Sasha’s Dad (9 page)

Claire glanced around the group. Even though they drove from all over to get to this chain bookstore, the majority of the knitters were from Dovetail. This plaza was only about twenty minutes from Claire’s driveway, so it was ideal for her. She got a break from Dovetail and the farm, but wasn’t so far away that she felt she’d abandoned the llamas.

“Hey, Doc!” Donald’s voice rose in greeting, and several female voices echoed his welcome.

Claire turned away from her knitting for a few seconds. Her hands froze when she saw Dutch in line at the café.

Oh, boy.

She forced out a breath and resumed knitting.

What was he doing here? Couldn’t she go
anywhere
without running into him?

“Hey.” He gave a quick wave toward the group before he placed his order. Claire noted the pile of books and magazines in his hands. Dutch had always been a reader. Some things didn’t change.

But
he
has, she reminded herself. He hadn’t seen her yet, she was sure. He would have narrowed his eyes at her, scowled or left. Or all three. He had to deal with her when he tended the llamas. He put up with her so Sasha could visit. But he hadn’t previously encountered her out here in civilization.

In the real world.

Too bad. It was high time he accepted that she was a participating member of his community—and that she wasn’t going anywhere.

He smiled to himself. Even though he was a vet and could’ve helped Natalie give birth if he’d had to, he’d been more nervous than she was. When Sasha was born at Anne Arundel Medical Center, a short drive down the road, it’d been the happiest day of both their lives.

He paid for his books with the coffee, grabbed the steaming cup and turned to walk by the knitters, toward one of the empty tables. They used to come here on Thursdays, he recalled. He never thought about it much as his days in town were rarely planned.

He looked up as he took a sip of the pungent black coffee and fought not to choke.

His gaze took in the occupant of the worn leather easy chair near the center coffee table. His first instinct was one he’d rather not acknowledge. He was getting used to it whenever he saw Claire.

Arousal. Interest, of the most basic kind.

He dug for a more appropriate reaction.

What the hell was Claire doing here? In Natalie’s old seat, no less.

Son of a bitch.

His hand shook and he gripped the paper cup more tightly.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” He kept his voice even, didn’t look back at Claire. Her eyes remained downcast, focused on whatever she was knitting.

“Hey, Dutch, I’m going to bring Jasper in tomorrow—he’s limping again.” Patsy all but drooled at Dutch as she knit her flamboyant multicolored scarf. Her needles were the size of wood stakes and her bright green nails clicked against them as she worked.

“No problem. You still have him on glucosamine?”

“Yes, of course. And the new food you suggested has perked him up.” Patsy frowned. “I think that eleven years of chasing geese and rabbits and foxes is catching up with him.”

“Aww, he’s got a few more goose chases in him—so to speak. I’ll check him out tomorrow.”

Patsy leaned toward Claire. “Dutch doesn’t usually see small animals, but he’s always taken care of Jasper for me.” Patsy’s tone was cajoling and Dutch wanted to groan. That woman kept her husband hopping but still had time to flirt with every guy in town.

Maybe she’ll make Claire jealous.

The surge of satisfaction at the thought, however fleeting, was enough to prove his insanity.

Dutch needed to get out of here. He couldn’t even look at Claire or nod a casual hello.

“Did you see who’s joined us, Doc?” Mrs. Ames pointed her tiny lace needles at Claire.

Cornered, Dutch forced himself to stand still and look at Claire. She raised her head and when her eyes met his he didn’t explode with anger or feel the usual rush of hostility.

To his total astonishment, he had to stifle a laugh that threatened to burst through his gulp of coffee.

Judging by Claire’s pained expression and the way she gripped whatever she was working on, she didn’t want to see him any more than he did her. It’d be worthy of a television sitcom if it weren’t so painfully tragic, this mutual revulsion between them.

But you don’t really revile her, do you?

“Claire.” He nodded, not willing to let any of the townsfolk sense his discomfort.

“Dutch.” She went right back to her knitting.

He sent the group a last smile. “Good seeing you all. I imagine we’ll all run into one another back in town.”

“Bye, Dutch.” The group all knew him. And they also knew that Claire was sitting in Natalie’s place. Dutch hustled out of the store and made a silent vow never to come back here on a Thursday.

Some people never changed. Wasn’t Patsy married—for more than a decade now? But as far as Claire was concerned, Patsy was behaving just like the outrageous flirt she’d been in school. She looked as if she was going to sob as Dutch left the bookstore. Claire wasn’t sure if she was more disgusted by Patsy’s obvious infatuation with Dutch or by her own response to it. She told herself she had no interest in whoever had the hots for Dutch or vice versa.

Did Dutch have a lover?

“Darn it!” Claire muttered as she threw her knitting down on the table.

“You’ll have to rip that one back,” Donald commented. Claire met his gaze. If he had a double meaning, his passive expression revealed nothing. As for her knitting, the stitches hadn’t come out right for the last three rows. Mr. Black meant she’d have to rip out her work back to the last correct row.

