Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (37 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

D
ELAINEY
WIPED
ANGRY
TEARS
from her cheeks and stomped away from the truck, hurt and betrayed that Trace would force her hand like this. He knew she'd do anything to make this project succeed, and to have Trace make her a devil's bargain was reprehensible.

“Delainey, wait,” Trace called out, chasing after her. She ignored him and kept walking, but he caught up to her fairly quickly. She couldn't outrun him, so instead she cast him a dirty look. “Listen, I know you don't like what I have to say, but someone has to tell you things straight. Your dad might very well be a bastard and a terrible father, but if he goes to his grave without you being able to say what you need to say, you're the one who's going to suffer.”

“How do you know? Maybe I'll be just fine,” she shot back. “Last time I checked you weren't a psychologist.”

“No, you're right. Maybe I'm not qualified to give anyone advice, but I've seen plenty of situations where pent-up emotions have caused a lot of damage to the person left behind. I don't want to see that happen to you.”

Delainey's heart leaped at his admission, and she berated herself for the involuntary reaction. “Why do you care?” she asked in a low voice, almost afraid of his answer.

He pushed his hand through his hair and then shrugged as if he didn't know the answer. “I'm not ready to look that deep. All I know is how I feel.”

What had she expected—a declaration of undying love? And if she'd gotten that, how would she have handled the responsibility? It was better this way. She accepted his answer and nodded. “Okay, so even if you're right and I should hash things out with my dad, don't you think that's selfish on my part? I mean, if the man is dying, why should I make things worse by burdening his last days with my childhood scars?”

“I'm not saying you should march into his hospital room and start detailing all the ways he was a terrible person,” he clarified. “I'm saying you need to find your peace. The truth is, he can't change the past, no matter how remorseful he may be.”

She cut him a sharp glance. “What makes you think he's remorseful?”

“What makes you think he's not?”

Delainey snorted. “My father is remorseful for nothing. To feel remorse, one has to admit guilt, and my father doesn't apologize for anything.”

“Dying has a way of softening a person. Maybe you ought to give him a little slack and see what he does with it.”

She closed her eyes and slowly realized maybe there were signs if only she'd been open to seeing them. She worried her bottom lip as she considered everything Trace had said. Finally, she looked to him and said, “Okay, I'll go. But if he turns out to be the same bastard I grew up with, he can die and go to hell for all I care. Got it?”

“Sounds fair to me.”

She prodded him. “And in return?”

“In return I'll stop fighting this production and do what I can to see it succeed.”

Delainey smiled in relief and jumped into his arms, mindless that it was inappropriate and confusing, grateful for his presence—however brief—in her life. “Thank you,” she murmured, loving the feel of his embrace. “You don't know what this means to me.”

He sighed and tightened his hold on her. “I think I have an idea.”

* * *

T
RACE
WAITED
IN
the truck while Delainey went into the hospital, her heart pounding and her stomach a little sick. What if she couldn't handle the reality of her father being gravely ill? Trace was right about her needing to do this, but she was scared out of her mind and she wished she'd taken Trace's offer for him to accompany her. Right about now, she could use a little shot in the courage department.

She checked in at the nurse's station and was directed to the ICU. She found the room and was temporarily taken aback by the stark truth of the sterile environment, with its multitude of equipment beeping and monitoring, and the smell of antiseptic assaulting her nostrils. Brenda, who was sitting by her husband's side, rose when she saw Delainey, a tremulous smile on her face. “Oh, girl, I'm so glad you came. I had my doubts, but I knew deep in your heart there's love for your daddy,” she said, gripping Delainey in a fierce hug that shocked her. “Thad just left, the poor thing. He's taking things pretty hard.”

Delainey nodded as if she understood, but in fact she was a little knocked left of center and she felt like a terrible sister for not realizing how things had changed between her father and her brother. But how could she have known if she never kept in contact? Yet another notch in the “bad sibling/daughter” category. “Thad didn't tell me exactly what's going on...” Delainey said, letting her sentence trail, knowing Brenda would elaborate.

