Baby, Come Back (9 page)

The teenager cocked his chin another notch, as if preparing himself for a blow. “You think she killed herself, don't you?”

The words landed between them, flatly, baldly, their meaning altering the atmosphere around them. Hayes worked to keep his feelings from showing. “Where did you get that idea? The coroner ruled your mother's death an— ”

“Accident. I know.”

Jeff looked at the floor for a moment before meeting his eyes once more. In Jeff's eyes he saw a worldliness well beyond his eighteen years.

“I have ears, Dad. The family talks. The kids at school. When I was six I heard Aunt May whispering about it.”

Hayes cursed May's big mouth. He cursed the human penchant for gossip. And he cursed himself for not being there for his son. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you believe.” Jeff fought visibly for control. “Tell me, Dad. The truth. Do you think Mom killed herself?”

Hayes swung away from his son and crossed to the window once more. The almost eerily dark landscape confronted him. Dear God, how did he answer that question? What could he say to his son to make everything all right? He touched his knuckles to the cool, hard glass. He couldn't make it all right— that was the problem. He was damned no matter what he said.

He swung back to face Jeff, swearing silently when he saw the flicker of hope in his son's eyes. It came down to principle. He'd never lied to Jeff. He wouldn't start now.

Hayes looked him straight in the eyes. “I have always suspected your mother meant to take her own life. Although I'll never know for sure.”

Jeff flinched, his expression for one thin moment twisted with pain. Then he masked his feelings. Hayes ached for him. Ached to hold him, to assure him that it was all right to grieve. To hurt. To feel betrayed. But as much as he ached to do and say those things, he couldn't bring himself to act on the desire.

“Why?” Jeff asked, his voice thick. “Why'd she do it?”

“I don't know.” Anger curled through Hayes, taking his breath. He tamped it down. “She was unhappy. Depressed. I couldn't reach her. I tried. I did.”

“She didn't love me,” Jeff said quietly.

Hayes could see that it took all of Jeff's strength to keep from crumbling. He admired his son, and he hurt for him. He had always hurt for him. He'd just never been able to show it. He'd always feared that if he did, his son would think himself weak, pitiable. He had feared his son wouldn't grow into a strong, confident man.

He took a step toward Jeff, hand out. “That's not true. She loved you very much. I remember the day she learned she was pregnant. She was walking on air she was so excited.”

This time it was Jeff who spun away, who crossed to a window. Without turning, he muttered, “Don't sugarcoat it. I'm not a kid anymore.”

“And I'm not sugarcoating it.”

For a long moment Jeff remained silent. When he finally spoke, his voice vibrated with pain. “You know what the family says behind their hands? ‘Poor little Jeff. His mother didn't want him.'”

Hayes swore. If even one of those gossips stood in front of him now, he would happily throttle him or her. “People talk,” Hayes said fiercely. “That doesn't mean they know a damn thing. It only means they think they do. And that they like the sound of their own voices.”

Jeff laughed, the sound choked and tight. “I remember her. Did you know that? My memories are so empty. And so hungry. I remember gazing at her and wanting...wanting so badly for her to touch me.”

The teenager tipped his face to the ceiling, and Hayes saw how hard he worked to compose himself. When he met his father's eyes once more, his were suspiciously bright.

“If she'd loved either one of us, she couldn't have done it. But she did do it. Isn't that right, Dad?”

Hayes swallowed. Again he hadn't the faintest idea how to answer. Just as he hadn't the faintest idea what had prompted his wife. He searched for the right words, the ones that would comfort, that would heal. He prayed those words existed.

“It wasn't that she didn't love us,” he began, groping. “But that she couldn't find peace with herself. That she couldn't love herself. Suicide is a selfish act, an act of total self-absorption. It didn't have anything to do with us, Jeff.”

As he said the words, Hayes realized he believed them. After Isabel's death he'd gone to counseling. The words he'd just murmured to his son had been the counselor's, not his own. At the time of Isabel's death they'd rolled meaninglessly off him. But now...now he saw their validity. Now he understood.

Isabel's death had had nothing to do with him.

Something inside him shifted, then warmed. He drew a deep breath for the first time in what felt like forever. “You know what else? I may be wrong. Your mother's behavior was self-destructive, but that didn't mean that she meant to die. She didn't leave a note. She'd never threatened suicide. Maybe I tagged her behavior because I couldn't understand it.”

“What's this?” Jeff snorted. “The indomitable Hayes Bradford wrong? That would be a first.”

Hayes flinched, hurt by Jeff's anger, his sarcasm. “Have I been so arrogant?” he asked, moving around the desk, wishing he could reach his son, knowing in his gut that he was too late. “Have I been so...unmovable?”

“I'm going to marry Sheri.”

Hayes stopped, nonplussed. “What?”

