The Man From Her Past (4 page)

Nothing happened on the other side of the Warne door. He backed up and looked around one of the porch stanchions, but the blinds remained shut tight. If the lights were on, not one sliver of illumination leaked through.

He rang the bell again. Would she really change her mind? Could she lock him out of her life again?

The door opened, and Cassie stared at him, accusation and embarrassment on her face.

“How long did it take you to decide?” he asked, fighting a smile.

She stared at his mouth, and resentment firmed her beautiful lips. “I’m letting you in, but it doesn’t mean anything.” It should have sounded churlish, but her sad eyes made him feel responsible.

“Whatever makes you feel all right, Cassie. Where’s—” he cursed himself for the three seconds it took to say her name “—Hope?”

“That’s why I don’t want you around. I don’t doubt you mean well and, obviously, I’m some sort of penance to you.” She lowered her voice. “But every time you look at my little girl, you’ll see that man.” She said it without a shudder, as if that didn’t happen to her. “Or you’ll wonder why I kept her.” She took both bags.

He caught the door in one hand, half expecting her to close it, and then he took back the heavier bag. “I’d never hurt you—or Hope.”

This time her daughter’s name stopped her for a second. “Not on purpose.” She nudged him with the other bag. Cassie, who’d never had a violent bone in her body, actually tried to push him outside. “But you can’t help—and your feelings hurt me more than anything
he
ever did.”

It was a kick in the gut. He swallowed—twice—before he was able to speak. “Don’t ever say that again.” The connection between his mouth and brain seemed to break. Finally, he managed to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Don’t compare me to him.”

He turned for the door, but she caught him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he believed her because her eyes shone with unshed tears and her mouth trembled. “It just came out. I didn’t mean—”

“Let it go. There are some things you and I can’t talk about.” Nor could he explain he’d been walking through life blind, not living since she’d left him. “I was surprised about Hope. A man doesn’t expect his former—” He glanced toward the kitchen. “I never thought about you having a baby and me not knowing, but none of this is her fault. I want her to feel comfortable around me, and you’d better want that, too, because someone has to look after her while you visit your father.”

Maybe Hope could hang out with one of the nurses for the few minutes it would take for him to—“I’m the closest thing to family he’s had for the past few days. You need me to remind him who you are.”

V
AN
’
S SPEECH
, half apology and a whole lot of assumption, hung in the air.

Cassie stared, her mouth half-open until she noticed she was catching flies and closed it. “Remind him?” The bag slipped in her arms. She managed to catch it. “You honestly think he won’t know me?”

Van eyed her right back as if he was worried she might also be losing her memory. “I told you that, Cassie.”

“I didn’t understand.” She turned with the bag, not certain where to go next. “How am I going to make sure no one tells him about—I don’t care if he hates me, but I don’t want him to hurt her.” Van’s reaction to Hope had proved she was right to shield her daughter from everyone in Honesty. “Plus, I don’t want him to get worse. Making him angry could easily make him sicker.”

“What are you talking about? You think he hates you?”

She lifted her head, an animal scenting a challenge. “I liked you better when you couldn’t hide anything you felt.” Including the fact that he’d blamed her, too. “He thought what happened was my fault.”

“He was scared. Still is, but he doesn’t hate you.”

Trust Van to protect her father. She went toe to toe with the only man she’d ever loved more than her dad. “I could never blame Hope for something like that. That’s how I know his love wasn’t enough, and he does blame me.”

Deep down, she realized she was still accusing Van, too. She couldn’t help it. His rejection—turning from her in their bed, stepping away from her as they’d gazed together out of their kitchen window—those moments lived under her skin, thorns too sharp to bear.

They’d argued until he had no more words, and hers only made him angry.

“Your father isn’t well.”

“He was fine five years ago.” A new rush of resentment shocked her. She had to get a grip. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Seeing you and being here brings it all back.”

“I didn’t like your answers to our problems then. I still don’t.” Answers. Nice, antiseptic way to describe ripping out her own heart and throwing it onto a barbed-wire fence.

“You don’t get a choice,” she said, not to be unkind but to make him see it was too late to change things.

Faltering, Van turned to a safer subject. “Leo’s worse when he’s tired, and what about Hope? I’ll be glad to look after her, but she’ll have to go with us when I introduce you to him.”

“I can explain if he doesn’t know me.” She hated the thought of accepting his help. As if coming back had turned her into the naive young woman who’d married her personal Prince Charming, the habit of leaning on Van tempted her. “And Hope doesn’t know you. I’m not comfortable leaving her with anyone.”

“Like it or not, I’m not just anyone.”

“Close enough.”

He looked her straight in the eye and pretended not to have heard. “I could ask my sister to come to the hospital.”

