suspense all night, or what?”

She met his dark, teasing gaze. Smiling, Patrice said, “It went well.”

“Where’d he take you?”

“
Mi Casa.
”

He scratched his chin. “
Mi Casa, Mi Casa.
Doesn’t sound familiar.” He squinted. “Is it new?”

“Couple of years old.” She sipped the tea. “It’s at the corner of Route 40 and St. Johns Lane.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “That new building behind the bank.”

They’d already discussed this, briefly, before Wade arrived. “Enough small talk, Dad. Out with it.”

Palms upturned and brows raised, he feigned innocence. “Out with what?”

“May as well tell me what’s on your mind, save us both a lot of hemming and hawing.”

Gus opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut again. For a long, silent moment, he only stared at her, a pensive, faraway expression on his rugged face. “Do you have any idea how much you remind me of your mom sometimes?”

She’d never understood whether that was a good thing…or a bad thing. Patrice looked down, at the grain of the Bible’s leather cover. If she thought for a minute opening it would provide him with comfort and peace, if it would give him the healing he so richly deserved—

“All I can say is, he’d better treat you with kid gloves,” Gus said roughly. “You remember what I said when the last bum broke your heart….”

A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “That you’d mow him down with your wheelchair, then back up and roll over him again.”

“I would-a, too, if you hadn’t begged me not to.”

He didn’t have it in him to squash an ant, let alone harm another human being. Still, he seemed to enjoy his little threat. Quiet laughter simmered in them, bubbled up and spilled softly out—proof of what they both knew.

For a minute or two, father and daughter sat in companionable silence. Then Gus reached out and patted her hand. “Better get to bed, Treecie. Didn’t you say there’s some kind of multiward party at Child Services tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Yep. Child Health Week starts this weekend.”

“And let’s not forget what tomorrow night is….”

Merriment twinkled in his eyes. She got up and
crouched beside him. “What’re you dressing up as this year?”

“Molly helped me build a box for this baby.” He slapped the armrests. “It’s the spittin’ image of an Indy 500 car!”

“Cool beans.” She got to her feet. “But I think you ought to heed your own advice and get some shut-eye. Takes a lot of strength, setting up the stuff that’ll scare the willickers outta unsuspecting trick-or-treaters.”

He chuckled.

“Well, I’m off to Sandman Land. Need anything before I turn in?”

He shook his head. When she bent to get her mug, he grabbed her hand. “You sure you’re all right, Treecie? This guy…this
doctor
…he was nice to you, right?”

The image of Wade—sparkling hazel eyes, patrician nose, boyish grin—flitted through her mind. “Yeah.” She sighed. “He was nice.” She remembered the kiss. “Very nice.”

“Good,” Gus said, popping a wheelie in his chair, “’cause I’d hate to—”

“—mow him down,” they said in unison, laughing.

He rolled out of the room.

“G’night, Dad.”

“Sweet dreams,” he called before closing his door.

She licked her lips, remembering the cookie-sweetness of Wade’s kiss.

Maybe, for a change, her dreams would be “sweet” too.

Patrice parked in the multistoried garage adjacent to Ellicott General and yawned. The night had been one gruesome nightmare after another about the tragedies that had befallen her family.

Thankfully, Molly had arrived a few minutes early, and Patrice had been able to sneak out of the house before her dad came down for breakfast. He’d know the instant he looked into her face that her dreams had been anything but sweet.
And you’ve already put him through enough,
she’d thought as she grabbed her briefcase and purse.