She didn’t understand how he could look at her work all the way across the table and know what the problem was.

“How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” Now
this
was the Mr. Black Claire remembered.

“Instantly know what I’d done wrong?”

“Hold up your block.”

Claire complied and saw what Donald saw. A huge ripple ran through the center of the square, not part of the cable-stitch pattern she’d taught herself. It indicated that she’d either dropped a stitch, gained one or both.

Claire sighed, excruciatingly aware of the fact that Donald had probably witnessed every second of her reaction to Dutch’s presence.

“So do I have to rip out the whole thing?” Her vulnerability made her feel fifteen again. As if the entire group could see Dutch’s effect on her.

But only Donald seemed to notice.

“It’s called ‘frogging’ now, Claire.” Mrs. Ames piped in from the couch.

“You know, because you riiiippp it out, like ‘ribbit,’ like a frog!” Caroline Beasley, a bubbly redhead, smiled at her. Caroline had been a grade or two behind Claire and now worked as a CPA in Dovetail.

Mr. Black waited for the others to subside, then continued.

“No sense ripping open any more of the stitches than you need to. Take it back to where you miscounted, then start over from there.” Claire looked up at Donald again.

By
stitches
he meant
old wounds
or was her preoccupation with Dutch making her crazy?

His gaze was steady and apparently innocent.

But his mouth was ever so slightly curved, the lines around it a fraction deeper. Enough for Claire to realize she needed to make this man her friend. It was never wise to have an enemy who could read you so well.

“Thanks, Donald.” She emphasized his given name. He wasn’t Mr. Black anymore; Mr. Black would’ve told her to read another chapter of
A Tale of Two Cities
to understand the significance of Madame Defarge and her maniacal knitting. Donald let her know with a glance that he didn’t miss a trick, but wasn’t inclined to push her on it, either.

His kindness was evident in the relaxed way he spoke to her. He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable around him.

“This is always scary.” Claire ripped back row after row until she couldn’t see the ripples anymore, and the stitches left in the row were the same ones she’d started with.

“It’s part of the process, Claire. We all rip back, even after years of knitting.”

“Donald, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still trying to teach me theme and motif, only this time on life.”

Donald laughed. “Am I that gauche? It’s a good thing I retired, then. I’d really confuse today’s kids.”

Claire smiled at him. “No, you wouldn’t. You were always a wonderful teacher. You cared about your subject and the kids. But you did keep a wall up.” Indeed, he’d never been the go-to teacher when a student needed affirmation or advice.

“You understand it now, I assume?” He raised his eyebrows at her. She looked at his face; he was still handsome, the once-dark goatee and full head of hair an elegant shade of silver. Claire saw the years in the wrinkles on his forehead. Years of keeping his private life private, years of ignoring the taunts and snide comments issued by adolescent boys learning about their own sexuality.

“I do. And I still think you’re wonderful, Donald.”

With that, Claire started her first real friendship since returning to Dovetail.

Alone.

The past few weeks had passed without incident as Stormy healed from the rough birth, the crias grew stronger by the day, and Sasha fell into a routine of spending time with Claire a couple of afternoons each week.

Claire was proud of keeping her promise to herself. She was available to Sasha, but wasn’t consumed by Dutch’s moods or her own ruminations on their past.

For the most part.

She threw down the sponge and leaned against the counter.

She hated the total awareness her body had of Dutch. From the moment his truck turned into the drive, a full quarter mile up the road, until he was a mile out from her property, her internal radar seemed to vibrate at a frequency just shy of excruciating.

With another man, other circumstances, she’d be able to let herself enjoy the physical chemistry. But not with Dutch, especially since it was so one-sided. Whatever chemistry they’d had as kids only lingered with
her;
she was certain of it. Even if Dutch saw her as more than a client, his loathing for her and his lack of forgiveness remained impenetrable barriers.

Claire wanted to tell Dutch that it was partly Natalie’s decision to let the friendship go. Natalie must’ve known, somewhere deep in her heart, that Claire still cared for Dutch.

The thought startled Claire. Had she painted Natalie as too naive, too “innocent,” to be aware of Claire’s feelings?

She wished she could talk to Natalie. But if Natalie were still here, Claire would never have sought out her company after moving back. It would’ve been too awkward.

Everything
that involved Dutch was awkward.

She shifted away from the counter and looked out the kitchen window. Dutch’s truck was still there.

“This is ridiculous!” she muttered as she thrust her feet into her waterproof fleece-lined boots. If Dutch was going to come out here, she had to talk to him—and he’d have to face her. She had to let go of the past and be the woman she was today.

He was headed for his truck when her feet hit the gravel pathway.

She stared at him hungrily before he noticed her. Tall, commanding in his work clothes. Not many men looked as good in loose jeans and a sweatshirt, but Dutch pulled it off. The regrets of their history tugged at her.

He stopped for a beat, then went to his truck and got in the front seat. He left the driver’s door open, though, and sat half in, half out of the cab. A small concession to her presence.

“Charming,” she murmured.

