Still the One (7 page)

The man turned back to Zack, his eyes frankly curious, and made another stab at extracting information. “So… how do you and
Katie know each other?”

Katie twisted her purse handle. “We were, uh, friends. A long time ago.”

Friends.
Yeah, right.
The old guy didn’t seem to be buying it, either, from the expression on his face. He looked at Zack. “Can I help you find
a book?”

Zack pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Actually, I came in looking for my daughter.”

“Must be the gal in the back of the store.”

“My daughter”—not “our daughter.” So Zack was going to just grab her and leave, without telling the old dude that Katie was
her mom. Oh, sure, Katie was going to break it to him later—she had to, since she and Zack were moving to town. But why should
she let B.M. do things her way? She’d had things her way for seventeen years.

Seventeen years of pretending she didn’t have a daughter was long enough. She wasn’t going to get away with it a moment longer.

Gracie stepped into the aisle, clutching the manga book. A perverse pleasure coursed through her as she sauntered up the aisle,
her boots clunking on the hardwood floor.

“Hey—while everyone is introducing themselves, I ought to, too. I’m Gracie.” She treated Dave to a toothy grin. “Katie and
Zack are my birth parents.”

Katie’s face grew as white as a roll of toilet paper. The old man gaped like one of those wall-mounted singing bass.

“Guess you’re my grandpop-in-law. Or maybe it’s step-grandpop-in-law. I don’t know a lot about complicated blended family
arrangements.”

“You’re… you’re…,” the old man stammered, then cast a wide-eyed glance at Katie. “Did you say that you’re Katie’s…?”

“Birth daughter,” Gracie filled in helpfully. “As in, she gave birth to me, then she gave me away. Guess you didn’t know I
existed, huh?”

The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.

“Well, don’t feel bad. She didn’t bother to tell me about you, either.” She plunked the book on the counter. “What’s your
name?”

“I’m—I’m Dave Charmaine.”

“Nice to meet you.” She pulled aside her macramé bag. “Guess you’re going to be my baby’s great-granddad-in-law or whatever.”

“Your—baby?” The old man sounded like he needed to cough up a phlegm ball or something.

“Yeah. Heck of a deal, isn’t it? You’re getting a new grandkid and a great-grandkid all in one package.”

The old man’s face turned the color of Silly Putty. He gripped the countertop. Katie jumped forward, her eyes wide and alarmed.
“Dave—are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

Katie’s forehead scrunched in concern. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Just a little angina, is all.”

Angina? That was pain from heart trouble. She learned that watching
Grey’s Anatomy
on TV—and then she’d looked it up in
Gray’s Anatomy
, the book. Gracie’s own heart raced as the man dug in the back pocket of his khaki Dockers, pulled out a pill container,
and opened the lid with trembling hands. He popped a pill into his mouth.

Oh, jeez—she hadn’t meant to give the old dude a heart attack. She hadn’t meant to hurt him at all. She’d meant… Oh, hell.
Guilt snaked through her. She’d meant to cause trouble, and this was the result.
Nothing good ever comes from bad intentions,
her mother used to say. Remorse flushed through her veins. She was always screwing things up. Why did she always have to
screw things up?

“You should sit down.” Katie took the man by the arm and edged him two feet back, to the barstool behind the counter. The
wooden stool squeaked on the hardwood floor as he sat down.

“I’m fine,” Dave said. “Really. It’s already better.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Nah. Just every now and then, if I get upset or excited or”—he looked at Gracie—“surprised. It’s no big deal.”

“Heart trouble certainly is a big deal,” Katie said. “How long have you had it?”

“Awhile. But it’s all under control.” He straightened on the stool and looked through the window. “Here comes Brad. We can
go in the back and talk, if you like.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” the man said. “The pain’s already gone.”

A thin young man a year or two older than Gracie walked through the door. Katie looked at Zack. “You two can run along.”

Zack touched Katie on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you this evening.”

The man gave Gracie a weak smile. “And I’ll talk to you later, Gracie.”

“O-okay.” She looked at him. Her chin trembled. “I didn’t mean…,” she started. “I mean, I’m… I’m…”

Sorry.
The word stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. Dear God, she was sorry about so many things, things that she could barely
stand to think about, things that woke her up in the night sobbing and covered with sweat, things that she would never be
able to apologize for. How could she say she was sorry for this, when she’d never be able to apologize for the things that
possessed her like a demon, stank up the air she breathed, and tainted her every thought?

Sorry.
Yeah, she was, but what good did it do? It was just a word—a stupid, meaningless word that didn’t change anything.

Nothing could ever change all the things she was sorry for.

“It’s okay, Gracie,” Dave said. His weathered face creased in a smile, and he said the words she needed to hear but didn’t
believe. “It’s not your fault.”

Zack opened the door, punched open the umbrella, and held it over her. She moved away from him, stepping off the sidewalk
and into the gutter. Raindrops plopped down on her head. The sky was weeping, she thought as she wiped her face. No one needed
to know that she was, too.

The sun rode low in the sky as Dave steered his sedan into the parking lot of the Sunnyside Assisted-Living Villa. He turned
off the engine, picked up the bouquet of roses he’d bought at the grocery store, and climbed out of the car. As he walked
toward the large, French-country-style building, he thought again how the place looked more like a resort than a place for
the elderly or disabled.

Disabled. It was hard to think of Annette that way. Of course, she was just temporarily in that condition—a nasty fall down
the stairs at her home in New Orleans had broken her leg in three places and required a total knee replacement—but it was
still hard, because in his mind’s eye, she’d always be the girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. Annette had been
his first kiss, his first lover, his first wife.

