Heartbreak, Tennessee (11 page)

“They’re just names,”
Mac said flatly, going to the stove where he began banging pots and pans.

Just names. Just the
names the two of them had picked out for the children they’d once talked of
having. It was a lovers’ game, just a silly little daydream they’d shared. They’d
planned a boy and a girl, and Amber had dreamed of the day she would hold babies
in her arms who bore the mark of their father, mixed with her own genes, a
final proof of the love that nothing could tear apart.

Crazy. She’d put those
childish dreams behind, hadn’t she? It had been ages since she’d thought of
their tender, silly plans...

But that wasn’t
entirely true, was it? At night, in her lonely Nashville apartment, dreams
came. Dreams of home and family and warmth and a closeness that would never
again be torn apart, a union that would stand the test of time.

With effort Amber followed
Mac toward the kitchen.

“It smells wonderful.”
Amber slid into a massive wooden chair at the table. The carved, cool wood fit
the contours of her body perfectly, and Mac set a glass of wine in front of her
wordlessly. She drank deeply, the claret liquid burning as it went down. It was
a smoky cabernet. On top of everything else, Mac seemed to have discovered fine
wine. A small laugh escaped Amber’s lips.

“What’s so funny?” His
back to her, Amber noticed a stiffness to his shoulders. Well, of course. They
were both on edge, given the unfortunate moment on the steps. They would both
have to work hard to pretend it had never happened.

“It’s just—ironic,
I guess. I mean, there was a time when we didn’t have two dimes to rub
together, when we thought a Miller in a long-necked bottle was the height of
sophistication. And now...”

“Yeah. I guess we both
managed to rise up a few notches, eh?”

He worked for a moment
in silence, taking things from the refrigerator and cabinets. Then he joined
her at the table, placing a large pottery platter between them. In dishes
glazed brown and celadon were purees in deep, exotic colors, nestled among
crisp flatbread.

Amber raised a brow
quizzically. “Am I to understand that you, a man who used to have trouble
boiling a hot dog, actually made this yourself?”

Mac colored slightly,
grinning self-consciously, and Amber helped herself to a taste.

It was wonderful,
earthy and cool and unfamiliar.

“Roasted eggplant,”
Mac said, pointing. “And that’s something I’m experimenting with, tapenade...” His
voice trailed off. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” In an
apologetic little motion, Amber shook her head back and forth. “Nothing, it’s
wonderful, but I just—I just didn’t expect you to have changed so much. To
know how to cook and decorate a house. To be running a huge, successful
business. I mean, it’s not that I’m not happy for you. I guess there’s a part
of me that thought you would be just as I left you, way back when.”

“Just as you left me,”
Mac repeated softly. “So we’re back to that again. There isn’t ever going to be
a perfect time to discuss this, Amber. But we have to. Need to.”

For a moment there was
a charged silence between them, as Amber slowly lowered a crust of bread to her
plate.

“You don’t know what
you’re asking,” she said in a ragged voice. “When I came here tonight, I told
myself it was just to talk about our plans for the park, to convince you to
consider our proposal. But in truth, I think I had planned to tell you
everything, the rest of what happened that night so long ago. But...I’m sorry,
Mac. I just can’t.”

“Yes you
can
!” Mac’s hand crashed down on the
massive table, causing the fragile glassware to jump. Amber’s head snapped up,
wariness painted in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to frighten, to threaten, but he
wasn’t going to let the subject go again.

Sitting across from
him, in his home, surrounded by his things, Amber looked a little adrift, like
an animal cornered in unfamiliar territory. Her hands tapped out her anxiety
like a code, her slender fingers tracing a path on the worn surface of the
table. Maybe he could take advantage of her uncertainty to coax answers out of
her.

If he could just keep
his temper under control. The rage he’d worked years to tamp down where it
could do no damage, now threatened to burst free. With enormous effort he
stuffed it once again, and breathed deeply.

“Amber,” he went on,
more softly, “When you came to me that night, you told me that my father
threatened you.”

Amber’s eyes flashed
at the memory. “He told me in no uncertain terms that I could never see you
again.”

“It was no secret that
my folks didn’t approve of you...of us. But that never stopped us. We always
said nothing could come between us.”

“Well, I guess we were
wrong. Mac, I really don’t want to...”

“I’ve gone over it a
million times since then,” Mac continued. “I’ve regretted that I didn’t just go
with you when you asked, but it just didn’t seem right. Hell, I didn’t even
know if that old car would have gotten us fifty miles out of town. And you were
asking me to throw everything away.”

“I thought you would
have come. I was wrong,” Amber whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mac shook his head
impatiently. “But I knew there had to be more to it. Since when did we ever
listen to my folks? Since when did anyone ever scare you? Amber...what was it
you weren’t telling me? Did you meet someone else?”

Amber’s head snapped
up, surprise and anger flashing in her eyes.

“Are you accusing me
of lying to you?”

“Did you stop loving
me?” He had to ask the question, even though he knew the answer. It was a fear
that had once haunted him, but had vanished now that he had seen Amber again,
kissed her, tasted a hunger that matched his own.

She greeted his query
with a baleful glare, but she didn’t deny it.

But Mac had a much
more pressing anxiety, one that until tonight he had never been able to voice
out loud.

There was one
possibility that came to him long after she had gone. One so painful to imagine
that it, too, had been banished to the recesses of his mind. As much as it tore
at him to revisit it now, it was the one explanation that might hold the answer
to Amber’s betrayal.

Reaching across the
table, Mac took the tips of Amber’s fingers in his own large hands and stilled
their nervous dance. His thudding heart made it difficult for him to find his
voice.

“Amber.” He paused,
searching for the right words. “Were you...were we going to have a baby?”