“Oh, honey, I wanted your daddy to tell you what was happening with his health, but he didn't want to burden you with his problems. Your daddy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a year ago, and it's been a miracle he's lasted this long. But he's a fighter.” Brenda smiled lovingly at her sleeping husband, tears sparkling in her eyes. “He's a strong man but the body can only take so much.”

What? Delainey stared, unable to believe what she was hearing. “He's...dying?” She could barely get the words out. It was one thing to hear the news and another to face it. Her knees wobbled and she leaned against the wall, her vision swimming. Her father was a mean old crusty fisherman. She always figured the sea would take him when it was his time to go. There'd been times when she'd wished he would drown out there, but those were the heated, heartbroken cries of a child who'd never been properly loved by the man who was supposed to be her protector. And now that he was truly facing imminent death? She felt squeezed by the lack of time between them. Could they have fixed things? She didn't know and she never would.

Before she realized it was happening, she was sliding down the wall and tears were tracking down her cheeks. Brenda fluttered around her, clucking like a mother hen, and although it was a foreign feeling to have an older female in her life, Delainey didn't fight it when Brenda joined her on the floor and held her as if she was a baby, crooning to her and patting her head.

“There, there, let it out, honey,” Brenda said, rocking her. “I know it hurts. God, I know. And your daddy has told me how much he wished things were different between you, but he'd plain run out of time.”

“Why didn't he call?” she asked, sniffing back tears. “Why didn't he pick up the damn phone and tell me what was happening? He didn't even give me a chance. I might've come home earlier.”

“Would you?” Brenda asked softly, knowing.

Delainey couldn't lie, and the knowledge made her cry harder. “No, probably not,” she admitted shamefully. The only reason she'd come tonight was because of Trace. She squeezed her eyes shut and cried until her eyes felt wrung out. She didn't know how long they sat on the floor, but Delainey's rear end was numb and her head ached. Brenda let go and they struggled to their feet, Brenda rubbing her behind ruefully with a watery chuckle, saying, “I'm no spring chicken no more. Sitting on the floor is hard on these old bones, no matter the extra padding.”

Delainey sniffed and allowed a tiny smile. Her gaze strayed to her father, oblivious to her meltdown and barely clinging to life. How messed up was this? Her life was slowly crumbling to dust right before her eyes, brick by brick. She had a crew of eight waiting to go to production at first light, and her career was resting on the pointy end of a blade with everything depending on this shoot going well. And now her father was dying? She rubbed her forehead, fighting against another impending meltdown. She swallowed and drew a deep, halting breath, needing to focus. One thing at a time, she told herself. One thing...

“How much longer does he have?” she asked, cringing at the question.

“Hard to say. Days, hours? Only God knows. But the doctors have assured me that he's not suffering any longer. He's so high on morphine he doesn't even know where he is or likely who he is any longer.”

Delainey nodded, pulling herself together thread by thread. “I know this will sound terrible, but I have a production ready to start first thing tomorrow and—”

“And you don't have time to sit at your father's bedside waiting for him to draw his last breath,” Brenda finished for her. For a minute Delainey wasn't sure if Brenda was chastising her, but Brenda smiled and patted her hand. “You come when you can. Your daddy wouldn't want you putting your life on hold for him. He was proud of you for making your own way. He'll understand.”

Delainey stared. Her father was proud of her? She couldn't believe it. “I...” she didn't have words.

“Go.” Brenda nudged her gently. “Do your thing. I'll let you know if anything changes.”

Delainey nodded, her vision blurring as she escaped that room. Her nausea returned and she forced it down as she made her way back to Trace's truck, where he was waiting. She jerked open the door, climbed inside and said, “Go! I need to leave this place.” She had to get far away before she completely dissolved into a weeping, hysterical mess that put her first meltdown to shame.