“Beth.” Her heart ached. She’d lost more than her father and Van. “I’ve missed her.”

“You could have stayed in touch.”

“How would I have asked her not to tell you about Hope?”

“You couldn’t.” He lifted the other bag of food. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

Hope appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mommy, I’m starwing. I need foods.”

“Coming, sweetie.” Cassie led the way. “I’ll call the hospital and see if my father’s still awake.”

In the kitchen, Hope climbed back into a chair. The water Cassie had set to boil in a saucepan on the stove was still, the gas beneath it turned off.

Hope looked up as Cassie put two and two together. “I did it.”

The stove was like theirs at home, far from here. Her little girl wanted to be a big girl as quick as she could and never thought about saucepan handles. “I’ve asked you not to mess with stoves when I’m not in the room.”

“I’m okay. It’s like ours. I knew how.”

“Hope, I’ve asked you…”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Do you like to help cook, Hope?” Van started removing paper cartons from his sack. The poisonous resentment in his voice had faded.

He was so very friendly.

“We were gonna have those instant grits.” She pointed at the counter.

He made a face at the box. “I’ve saved you from an ugly fate.”

“Mommy likes ’em.” She slid out of her chair and went to his elbow.

“You’re not such a big fan?”

He still hadn’t looked into her innocent face.

“I don’t mind ’em.” Lying, Hope smiled at Cassie, offering her loyalty.

“Maybe you’ll like this stuff instead.” Setting the last carton on the table, he looked at Hope and a smile spread across his face. A real smile. Wide, warm. Real.

Hope laughed out loud. “I was kinda scared to come here, but you’re nice, Mr. Van. I like your face.”

He laughed, too. Slowly, his hand curved around the back of Hope’s head.

For a split second, before he pulled back and whisked the bag off the table.

V
AN FOLDED
the Posh bag as deliberately as any bit of paper anywhere had ever been folded, and then he stared at the recycling bin, stunned by Cassie’s look of relief.

She must love her daughter more than he’d imagined if she thought he could forget the past so easily.

“Mr. Van, are you saving that bag?”

He pushed it into the bin and got himself under control. Ridiculous that a little girl could do this to him. But it was what she stood for—those hellish images he had never escaped.

“No.” He choked as his throat tightened. “I’m not saving it.”

He turned. Cassie was waiting, still watchful.

“What
did
you bring?” Cassie asked with a hand toward the cartons.

“Antipasto, spaghetti, tiramisu for Hope and me and crème brûlée for you.”

“I smell the spaghetts.” Hope’s nose quivered like a kitten’s. “And look at the salad, Mommy.” She prodded the one see-through package. “Can I have your cootons?”

“Croutons.” Her voice was absent. “Spaghetts are Hope’s favorites.”

There was more in her tone. An extra warning. She looked at her daughter with her heart literally in her eyes and more love than Van suspected she’d ever felt for him. Hope owned that much of her. Cassie would fight with her last breath to keep her little girl safe.

Even from him. As if he’d hurt a baby.

She took down plates and salad dishes from the cabinet. Then she helped Hope open the plastic container. “What else did you want to talk about?” Her briskness suggested he make it fast and beat it.

“I didn’t come back just to talk about your father.”

She found serving utensils and scooped salad onto Hope’s dish without looking up. “He’s all that’s left. Face it, Van.”

“No.” With Hope hanging on every nuance, he couldn’t elaborate.

Cassie just looked at him. Then she popped the tops off the other cartons and started to add food to her daughter’s plate.

“Wait.” Van reached for her hand, but she backed up. Message taken. “I need to warm up the pasta.”

Cassie shrugged. “Okay. I’d better call the hospital, but you can start now with your salad, baby.”

“Goodie.”

“Will you talk to Mr. Van while I’m gone?”

“Su-u-re.” Hope grinned over her mother’s hand pouring dressing on her salad.

“I’ll use the phone in Dad’s study.”

Like that, she was gone. He hardly knew how to talk to any children, other than his nephew, who was about eight years older than Hope and didn’t remind him of the worst days of his life.

“Have you ever flown before?” He grabbed a topic out of thin air.

She shook her head. Her hair slipped into her salad. He had to brush it over her shoulder.

“It made my ears feel funny,” she said.

“Mine always do, too.” He moved to the stove and turned on the gas beneath the saucepan to heat up the water again. “Does your mom let you chew gum?”

“I love gum, Mr. Van. You got some?”

“I sure do, and I’d be happy to share if your mother doesn’t mind. It helps when you fly.”

“Why?”

Wouldn’t you know? “I guess it opens up some tube in your ears.” He shook the pan to hurry the water along. Unnerved by a small girl. “Something like that—I think.”