Hell. She’d been his only real wife. That thing with his secretary didn’t count. That had been nothing but a stupid, alcohol-fueled,
midlife crisis—a way of denying the fact he was getting older, of trying to feel better about himself. It was no excuse, but
if he hadn’t been drinking so heavily, it never would have happened. It sure as hell never would have escalated into a wedding.
He’d been planning on breaking off the affair when Annette caught him in the act.

The memory made his face heat with shame. Linda had been bent over his desk, her skirt up to her waist, and his pants had
been around his ankles. A loud gasp had sounded behind him. He’d twisted his head to see Annette standing in the doorway,
both hands over her mouth. His heart and his dick had both headed south.

“Annette,” he’d blurted.

She’d turned on her heel, walked out of his office, and kept right on walking—out of his life, into a divorce attorney’s office,
out of Chartreuse, and into a new career as a substitute teacher in New Orleans. He’d married Linda on the rebound, but it
had never really been a marriage. She’d sure wasted no time bailing when he’d started having health problems.

He pulled open the tall arched French door and stepped inside the assisted-living center. Music tinkled from the parlor, where
about twenty elderly people mingled and chattered gaily, as if they were at a cocktail party.

Some of them weren’t all that much older than Dave. At fifty-seven, he was only a decade or so shy of fitting right in. The
realization burned. He’d tried to deny the realities of aging, but his recent heart diagnosis had made it all too real. He
was getting old, and he was a fool. What was the saying? There’s no fool like an old fool. Yeah, well, there he was—Exhibit
A. The only thing worse than an old fool was an old fool with a drinking problem.

The thought made him wince as he headed toward the elevator. At least he’d finally put the plug in the jug. Thanks to AA,
he’d been sober a year and a half now. He was working his way through the twelve steps, and now he was on step nine, trying
to make amends and clear up the wreckage of his past.

Most of that wreckage involved his family. It was too late to make amends to his son; Paul had died not speaking to him. The
guilt over that had driven him back to the bottle during three earlier attempts to quit drinking. It was hell, having to accept
the things he couldn’t change. He didn’t know that he’d ever be able to forgive himself for all the mistakes he’d made as
a father. Those were just things he had to live with, one day at a time.

He couldn’t live without making amends to Annette, though. He needed to set things right, because the shame and remorse were
eating him up. If he didn’t do his best to make amends, he was afraid it was going to drive him back to the bottle.

He’d avoided Annette for years, but when he’d heard about her fall, he’d rushed to the hospital in New Orleans. She hadn’t
been pleased to see him. She’d been pretty doped up on painkillers, though, so hopefully he’d get a better reception now.

He wondered if Annette would be as shocked to learn that Katie had a child as he’d been. He’d had no idea, but then, Annette
had always been closer to Katie than he had. His son had cut him out of his life after the affair. Katie, bless her heart,
had been more forgiving, but she’d never really confided in him.

The elevator opened, and he stepped out into the medical-care wing on the second floor. If you had to be someplace besides
home while recovering from a big-dog surgery, this was a good place to do it, he thought. The rooms looked like hotel suites,
an RN was constantly on staff, and the best doctors and physical therapists in the area made daily rounds. It was as good
as, if not better than, a hospital.

He knocked on the casing of the partially opened door that had her name on it. “Annette?” He pushed the door open.

She was sitting up in bed, wearing teal satin pajamas. She always used to wear flannel ones, the kind with long sleeves and
high necks. She was pale and kind of peaked, as if she’d been through an ordeal, but she looked better than she had any right
to, considering her accident and surgery had been just five days ago. Her hair was different from the way she’d worn it when
they were married. It was longer, and a lighter shade of blonde.

She was lovely. It had always amazed him that a woman so beautiful had ever had anything to do with the likes of him.

The way she stiffened against the pillow as he stepped closer made his heart squeeze. So did the wariness in her usually soft
gray eyes. “Dave. What are you doing here?”

The faint scent of his Aramis aftershave stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions in Annette’s chest. Damn it—despite the fact
he’d yanked out her heart and stomped all over it, Dave still made it skip. She tilted up her chin, determined not to let
him know it.

“I thought I’d come see how you’re doing,” he said.

He hadn’t cared in years, Annette thought. Why should he care now? Probably because he was lonely now that the tramp he’d
married had left him. It had been all over town when Linda had run off with the owner of that bar in Hammond a year ago. Annette
had been living in New Orleans then, but she’d gotten eleven phone calls within four hours of Dave’s new wife picking up and
moving on.

She shouldn’t have cared. She’d told herself that she was over him and she was better off without him. She liked to think
that she was the kind of person who didn’t harbor grudges or hold ill will, but God help her, she’d been glad.
Good
, she’d thought.
Let him find out what it feels like to be left.
Turnabout, after all, was fair play.

“How are you feeling?” Dave asked.

“Just fine,” she said stiffly.

“I’m mighty glad to hear it.” He stretched his hand out and laid the bouquet on the tray. “I brought you roses.”

Too little, too late. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d brought her flowers during their thirty-two years
of marriage. Four times the first year, then once again after she’d given birth to Paul two years later. Of course, he’d deluged
her with flowers after she’d caught him with his pants down, but those times didn’t count, because as far as she was concerned,
the marriage had been already over.

Still, she was a Southern lady, and her upbringing insisted that politeness be observed. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“Do you want me to put them in water?” he asked.

“I don’t have a vase.”

His face fell. He rubbed his jaw. “I should have thought of that.”