“All my life you taught me that a man stands by his actions. That a man does the right, the honorable thing. Now you want me to renege on those things you taught.” Jeff shook his head. “Well, you taught me too well, Father. Because I won't. I got Sheri pregnant. I intend to marry her.”

“But...Alice called tonight. She said that you and Sheri had fought, that you'd broached the subject of— ”

“I did. It was a mistake.” He clenched his hands. “I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

“Don't do this, son. You'll regret it.”

“The way you regretted your marriage?” Jeff laughed, the sound hollow, lost. “Sorry, my mind's made up. This is the right thing to do. I know it is.”

“This is your life you're talking about. This will change it forever. Think about...” Desperate, Hayes searched for a way to convince his son he was making a mistake. A way to keep him from making it. “I'll let you off the hook. I forbid you to marry her.”

“Same old story.” Jeff narrowed his eyes. “You order— I obey. Sorry, that's not the way it works anymore. Besides, you don't get it. I'm not on a hook. I love Sheri. She loves me. She needs me. I want to marry her.”

Hayes sucked in a sharp breath. “Marry her, fine. Despite what you think, I have nothing against the girl. Just don't do it now. You're too young. You have to finish your schooling. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“I can't learn while I'm married? I can still go to school, still get my degree and— ”

“That's youth talking. Marriage and a family are a weighty responsibility. A consuming responsibility. Babies need food and diapers and shoes. They get sick, they have to go to the doctor. They need immunizations. How's Sheri going to take care of a baby and work? Or are you going to work full-time and go to school? And even if Sheri works, she's only seventeen. What kind of job is she going to get that will clear enough to pay for daycare and rent and food and everything else it takes to keep a family afloat?”

Jeff paled, even as he stiffened his spine. “I know I can do it. I'm going to marry her, no matter what you say.”

Hayes sucked in a sharp breath. “Fine. Get married, but you're on your own. No Georgetown. I'm not paying. And I'm not going to support your family. You do this and you do it on your own. Totally.”

“Blackmail? I can't believe you'd stoop so low. No, I amend that. I do believe it.”

“If it's the only way I have to convince you, so be it.”

Jeff took a step toward him, jaw clenched. “You've never wanted me to be happy. You've never wanted me to be loved!”

Hayes took an involuntary step back, stunned that his son could say such a thing, more shocked that he could say it with such conviction. “You're my son. I want you to be happy more than anything in the world.” Jeff started to turn away; Hayes caught his arm. “Jeff, listen to me. I never— ”

“I'm done listening.” He shook off Hayes's hand and strode to the door. There he turned to face his father once more. “Just because you couldn't make your wife happy you think that I won't be able to make mine happy. Well, you're wrong. Dead wrong.”

H
ayes sat in his car, parked in front of Hope House, his son's words replaying in his head.
Just because you couldn't make your wife happy you think I won't be able to make mine happy.

Hayes flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Two days had come and gone, yet he'd been unable to put those words out of his mind. Just as he'd been unable to shake the way they had made him feel. Exposed and foolish. Again stunned that his son would say such a thing to him.

For a long time after Jeff had left him that night, he'd sat and stared at the empty doorway, reeling from Jeff's words, reeling with thoughts of Isabel and her death and, oddly, with thoughts of Alice.

Hayes gazed at Hope House, at the few lit windows scattered across its face. These days, things always seemed to come back to Alice. Their past. The way she made him feel. The ache that went away only when he was with her.

Hayes swore. When had his son become so perceptive? How long had he had the ability to look into his father's heart and soul and see what tormented him?

The hell of it was, Jeff had been right. He hadn't been able to make Isabel happy. Just as he hadn't been able to make his son happy, make him feel loved and cherished.

Yet he did love his son, did cherish him. So much, that at times he felt an almost desperate fear of losing him.

Hayes frowned. He was a cold man. A man who, for whatever reason, had an inability to express love.

He wanted to; he tried. And every time ended up mired in his own ineptitude. Lost. Helpless even. Hayes's frown deepened.
Helpless.
He hated that feeling more than any other. He hated the way it made him feel—like half a man. Like a man without the ability to control his destiny or take care of those who needed him most.

A shudder moved over him as he remembered the night Alice had lost their baby. As he remembered the way he'd felt—helpless to save their little one, helpless to take Alice's hurt away.

That night had been the worst night of his life.

He frowned again, fighting back the wave of frustration and pain that threatened to engulf him. How could he feel so deeply yet be so incapable of expressing those feelings?

He turned his gaze to Hope House once more. Alice's was the only car left in the lot. He imagined her in her office, oblivious to time, scrambling to save somebody. He smiled to himself. Alice had a bigger heart, a greater capacity for love, than anyone he'd ever known.

They'd been so illsuited for each other it had been laughable. They still were.

Then why was he sitting here like a moonstruck teenager, his head swamped with thoughts of her?

