Kept (30 page)

There he was, walking across the front, and his eyes were on her—until her gaze met his. He looked down at his tie, up at the wall, across the room.

Yep, embarrassed. Wondering how to avoid her. What to say if he absolutely had to speak to her.

He set a book down a couple rows ahead of them. His ice-blue tie swung away from him, and he caught it with his palm as he straightened, smoothing it against his stomach. “Hey, Tracy.”

“Morning, Dillan. How are you?”

“Good.” He swallowed. “Thanks.” His gaze flitted to hers. “Miska.” Skittered away.

Her voice was weak. “Hey, Dillan.”

He sped down the aisle, for someplace away from her.

Tracy fidgeted. “What is up with everyone this morning?”

“Nothing, Trace. He just got the message.”

“Message?”

“About leaving me alone.”

“I never told him to.”

Tracy didn’t have to, not when Miska took care of it herself.

The last savory bite of salmon melted against her tongue.

Across the table, Dad scooped up buttery sauce with salmon crumbs and a stray green bean.

It
was
a good meal.

He leaned back in his chair and plopped a hand against his stomach, his cheeks puffed out. “I am full. Very good, Miska. Thank you.”

She smiled her thanks as she stood. “There’s more.”

“More? I can’t. That was the best Father’s Day dinner ever.”

“I bet you always say that.” She slid his card from the drawer in her new desk. “Here’s the grand finale. For what it’s worth.” She held the blue envelope over his empty plate. “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stared for a moment before taking it, holding it with both hands. His thumbs slid across the envelope, just touching. Just… feeling.

“Dad?”

He slid the card out.

“I hope you like it. Took me forever to pick out.”

“I can imagine.” He sniffed, nose twitching. “I’m guessing they don’t make too many thanks-for-waltzing-back-into-my-life cards. ‘Hey, Dad,’” he quipped, “‘you’re the best absentee father ever. Happy Father’s Day.’”

“That’s terrible.”

“You don’t think Hallmark should jump on it?”

“No.”

He read the inside of the card where she’d thanked him for risking contacting her. When he spoke, his voice was gruff. “Thank you, Miska.” He closed the card and studied the front again. “You know what this is?”

“What?”

“My first Father’s Day card.”

Her breath caught. How could that be? “What about that kid you took care of?”

“Got a couple you’re-like-a-dad-to-me cards. Of course the women bought cards—when I was with them—and signed the kids’ names. But this is the first card I’ve received from one of my children.”

No one else had remembered him today?

“I will treasure this forever, Miska. This means more than you know. More than I thought it could.”

“Thank you.” Her sinuses warned that they were going to overflow soon if someone didn’t do something. She pushed her chair back and stood, grabbing empty serving platters. Oh, to not be a woman for a moment.

Dad spoke behind her. “Let me help.”

“No, no. It’s Father’s Day. It’s illegal, I’m sure.”

He followed her to the sink, plate and silverware in hand.

“Have a seat, Dad. I’ll take care of it.”

“Let me help you. It’s the least I can do after…”

After all the cooking she’d done. She turned the faucet on. Water splattered and landed on her cheeks. With the back of her hand, she wiped it away.

He craned forward to see her face. “Are you crying?”

She laughed. “The water got me.”

“Oh.” He set the dishes in the sink and wiped his hands on a towel, then nudged her with his hip. “I’ll help. Then we can both sit and relax.”

She let him take her spot.

He tossed her the dishcloth. “Wipe off the table, daughter.”

With a smile, she did, finishing with a gaze out the window. Late afternoon sunlight shone golden across the lake and treetops. Peace blanketed her after a full day—a pleasant morning with Tracy, a glimpse of Dillan, words from the Bible that piqued her curiosity, and dinner with Dad.

A year ago, she would never have believed it.

Two months ago she would never have believed it.

She returned the dishcloth to the sink.

Dad did a double take. “What are you smiling at?”

She’d been smiling? “Just thinking. Life is good.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Despite your client issues? Despite whatever caused that bruise on your cheek?”

Her smile fell away.