“My mommy told me to yawn, but I couldn’t always. I drooled once.”

She startled him into laughing. “I’ve done that, too. Try gum next time.”

“When we go back. I’m in school, you know.”

“Kindergarten?”

She snorted and stuffed a forkful of salad into her mouth. “How old do you think I am?” she asked around the greens. “I’m not a big kid yet.”

“Pretty big,” he said. She was tall for her age, but she looked kind of thin to him. Thank God the water started to bubble. He turned the pasta into the saucepan. “This stuff will be done in a second.”

She poked a finger into the sauce. “This is cold, too.”

He glanced toward the doorway, suspecting Cassie might not be big on poking food or talking around salads. “I’ll warm it up,” he said as he picked up the container and dumped its contents into a bowl, which he put in the microwave.

“Don’t tell Mommy I touched it. She makes me wash my hands all the time.”

“Mothers can be like that.”

“Like what?”

Cassie had walked in silently.

“Kind of picky,” he said, without thinking. Hope giggled and then covered her mouth.

He grinned. Maybe feelings could start to change. She was a funny little girl, and he wasn’t quite nuts enough to think she’d be her so-called father reincarnated.

“How’s Leo?”

“Asleep. They said he’s restless at night, so I should leave him alone until morning. Will you tell me exactly what’s happening with him?”

He’d tell her anything she asked for in the soft voice that reminded him of the way it had been before.

But before he could answer, she touched Hope’s hair. “Later,” she said.

Silence stretched between them, while Van remembered how to breathe.

Hope filled up the quiet. “I took a shower.” She plucked at her pink Dora the Explorer pajamas. “The shower smelled funny.” Hope sniffed. “But so does this kitchen. My house smells like—what is it, Mommy?” She peered up at Cassie, who was scooping pasta onto Hope’s plate. “We like cimmanon candles.”

“We use bleach sometimes, too.” Cassie’s quick glance told Van she could imagine how the house had looked before. As she took her seat, Van was glad she hadn’t seen the filth her father had been abiding in. He moved around Cassie to ladle sauce over Hope’s pasta. Cassie sprinkled parmesan on top. “Now, eat up, Hope. It’s way past your bedtime.”

“Will I see my grampa tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure.” Another quick look included Van. He had a feeling Leo wouldn’t be ready for Hope for a while.

But then again, he was assuming Cassie would stay until her father was well. Maybe, considering her fears for Hope, he was being too optimistic.

Maybe he was trying to re-create a past with a woman who no longer existed. He missed a life that she’d forgotten.

B
EFORE SHE FINISHED
her dessert, Hope began nodding. Cassie pulled the tiramisu away from her just in time to keep her face out of the plate.

“Take her up,” Van said. “I’ll clean this up and put the leftovers in the fridge.”

Cassie wanted to turn him down and send him away. She hated needing his help. He might be looking for their old relationship, but those feelings were either gone or behind an impenetrable wall for her. That life might have happened to some other woman. It was as if she’d heard about their marriage in intimate detail but hadn’t actually lived it.

“You don’t have to tidy up,” she said. “Just take your coffee into the living room.” It was spick-and-span, though the dining room door remained closed. “I’ll be down and we can talk.”

He nodded, but the sounds of dishwashing followed her up the stairs.

She helped Hope brush her teeth and then she tucked her daughter into bed. Staring at her baby’s silky, dark hair splayed across one of her mother’s best guest pillowcases, she tried to believe they were back in her old house. Impossible.

On her way out, she pulled the door almost closed. At the bottom of the stairs, Van waited, a mug of coffee for himself and one for her as well.

She took it and sipped. Someone else might have lived those days with Van, but he knew her, including her preference for one sugar and plenty of cream.

“Time stands still in Honesty,” she said.

“I noticed the days going by.”

Uncomfortable with what those words implied, she moved to the couch and sat down. Landing on a lump, she lifted the cushion to find an assortment of bundled socks. “They all look clean.”

“There’s been no rhyme or reason.”

His tone reflected her horror.

“It’s so confusing, why he’s done these things. I looked up Alzheimer’s after we talked last night. Compulsive behaviors make patients feel more secure, but the behavior often makes no sense.” She lifted a sock. “This is not my father.”

“Lang Baxter’s his doctor. He tells me all of this could be a result of the other things he’s suffering from—malnutrition, depression, possibly dementia—but it doesn’t have to be Alzheimer’s.”

“What it’s called doesn’t matter.” She searched his face for a hint of her ex-husband. She’d known how to talk to him before the rape, but had she loved Van too much to be his friend now? “You obviously still care for my father.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“I’m not sure.” Honesty came easier with Hope safely in bed. “I needed him so much after what happened.” She set her coffee on the table beside the couch’s elegant carved arm. “But I came home. That must mean something.” She scooped out the socks, leaving them beside her to discourage Van from sharing the couch, and then cradled her coffee. “I had to deal with the rape,” she said, “so I could learn to love Hope, but I still needed my father.”