Inside Hope House, a light went off. Twelve years ago, he hadn't made Alice happy. He hadn't been able to give her what she needed. He thought of her accusing words from the other night.
Why didn't you grieve? Why couldn't you comfort me?

He looked at his hands. Big, strong hands. Capable of hard, physical labor, capable of breaking a man's nose with a single blow. Yet incapable of saving his child. Incapable of comforting the woman he'd loved. Incapable of real tenderness.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he been able to comfort her? Lord knows, he'd wanted to.

He had felt as though he were dying inside. It had taken all his control to keep from falling apart, taken every scrap of fortitude he'd had to keep himself together so he could be strong for her. So he could be a man.

His throat closed and his chest tightened almost unbearably. He had loved their baby already. He had wanted it.

Another light popped off inside Hope House, then another and another, until the building stood almost eerily dark in the gathering night. Hayes waited, expecting Alice to emerge from the structure and walk to her car.

One minute became five, became ten. Hayes frowned, a trickle of unease moving through him. Something wasn't right. Alice needed help. Even as he called himself an alarmist, he alighted from the car and strode up the walk to the porch and front door. He tried the door and found it unlocked.

His frown deepened. Foreboding replaced unease, and adrenaline began to flow through him. He shook his head. Alice was fine. The only problem here was his overactive imagination. Even as he silently intoned those assurances, he slipped inside Hope House, moving as quietly as possible through the dark interior.

He would find her safe in her office, he told himself, inching his way carefully toward the back of the building. He would find her chatting with a colleague and she would look at him as though he'd lost his mind. Considering their last discussion, she might order him to get the hell out.

For all he cared, she could throw a lamp at him. As long as she was safe.

Heart thundering, Hayes made his way through the cavernous old house, picking his way around furniture, careful not to make a sound. The place was obviously empty. It reeked of it.

Alice's office door stood ajar, light streamed from it, pouring into the hallway. Just as Hayes called himself a fool, he heard a sound. A guttural sound. A sound of fear. Alice's fear.

Something heavy hit the floor; Alice cried out; a male voice rasped an obscenity.

Hayes's blood ran cold. The adrenaline pumped through him so furiously it took every scrap of control, every bit of reason he had left to keep him from charging through her door. If he alerted whoever had Alice to his presence, he would be no good to her at all.

He inched forward carefully. The floor creaked, and his heart stopped. He paused, waited a moment, then moved forward again. He reached the door and, holding his breath, ever so lightly eased it farther open.

Hayes caught his own sound of rage and fear a moment before it passed his lips. Alice was bent backward over her desk, a young man above her, a knife pressed to her throat. Her eyes, trained on her attacker, were wide with terror, her face bloodless with the same emotion.

Hayes swallowed, panic pounding frantically through him. The blade of the knife pressed into her soft white flesh, and he could see that just a fraction more pressure and it would cut her.

Dear God. Don't let him hurt her. Please...don't let him cut her.

Hayes eased the door open a fraction more and slipped into the office. Only then did Hayes notice the signs of struggle: the overturned chair and scattered books, the red welt on the side of Alice's face, the scratch marks down the boy's arm.

Luckily the boy was turned away from the door. Muttering and ranting, the teenager alternated between exerting pressure on the knife and easing off it.

The kid was high on something, Hayes realized, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could cut her without even realizing it.

Hayes took another step. Alice saw him. Her eyes flicked to his and her face went slack with relief. And for that one thin, bloodless moment, Hayes was certain the boy would see her expression and the direction of her eyes and become aware of him.

Alice must have feared the same thing, because she recovered quickly. “Don't do this, Tim,” she whispered. “Please think—”

“Shut up,” he hissed, fumbling with his belt buckle. “Say another word and I'll cut you. I promise I will.”

Tears flooded her eyes as the blade pressed into her throat. A thin line of red marred her white skin. Hayes said a silent prayer and lunged. He grabbed the boy by his hair and yanked backward.

With a cry of surprise and pain, the boy fell against Hayes, knocking him into the wall. Hayes's head slammed against the old plaster, sending a spray of white from the ceiling, stunning him momentarily.

In that moment, Alice rolled off the desk and grabbed for the overturned phone; the boy kicked it out of her reach. Hayes lunged again. Whirling toward him, the boy slashed out with his knife. Alice screamed. Hayes stumbled backward, a hand to his chest, feeling the burn of the blade clear to his stomach.

Turning, the boy sprinted from the office. Even as Hayes told himself to chase after him, his legs buckled.

Sobbing, Alice ran to him. “Hayes...Hayes...” She knelt in front of him and grabbed his hands. “My God...are you all right?”

Hayes drew a deep breath, the oxygen clearing his head. He focused his gaze on Alice. “Did he hurt you? Did he cut you?”

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “He didn't hurt me. But if you hadn't come...”

