A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace (29 page)

Then he was gone.

It took five hours to say their good-byes, finish the paperwork, and watch while a mortuary attendant took her father’s body to prepare it for burial. The funeral was set for three days later, and throughout the evening Abby felt as if she were wading through syrup, as if death had happened to somebody else’s dad and not hers. As if the entire process of planning her dad’s funeral was little more than a poorly acted scene from a bad movie.

John stayed by her side until they got home, then as all three kids headed for bed he went to sit in the silent living room, dropping his head in his hands. Abby stared at him.
Are you wishing for more time
with him, John?

She kept her question to herself and headed upstairs to make sure the kids were okay. One at a time she hugged each of them again and assured them that Grandpa was at home now, in heaven with Grandma where he’d longed to be for years. Each of the kids wept in her arms as she made the rounds, but Abby stayed strong.

It wasn’t until she headed downstairs that she felt the finality of the situation. Her father was gone. Never again would she sit by his side, holding his hand and listening while he talked about the glory days on the gridiron. Her mentor, her protector . . . her daddy.

Gone.

Abby reached the last stair, rounded the corner, and suddenly she couldn’t take another step. Her back against the wall, she collapsed, burying her face in her hands, giving way to the sobs that had been building since her father’s final breath. “Why?” she cried out softly in a voice meant for no one to hear. “Daaaad. No! I can’t do this!”

“Abby . . .”

John’s hands were on hers before she heard him coming. Gentle, strong, protective hands that carefully removed her fingers from her face, then eased her arms around his waist as he drew her to himself. “Abby, I’m so sorry.”

She knew she should pull away, should refuse his comfort in light of the lies he’d told her father earlier that evening. But she could no more do so than she could force her heart to stop beating. She laid her head on his chest and savored the feeling, allowing him to absorb the shaking of her body, the stream of tears that worked its way into his sweaty coaching shirt . . . a shirt that smelled of day-old cologne and musty grass and something sweet and innate that belonged to this man and him alone. Abby savored the scent, knowing there was no place she’d rather be.

John tightened his embrace and let his head rest on hers. Only then did Abby feel the way his body trembled. Not with desire as it had so often in their early days, but with a sadness, with a wave of sobs deeper than Abby had ever known him to cry. She thought how her husband had missed his chance, how he’d chosen to be too busy to visit with her father in his dying days.

How great his guilt had to be.

She raised her head and swallowed back her own sobs, searching John’s face, so close to hers. His eyes were closed and grief filled his features. Abby allowed his forehead to rest against hers and felt his weeping ease some. His arms still locked around her waist, he opened his eyes and looked deeply into hers. “I loved him . . . you know that, right, Abby?”

Fresh tears forged a trail down her cheeks as she nodded. “I know.”

“He was . . . he was like my own dad.” John’s words were little more than a whisper, and Abby savored the moment even as her heart shouted at her:
What are you doing, Abby? If things are over between
you two, why does it feel so right to be here? Why did he come to you if
he doesn’t love you anymore?

John let the side of his face graze up against hers, nuzzling her in a way that was achingly familiar. A roller-coaster feeling made its way across Abby’s insides as her body instinctively reacted to John’s nearness.

“My dad told me you were like a son to him . . .” Abby clung tightly to John, speaking the words inches from his ear. “He said he was glad you waited for me to grow up because you were . . . the only son he ever had.”

A faint sense of hope filled John’s watery eyes and he pulled back a few inches, searching Abby’s face. “He said that?”

She nodded, her hands still linked at the back of his waist. “When I was seventeen. A few weeks after that first game, remember? The first time I watched you play at Michigan?”

Instantly the mood changed, and John went still as his eyes locked on hers. Without saying a word their embrace grew closer, their bodies melding together. Wasn’t this how he’d looked at her all those years ago, back when he had wanted nothing more than to be by her side?

John ran his thumb over her cheek. “I remember . . .” He framed her face with both hands and wove his fingers into her hair. “I remember . . .”