“You did a good job with makeup, Miska, but it’s still there. What happened?”

She gripped the edge of the island. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did Mark do that?”

“No.”

His forehead lines deepened. “Who?”

She shook her head.

“Are you involved with another man?”

She couldn’t help glancing away. Her gaze landed on the new desk, dark and sleek like her floors, the new lamp a faded red. “Not anymore.” She kept her gaze averted.

A glass clinked against the sink. Silverware clattered.

“What about your neighbor, Dillan? Where does he fit?”

“He doesn’t.”

“No?”

“I see him some. He’s nice to me when it’s just the two of us.” She blinked at the truth of her words. When they were around other people, he shunned her.

How had she not seen that? She rubbed her arms. His birthday party, then this morning at church. She remembered Ethan and his immediate awareness of her identity. Did she already have a reputation at Dillan’s church? Was that why he avoided her? Because they knew—

“Miska.”

She jolted at his touch.

But it was just Dad, eyes tight with concern. “You okay?”

Of course she was fine.

He pulled her to him, his arms enveloping her. A hug—the first she’d ever received from him. At least, the first that she remembered.

No way was she going to ruin it by crying.

She shoved her emotions down. Closing her eyes, she inhaled his scent—Polo and a warm, male body, the smell of a man who’d been outside, taking in the sun.

Then there were his arms around her—holding her close, holding her the way a father should hold his little girl. Holding her like she’d never been held before.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m glad you’re here, Dad.”

“Me too.” One big hand rubbed her back. “Because nobody cooks like you do.”

Laughing, she pulled away and smacked his shoulder. “Sweet talker.”

The beginning of the week flew in a haze of work, morning jogs, and that crazy John book, the one that wouldn’t leave her alone. Between Melissa Leach’s call on the last Relentless books and the steamy romance she was editing, verses kept popping up.

I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: Make straight the way of the Lord.

Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!

Jesus answered and said to him, “Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.”

Because I said to you, “I saw you under the fig tree,” do you believe? You will see greater things than these.

Greater things… What had Dillan seen? What had Tracy seen?

Miska texted Tracy verses that captured her, and Tracy explained the story John was sharing about this Savior who hadn’t come to free them from Roman oppression but from the oppression of sin and its judgment.

She thought of Mark. Kendall. Had Jesus freed her from them? Was that what had happened?

A full week had passed since Mark told her not to call him. It was like he was gone, like he’d never been. Would he ever darken her door again?

Did she want him to?

If it meant keeping her home, yes. Mark was no Dillan—that was a given. He’d made a stupid move by letting Kendall beat her. A smart woman wouldn’t take him back.

A desperate woman would.

His team would be in town late Thursday night, maybe early Friday morning, for a series with the White Sox. The real question was, would he stop by?

When you were under the fig tree, I saw you.

Did this God see her? If he did, then he knew all that she’d done.

The possibility made her dive back into her work.

Storms rolled in late Tuesday and lasted throughout the night, thunder rumbling comfortingly in the distance. For the first time since Kendall’s attack, Miska slept well and woke completely rested.

Outside, rain poured. She dressed, grabbed her keys, and took the stairs to the seventh floor gym. The place was packed, every elliptical, bike, and treadmill filled. On two treadmills in the corner, Garrett and Dillan ran side by side. Garrett caught her eye and flashed five fingers. She nodded her thanks and picked her way through the machines until she was behind them.

“Hey,” Garrett panted.

“Morning, Garrett. Dillan.”

He jerked his chin at her.

They were flying on their machines, running as if they were racing each other. She listened to the treadmills’ hums, to Garrett’s and Dillan’s pounding feet, watched their arms pumping—

Dillan’s cast was gone.

He moved too much for her to get a good look, but his forearm was clearly pale and a bit scrawny. Her gaze trailed past his elbow to the tanned biceps and triceps that showed from his gray sleeveless T-shirt.

Something beeped, and they slowed their machines, Garrett slowing to cooling-off speed. He pulled his T-shirt up and wiped his face. “How you been, Miska?”