Hayes moved his hands almost frantically over her face and neck, assuring himself that she was, save for that one thin scratch, unhurt.

She shuddered. Hayes followed his hands with his lips, kissing her forehead and cheeks, her eyebrows, pressing his mouth to her eyelids, her nose, combing his fingers through her hair. “When I saw you...I thought...I was so afraid.”

“Thank God you came.” Alice clung to him. “Thank God...”

“If anything had happened to you...” He wound his fingers in her hair, unable to stop touching. Afraid that if he stopped, she would disappear. “I don't think I could have borne it.”

“I'm fine...fine.”

He drew her against him and for long moments held her tightly. Now that he saw she was safe, the ramifications of what could have happened hit him. It shook him to his core. “I could have lost you.” He pressed his face into her hair, breathing in her sweet, unmistakable scent, letting it fill him. “Dear God, I could have—”

She cupped his face in her palms. “You didn't. I'm here.”

With a groan, he caught her mouth and kissed her. Deeply. Ardently. And with more than an edge of desperation.

She returned his kiss in kind, moving her hands to his hair, twining her fingers in the crisp strands, anchoring him to her.

She trembled. So did he. He moved his hands everywhere, passionately, but more out of a gutwrenching need to be absolutely certain she was unhurt. That she was here, that she was with him.

He couldn't let her go. Not now. Not ever.

He dragged his mouth from hers, catching her ear, whispering words of endearment and fear. He found the pulse that beat wildly at the base of her soft throat; as he did he remembered the glint of steel there, the sliver of red, and held her tighter.

He could have lost her. Dear Lord, he could have lost her again.

He pulled a fraction away so he could look into her eyes. A dozen different emotions barreled through him, but he hadn't an idea how to express them. Tenderly he smoothed the hair away from her too-pale face, his chest aching almost unbearably.

“I'm fine,” she murmured. “I am.” She splayed her hands over his chest, over the thunder of his heart. His sweater was damp under her fingers. She lowered her eyes, then with a soft cry pulled her hands away.

Her palms came back red. Shocked, she returned her gaze to his. “You're hurt. My God, Hayes...he...cut you.”

Hayes's face took on a stunned expression. He brought a hand to his chest as if feeling the wound for the first time since the blade had made contact.

She saw then that his sweater was soaked with blood, that the front of her blouse, from when they'd clung to one another, was also stained red.

She started to shake. Tim could have killed Hayes. He could have killed them both. With fingers that trembled so badly she could hardly control them, she explored the rip in his sweater, then the one in the shirt beneath. She drew in a deep breath, her stomach pitching. Tim's knife had had to tear through two layers of fabric to get to Hayes's skin. And had done so effortlessly.

Hayes touched his index finger to her chin, tipping it up. He forced a weak smile. “I'll be fine, Alice. I'm made of pretty tough stuff.”

She tried to return his smile but failed miserably. Tears filled her eyes. “You're a lawyer,” she told him softly, the words choked. “Not a policeman or soldier. Not a...a hoodlum.”

He laid a gentle finger against her lips. “You haven't seen some of my court...battles—” He caught his breath and leaned his head back against the wall. He shut his eyes. “They can get...damn...bloody.”

Her heart turned over. She knew how important it was for him to be strong. She could also see that the shock was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to hurt. She took a deep breath. “I'm going to take a look. Hold tight.”

She eased the sweater over Hayes's head, saying a silent prayer of thanks for its heavy weave. Carefully she unbuttoned his shirt, then slipped it off his shoulders.

She winced at the sight of the wound that ran from the middle of his breastbone to the waistband of his jeans. It was red, raw and ugly. Sucking in a steadying breath, she probed it gently. He made a sound—just the smallest, swiftest intake of air, and her heart broke. She tipped her face up to his. “This is all my fault.”

“No. You didn't—”

“Yes.” She ever so gently kissed the wound. “My fault. I'm so sorry. So sorry.”

He covered her fingers. His shook. “It's only a surface wound. Just enough to bleed like crazy and sting like hell.”

“But it could have been—”

“It isn't.”

She brought his hands to her mouth. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, spilling onto their joined hands. “How'd you get to be so big and brave?”

“Same way as every other guy.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a half smile, half grimace. “And Saturday-morning cartoons.”

She shook her head, amazed that he could be so lighthearted now, when on a daily basis he was so serious and stiff. “Come, there's a first-aid kit in the bathroom.” She helped him up and led him to the bathroom.

Hayes sat on the commode while she got out the bandages and antiseptic. She knelt in front of him, meeting his eyes. “This is going to hurt.”

Again one corner of his mouth lifted. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

Alice went to work. Luckily Hayes was right. It was only a surface wound and wouldn't require stitches. Heart pounding, she washed the gash, then, after soaking cotton with antiseptic, cleaned it.