She realized what was about to happen seconds before it actually did. He brought his lips closer to hers, and she saw his eyes cloud with sudden, intense desire. Abby’s heart pounded against his chest.

What are these feelings, and why now? When everything is over
between us?

She had no answers for herself, only one defining truth: she desperately wanted John’s kiss, wanted to know that he could still feel moved in her arms, even if it made no sense whatsoever.

He kissed her, slowly, gently at first . . . but as she took his face in her hands, the act became more urgent, filled with the passion of a hundred lost moments. His mouth opened over hers and she could taste the salt from both their tears. Fresh tears, tears of passion . . . tears of regret.

The urgency within Abby built and she could feel John’s body trembling again—but this time in a way that was familiar, a way that made her want to—

His hands left her face and he ran them slowly up and down her sides as he moved his lips toward her ear. “Abby . . .”

What did he mean by all this? Was this really happening? Was he comforting her the only way he knew how? Or could he be trying to tell her he was sorry, that no matter what had happened in the past, it was behind them now? She wasn’t sure about anything except how good it felt to be in his arms, as though whatever mistakes their hearts and minds had made might somehow be erased by the physical feelings they apparently still had for each other.

Abby kissed him again and then slid her face along his, aware of the way his body pressed against hers. “I . . . I don’t understand . . .”

John nudged her chin with his face and tenderly moved his lips along her neck as his thumbs worked in small circles against her upper ribs. He found her mouth once more and kissed her again . . . and again. He moved his mouth closer to her ear. “I promised your father, Abby . . . I said I would love you . . .”

What?
Abby felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. Her body went stiff.
That’s
what this was about? His coming to her now, his kisses and desire . . . it was all part of some kind of guilt trip her father had placed on him minutes before dying? Her desire dissipated like water on an oil-slicked freeway. She braced her hands against him and pushed him.

“Get away from me.” The tenderness in her voice was gone and she spat the words through gritted teeth.

John’s eyes flew open, his face awash with shock and unrequited desire. “What . . . what’re you doing?”

“I don’t need your charity, John.”

His expression was frozen in astonishment. “My . . . what do you mean?”

Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks as she pushed him again. “You can’t love me out of . . . of . . .” She searched for the right words, her angry heart racing in her chest. “Out of some kind of obligation to my dead father.”

Abby watched as a handful of emotions flashed in John’s eyes. Shock gave way to understanding, then shifted to intense, burning rage. “That is
not
what I’m doing!” His face grew red and the muscles in his jaw flexed.

A wind of regret blew across the plains of Abby’s barren heart. Why was he lying to her? He explained it perfectly a moment ago: he’d promised Abby’s father that he’d love her, and this—
whatever
this was that had happened between them—was merely some dutiful way for John to make good on his word.

Strangely, his expression grew even more troubled, and Abby tried to make sense of it. Was that hurt in his eyes? Pain? How
could
it be? She was the one who’d been tricked into thinking he actually wanted her again . . . actually felt about her the way he had before they’d grown apart.

New tears built up in his eyes, and twice he started to open his mouth as if to speak, then once more he clenched his teeth together. The intense anger in his eyes was too much, and Abby looked away. As she did, he put his hands on her shoulders and jerked her close against him again, kissing her with a passion that was as much rage as it was desire. She kissed him back, her body acting with a will of its own.

“Stop!” She was crying harder than before, disgusted with herself for her inability to tear away from him.
How can I enjoy his kiss even now?

In response to her own silent question she yanked her head back and snarled at him, “Get away from me!”

His hands fell to his sides and he took a step backward. His eyes were dry now, his words hard, lacking any of the emotion of the past ten minutes. “It’s no use, is it, Abby?”

She shook her head. “Not if it’s going to be like that . . . just a way for you to keep your promise to my dad.” She fanned her fingers over her heart as another wave of tears spilled from her eyes. “You don’t want me, John. You’re in love with Charlene. I know that. Don’t stand here and try to convince yourself you feel something for me when we both know you don’t.”