“Good. You?”

He shrugged. “Okay. Heard Ethan hit on you Sunday.”

“Was that what that was?”

Garrett chuckled.

Dillan glanced her way.

“When’d you get your cast off?” she asked him.

“Yesterday.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Garrett snorted. “You should see the broken dishes. He keeps dropping things. Says his arm’s ‘weak.’”

“Dillan? Rebuttal?”

“Dropped one glass.”

“Then all that skin came off.” Garrett shuddered. “You should have seen it, coming off in sheets—”

Dillan reached across the gap and shoved him.

Garrett kept his balance. “Seriously, sheets. I think that’s the reason his arm is smaller. All that dead skin—”

“All right, all right. You’re grossing me out.” She remembered how disgusting Wade’s leg had looked after his cast came off, how he’d chased her around the house, threatening to put skin crumbs in her hair until Mom yelled at him to stop.

“She look grossed out to you, Dill?”

Both watched her over their shoulders.

She wiped the smile from her face. “High school memory. I’m back.”

Garrett’s treadmill stopped, and he stepped off. “And I’m done. All yours.”

“Huh-uh. Wipe that thing down.”

“What?” He grinned. “Like you’re not gonna get sweaty.”

“It’ll be my sweat. Not yours.”

Miska stretched while he cleaned the machine.

When he finished, he held his hand out with a flourish. “All yours to dirty up.”

She stepped onto the machine and programmed it.

Garrett left, stopping near the door to talk to someone. A woman on an elliptical eyed him.

Girl, he is not worth it.

While she warmed up, Dillan ran silently beside her, his labored breathing hard to ignore. She sped up to her favorite speed, then realized her feet and Dillan’s were pounding the treadmill together. Just to be different, she slowed, but her forced attempt made her falter, and she caught herself on the rails.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just stumbled.” She stood outside the tread and watched it whir beneath her. For once, she couldn’t think of anything to say to him. What was the point? He didn’t want to talk—

“Ethan hit on you, huh?”

She looked at him.

He was slowing his machine.

“He did. Seemed to recognize my name. Any idea why?”

“Nope. I avoid the guy.”

Silence fell again, as awkward as the silence between Garrett and Dillan had felt right. She stepped back on the treadmill. “Tracy and I are reading John.”

His treadmill stopped. “No kidding.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I mean—” He shrugged. “That’s cool. What do you think of it?”

Verses that had come to be her favorite ran through her mind. “I like it. Frankly, it’s raising more questions than answers, but—”

“If I can help, let me know.”

Really? Where had this come from? Or was this what pastors did? Her burst of happiness dimmed. “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

He took the spray bottle off the wall, grabbed a wad of paper towels, and returned to the machine.

She lowered her speed. “Can I ask a question now?”

“Go ahead.”

“We just finished the second chapter.”

“Where Jesus turns water to wine and drives money changers from the temple.”

She raised her eyebrows. He knew that? Just by her saying what chapter they were in?

He chuckled. “What’s your question?”

“What was the point of all that? Especially the part in the temple? He seemed angry over nothing.”

“Well, it wasn’t nothing. The temple was where the Jews worshipped, and the money changers were in cahoots with the priests, forcing people to buy sacrificial animals at inflated prices. They needed to go.”

“Why weren’t they allowed to make money?”

“They weren’t just making money. They were ripping people off, like a combination of collusion and kickbacks.”

Interesting. “What was the point of the water to wine?”

“To prove he was God come down to earth. He came as an ordinary man, you know? Nobody special, they thought. But then there were his miracles—healing the blind and crippled, bringing the dead back to life—”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Keep reading. You’ll get there.”

“What chapter?” she teased.

He blew out a breath, searching the space between them. “Somewhere in the middle. Try eleven or twelve.”

“You’re messing with me.”

“Am not.” His smile created one of her own. “It’s what I do all day. Study the Bible, learn what it says. Stuff like that.”

“Huh.” She’d seen Tracy’s Bible. Big book. He knew where everything was? “So the water to wine was a sign that he was God.”