“But not me,” Van said.

“I’m not looking back on you as the love I long for. We’re over.”

He took the armchair across from her. “I thought I’d dealt with losing you until I saw your father on that bridge.”

“Why did that change anything about us?”

“Leo and you and I were family. We all gave up too easily and now I know why you really left.”

“Your family is Beth and Eli. Hope and I are a family, and I’ll find a way to include my father, but Van, it’s too late for you and me.”

Pain widened the green eyes she’d loved so much. For a second, she felt like water swirling toward a drain, but she took control. Caring for him was an old habit masquerading as actual feelings.

“Van, don’t force me to be unkind. I haven’t been dreaming of coming back to you.”

“I haven’t dreamed of that, either, but I’ve never understood why you had to leave me, and I haven’t managed to let you go.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Even if she’d consider returning, how could he ever come to terms with the truth about Hope? “Tell me about Dad. Please,” she said, her voice thick enough to betray her. She shouldn’t have to beg him to stay away from the past as if he were the bad man who scared her.

“Okay. We’ll get back to your father.” He barely looked at her, turning away. “He doesn’t always live in the here and now. Sometimes your mother is alive. Sometimes I don’t exist.”

“What does he say about me?”

“He doesn’t say much. I’m not sure how he’ll act when he sees you, Cass.”

That nickname again. To Van, it was obviously just something to call her.

“He knows you’ve been estranged,” he continued.

“Because of the way he treated me back then. I couldn’t risk—” She massaged her temple. “I have to stop being defensive.” She lifted her head. “Are you trying to tell me he won’t be able to live alone?”

“I’m not a doctor,” Van said, “but I saw him this afternoon. He was cleaner, but not better. He thought the hospital staff would try to steal his keys and rob the place.” He nodded toward the ceiling, signifying the house. “I can’t see him taking care of himself.”

Cassie froze, head to toe. Her dad. Pride had been his favorite coat.

“He can’t help it,” Van said.

“I know. He was a good father once, and maybe the rape did something to him, too. Either way, it’s not that I don’t want to take care of him. I just can’t face Hope taking grief from the people here. I’ll have to take him back to Washington.”

“He won’t want to go. Think how he’ll feel. Nothing and no one will be familiar.”

“Meaning me?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I know what you mean, but I have to think of Hope first. She’s the child.”

“And she could be happy here, too. Give us a chance.” He set down his cup. “People might be curious, but no one would be aggressive. When I came over here to check on the house, Trey Lockwood was working on the porch. Honesty is your home, and the people here care about you.”

“It
was
my home.”

“What do you do in Washington, Cass? I know nothing about your life since you left.”

“I own a women’s shelter with two friends.”

“Own?” He looked surprised. “I thought they were nonprofit.”

“It can be done. We’re less liable to state interference, and we feel we can do more for the women who need us.”

“It doesn’t bother you to see them in trouble like you were?”

“Sure, but I want to help them. Making sure they’re safe makes me feel—” She couldn’t say
safer
to Van. She didn’t want him to know she was afraid. Ever. “Anyway, I’ve moved on since I left here. And I can’t just walk away from the life I’ve made in Washington.”

Van reached for his cup, and when it toppled, they both tried to grab it. Cassie caught it, along with a handful of tepid coffee.

“I’m sorry. Are you burned?”

“It’s not hot anymore.”

Van hurried to the kitchen and returned with a cloth to clean up the spill. Cassie passed him in the hall, taking both their cups back.

They said nothing as they walked by each other, but she sensed him, a force like the pull of gravity. She leaned on the kitchen counter, resisting the laws of nature.

“You all right?”

His voice, tight with concern, dragged her around. He was tall, silent, a little leaner, a hint of silver among the dark blond strands of his hair.

She fought her need for him. She prayed the long-lost habit of wanting him more than her own next breath wouldn’t consume her.

Cassie had practiced a natural-looking cheerful smile until she could no longer say when it was real and when it was a performance. She put it on for him. “Would you mind asking Beth if she’d look after Hope tomorrow while I see Dad?”

He nodded. “Visiting hours start at eight in the morning. When should I pick you up?”

A cold chill made her vulnerable. “Eight is good.”

Van left without another word, but his pain lingered in the hall. Cassie pretended not to notice.

A
YEAR AGO
, Van had been his sister’s refuge. After her lodge had burned, he’d given her and her son a home while they’d rebuilt. He’d also introduced her to the man who’d become her husband, his other unexpected guest at the time, Aidan Nikolas.