John sighed and his head dropped in frustration. He looked up and gazed at the ceiling. “I give up, Abby.” His eyes found hers again. “I’m sorry about your dad.” He paused, the anger and even the indifference replaced by a sad resignation. “I loved him, too. And about tonight . . .” He shook his head. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Abby.”

His last words were like a slap in the face.
Don’t apologize, John. Tell me you meant that kiss . . . every moment of it. Tell me I’m wrong,
that it wasn’t because of your promise to Dad
. She wiped her hand across her cheeks and hugged herself tight.
I know you felt something
with me, John. We both felt something! Tell me that . . .

But he said nothing, and Abby exhaled as the fight left her. She didn’t want to argue with John; she just wanted her dad back. “It’s been a long day for both of us . . .” She was suddenly sorry she’d lost her temper with him. Even if he had kissed her for all the wrong reasons, somehow she knew he was trying to comfort her, trying to show her that despite their differences he still cared. The fact made her want to reach out and at least hug him, but there seemed no way to bridge the distance between them. She took a step toward the stairs. “Good night, John.”

He stood there, not moving, watching her as something raw and vulnerable flashed in his eyes. Whatever he was feeling, he shared none of it with her. “Good night, Abby.”

She forced herself up the steps to the guest room, peeled off her clothes, and slipped into a T-shirt she kept under the pillow. Then she tried desperately to remember every happy moment she’d ever shared with her father.

But it was no use.

As she drifted off to sleep there was only one troubling thought that reigned in her head . . .

How good it had felt to kiss John Reynolds again.

It was the morning of the funeral service and for John, the single feeling that prevailed in the days since Joe Chapman’s death was not grief at the man’s passing or the chasm of loss he felt at having missed the chance to know him better. Rather, it was the memory of Abby in his arms, wracked with tears, clinging to him, fitting next to him, beside him, the way she hadn’t been in years.

The memory of their kiss.

No matter what Abby thought, his kiss hadn’t been out of obligation. His feelings had been stronger than anything he’d ever felt for anyone else. Even Charlene. But obviously Abby hadn’t felt the same way. As always, she’d found a reason to fight with him.

Since then John had wrestled so strongly with thoughts of Abby that the morning of the funeral service he was running on only two hours’ sleep. He had been up most of the night wondering what the feelings meant. Had Abby’s father prayed some miraculous prayer, uttered some powerful words of healing? Was it possible that John Chapman’s death might spark new life in their dying marriage?

It didn’t seem like it.

After all, she hadn’t said more than five words to him since then and at night she still headed off for the guest room without so much as a good-night. But still . . . the possibility was there, wasn’t it? Or maybe Abby was right. Maybe the kiss was out of some deep obligation to her father, something to make up for the fact that he’d made the man a promise he couldn’t possibly keep.

Love her forever? When they were weeks away from being divorced?

John released a quiet, frustrated sigh and glanced around the church. There weren’t many people, only a fraction of those who remembered the goodness of Joe Chapman. Abby’s friends from school—mostly parents of the kids’ friends. Matt Conley and his mother, Jo; Abby’s sister, Beth; and a handful of nurses from Wingate. John’s mother was too ill with Alzheimer’s to leave her nursing home, otherwise she would have been there. Abby’s father had been her friend, too.

In his glory days, Joe had been every bit the well-known football coach John was. Hundreds of people would have recognized him as he went about his day, greeted him in the markets, and counted themselves lucky to be among his friends. Yet here, at the end of his journey, Joe Chapman was only remembered by a handful, a remnant of the fan club that had once been his.

Is this all it amounts to, God? Live your life year in, year out, affecting
the lives of hundreds of kids only to go out all alone?

This world is not your home, son . . .

The verse came to him as easily as air, and John knew it was true. But still . . . John wrestled with his feelings, not sure exactly how he felt about heaven. It sounded good, certainly. Talking about Joe Chapman being at rest, at peace, having a body that was healthy and would never wear out . . . assuring each other that he was in the presence of God and his wife and John’s own father and a dozen others who’d gone on before him.