“
No
!”

The shock that
registered on her face, the vehemence in her voice, were real. Mac, watching
carefully, was convinced. Something in him relaxed then.

The fear he’d never
named slipped away, and in its absence, he realized how big it had really
become.

Mac loved children
with a passion rare in men who aren’t fathers. Charlene’s children were like a
niece and nephew to him, and the hours spent at their birthday parties and
holiday dinners and taking them to movies and ball games had cemented his
status as favorite uncle. So often, though, as he tossed a ball with Buddy or
helped Louise catch fireflies on a summer night, his heart caught with the fear
that he might never have children of his own.

And always, always,
the hidden part of his mind had wondered if the thing that was so awful that it
had driven Amber away had been a baby.

“How...why would you
think that?” Amber said, her eyes wide with astonishment. “We always were careful—”

“Things happen,” Mac
said sharply. “Accidents.”

“And you think I
wouldn’t have told you?” Spots of color rose high on Amber’s cheeks, and a dark
cloud passed in her eyes. “How could you think that? I told you everything. Have
you forgotten? Every single dream I ever had, every time I was afraid or lonely
or sad I shared it with you.”

“Yes,” Mac said
slowly, drawing the word out. “We shared almost everything.”

And there it was on
the table again, the final betrayal. He waited to see if she would open up, but
when the fire went out of her eyes it was replaced by the impenetrable screen
again, the bland, imperturbable smile that was the one feature of Amber’s that
Mac despised.

Mac turned his hands
palms up in a gesture of capitulation, and rested them on the table. Another
day would pass without him knowing any more, but even so a measure of peace had
settled in him, knowing Amber had not been carrying their baby.

“All right,” he said,
forcing a smile. “You win. I give up. It’s early, neither of us seem to have
plans tonight, and dinner’s on the stove. Let’s make the best of the evening,
shall we?”

Amber hesitated, and
slowly the anxiety melted from her. “All right,” she said in a voice so small
he had to strain to hear it. “I don’t know if I can stand another hamburger
platter from the Sunset Diner.”

Smoothing a few loose
strands of hair back into place, Amber stood to clear the dishes. “This
was
delicious,” she added, though she’d
taken only a few bites.

“Ah, wait until you
try my home-made spice rub on a good piece of Texas beef. Heaven on earth, if I
do say so myself. Hey, sit back down. You’re the guest here.”

Amber took her seat as
commanded, and watched Mac work. He’d let go of his anger so quickly. Another
new skill he’d picked up over time. In some ways, Mac was a very different man
than the one she’d known. Gone was the boy she’d loved with all her heart, and
in his place was this man who measured his thoughts before speaking, who kept
his quiet wisdom to himself, who wore his sadness deep in the azure sea of his
eyes.

Mac had changed. Nothing
was the same. So why was her reaction to him the exact same heart-pounding,
dry-mouthed shameless desire she’d felt so long ago?

When he touched her
moments before, it was as if his unspoken thoughts flowed through her
fingertips into her body. He wanted her.

Would he be
different...making love?

“Music?”

Mac’s voice jarred her
from her train of thought, causing a flood of crimson to rise to her face. Thankfully
he kept at his work without turning, opening a hidden cabinet.

“Yes,” she said
weakly. “If you like.”

He flicked a switch in
a panel recessed in one wall of the kitchen, and music began playing softly,
Patsy Cline’s soulful voice filling the room.

So, some things hadn’t
changed, after all. Patsy Cline was where Mac had always retreated when he was
feeling especially down. When something went wrong at home, one of his mother’s
cruel tirades or a rebuke from his father, he played the old CDs over and over,
holding Amber’s hand in the car as they drove aimlessly around town.

But now he was
concentrating on his work in the kitchen, slicing rolls and setting out silver,
and his long frame was loose and at ease.

“Mac...”

“Mmm hmm?”

“Nothing. Just—”

Just what? How do you
say you’re sorry, when you can’t say what you’re sorry for? As determined as
Amber had been to tell Mac the truth when she arrived, once again she had lost
her resolve.

It’s because I’m not ready for
this night to end.

That was the real
truth, wasn’t it? Amber took a deep swallow from her glass, welcoming the dark
warmth that settled into her body as the wine did its work.

Exhaling slowly, Amber
struggled to find the words.
Your
father...

That’s how the story
would have to begin. There was no other way around it. Amber scanned the stone
mantel, and sure enough, there was a large photo of his father staring down
from a polished wooden frame. He was wearing a suit, something Amber had never
seen him in years before, and his face was thinner and older. Oddly, the camera
had seemed to catch him in a moment of uncertainty; perhaps it was the
unfamiliar clothes that caused the usual scorn to be absent from his eyes,
replaced by a look that was almost vulnerable.

Amber flinched
involuntarily and turned away. It was only a memento of the man who had raised
Mac, who had driven him to become a man, and yet it suddenly seemed to fill the
room.

A little more wine. Perhaps
that would help. She rose and joined him at the counter, topping off her glass
from the bottle.

“Do you miss your
father a lot?” she asked without looking at him.

Mac paused, and slowly
set down a sharp knife on the counter.

“Do I miss my father. What
a question. Yes, I do. I think of him every day. When I put my foot in the door
of the shop, no matter how much I change the place, no matter how big the
letters spelling my name on the door, I still feel like I’m a kid again,
walking in to a long day’s work. And I half expect to see my father inside, in
his old green coverall, sitting on that stool of his and cussing a blue streak
at some poor fool.”

He turned and faced
her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her forehead. “All those
years...and I never got around to telling my father that I loved him. Of
course, I learned that from him. He wasn’t a man who was comfortable with any
kind of display of affection. Though living with my mother, who could blame
him?”