* * *

T
RACE
KEPT
HIS
EYES
on the road, helpless as Delainey wept into her hands, unable to stop. He didn't know if Harlan was dead or what the situation was, and he was afraid to ask. He'd never seen Delainey break down like this before, and it freaked him out a little. He didn't ask but drove straight to his place.

When they pulled up in the driveway, Delainey jumped out, gulping great big swallows of air as she tried to compose herself. She paced in the cold night air, her breath pluming. “I waited my entire life for one ounce of affection or kindness from my father, and now that he's dying he dares to say he's proud of me?” she asked, angry. “What is this crap? Is he trying to get into heaven? Does he think by throwing around desperate apologies I'm going to forgive a miserable childhood at his hands? I can't believe how messed up this is. I have a full production slated to start first thing tomorrow, and now my father chooses to die. Perfect timing.” She threw her hands up as she raged. “You know, the thing that kills me is that he could've picked up the phone and given me a heads-up of what was going on. But he didn't. And now I've been blindsided by this news and I don't have time to deal with a dying family member.”

Trace knew she was only venting and that deep in her heart what she was saying wasn't how she actually felt but she didn't know how to deal with her feelings. “Let's go inside and you can tell me what's going on,” he suggested. She stopped pacing but stared at him with such bleak heartache that he wanted to pull her roughly to him and promise everything was going to work out.

“I probably shouldn't stay here, but I can't go back to my father's place now that I know he's sick. And although Brenda means well, I'm not ready for her to be a mother figure to me. I don't know if I'll ever be ready, and I know that's terrible of me because she seems like a really nice person. I don't know how my father even met a woman like her. I keep waiting for some hidden darkness to reveal itself, but so far Brenda is as sweet as a stereotypical Southern woman who's all about family, good food and the Lord's Prayer. And I can't deal with it. Trace, I'm a terrible person because I just can't deal with it.”

“You're not a terrible person,” he assured her, shepherding her firmly into the house. “What you are is hurting and dealing with a lot in a short amount of time. Now, tell me what's going on with your dad.”

Delainey removed her jacket and hung it on the hook beside the door, rubbing her arms for warmth. “Can we build the fire first? I'm frozen.”

Trace quickly built up a fire in the woodstove, and within minutes the house started to warm. Trace took his place beside Delainey on the sofa. “So how bad is it?” he asked, ready for the worst.

“Pretty bad,” Delainey answered, staring at her fingers. “Brenda said he's been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and apparently he's had it for a while. I guess it's a miracle he's lasted this long.”

“Well, Alaskan fishermen are made from tough stock.”

“Apparently,” she agreed with a mild smile. “Pancreatic cancer is brutal. Brenda said that he could have days or hours left. I don't know what to do. Do I cancel the shoot? I know I should be by his side so that I'm there when he dies, but the thought of sitting in that room just waiting for him to take his last breath just makes me want to run away.” She stopped and her voice wobbled as she admitted to him, “I'm not ready for my dad to die.”

“I don't think anyone is ever prepared for death, but what would you say to him if you could?” he asked.

“I don't know. I'd probably say something really mean because I'm so angry with him, but Brenda told me some things that I don't how to process. She told me that he was proud of me for chasing my dreams, for not letting anything get in my way. She said that he understood why I stayed away and he never blamed me. She also said that he knew he'd been a terrible father but he'd run out of time to fix things. What am I supposed to do with that information? I feel like a jerk for being angry with him. I mean, isn't it bad form to beat up on a terminally ill person?”

“Is there an option to delay the shoot?”

She shook her head. “No. Even if we don't start shooting I still have to pay the crew, and I can't afford five days with nothing to show for it. This budget is already tight enough it squeaks. I just can't stop, no matter what's going on in my life. The shoot has to go on as scheduled.”

“Then that's what happens. From the sounds of it, your father doesn't want you to make special allowances for him. It's probably why he didn't call you in the first place. He'll understand.”