“What’s that?” He was working on his laptop, which rested on his thighs.

“Nothing. I wondered how things are going.”

He spared her the briefest of glances. His demeanor appeared cool, but his eyes gave him away.

So she
did
affect him. The moment in the cottage hadn’t been an aberration.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. You’ve made this much less of an ordeal than it could’ve been.”

Dutch didn’t look up as he typed on his laptop. He half sat on the front seat of his pickup. One long leg hung down to the running board.

“It’s my job, Claire.”

“I know what your
job
is, Dutch. Can you let down the ‘I hate you’ wall for a minute?” Her exasperation came out with more force than she’d intended. Dutch raised his eyes and looked at her.

“Okay.” Was that amusement in his expression? Contempt?

“I know you have a hard time with me, Dutch, but Sasha—”

“Sasha’s my daughter, Claire.” His voice was flat, and the emotional drawbridge came back up. His eyes homed in on her, as if she were prey. Or rather, as if her motives with Sasha were his target.

“I’m not trying to get between you and Sasha, or Sasha and Natalie’s memory—” at his indrawn hiss, Claire held up her hand “—but it’s pretty clear to me that Sasha’s benefitting from her time out here. I’m giving her a sense of connection to Natalie at her age. I was the closest to Natalie until…until—”

She didn’t finish. They both knew that until Dutch and Natalie made love, Claire had been Natalie’s best friend.

Dutch’s lips thinned and his chin jutted out.

“Sasha’s had enough hurt, enough loss. It’s very nice that you want to come in and play the great friend of her mother, but let’s face it, Claire, you hadn’t been a friend to Natalie for a long time before she died.”

She ignored the sting of his accusation. “Maybe not. But I’m here now and I’m filling in the blanks for Sasha—and I can do that better than anyone else. And you
know
it, Dutch. Look how happy she is when she’s out here.”

Dutch sat still, his right hand on the steering wheel and his left cradling the laptop. He gazed at some unseen object through his windshield.

Tears of frustration burned Claire’s eyes.

“Can’t you look past your disgust with me and see that this is good for Sasha? She thrives when she comes out here.”

Dutch sighed and lowered his head. “I’m aware of that. I also know she’s been pulling away from me, bit by bit, this school year. I understand that’s all part of her growing up, but… I’m grateful she at least has you to talk to.”

His mournful tone sent a shock of compassion through Claire. She lifted her hand to reach out to him, then let her arm drop back to her side.

“It can’t be easy, Dutch, being a single father. You’ve raised her right—look at how well she’s doing in school, how polite she is with other adults. But it’s normal for her to pull away now. Isn’t it a comfort to you to know she was here instead of running around town with friends and their older siblings? Do you want to see her hanging out at the convenience store, bumming cigarettes or trying to buy beer?”

“No.” He closed his laptop and put it on the passenger seat. Then he turned back to Claire. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes blazed with intensity. She gulped in a deep breath. He was angry, but she knew she was close to some kind of compromise. He might crack and admit things were working out.

“So what’s the harm in burying the hatchet? I’m not asking for us to be buddies, Dutch, or for you to forgive me. But this—” she waved her hand between them “—has got to give. Sasha doesn’t need to feel this constant tension between us. It’s not healthy for her.”

Dutch’s response was nonverbal and lightning-quick. Before Claire could take even a step back from the truck, he jumped down and stood in front of her. The instant proximity startled her, but she felt the heat that emanated from him. Even through his sweatshirt and her jacket, Claire felt his warmth.

She looked up and started to take a step back, but his hands were quicker. He grasped her upper arms and stared into her eyes, making sure he had her full attention.

“You’re right, Claire. Sasha needs a woman in her life—and you’re the perfect one, as far as Natalie’s history is concerned. But as for you and me, I want to make something clear.”

He leaned forward and she saw his eyelashes sweep down against his cheekbones an instant before his lips met hers. Neither domineering nor apologetic, the kiss was certain, brief and hot.

Claire hung on to her control, but only because of the brevity of his kiss. She gave herself a full minute to stand still before she opened her eyes. His gaze remained intense, but now she saw what could have been a reflection of her own face.

Surprise. Bewilderment.

“Why did you do that?”

“Why didn’t you fight it?”

They spoke in unison, then reached for each other again.

Unlike the first kiss, this one wasn’t so rushed.

Dutch moved his lips over hers as if she were his last grasp on sanity. Claire met his kiss with equal desire. When his hands left her upper arms and buried themselves in her hair, Claire slid her arms up and around his neck. She held on tight.

“You taste so sweet,” he told her as he licked first her top, then bottom, lip. He leaned back against the cab of the truck and brought her with him, hip-to-hip.

Claire gasped at the pleasure of the contact. Even in their jeans they fit together perfectly.

Dutch sucked gently on her bottom lip and Claire thought she’d scream in need.

“Dutch.” She gasped his name into the spring air, the last of the day’s sun reflecting against the red enamel finish of the truck.

A rumble that carried across the wind and made the ground beneath them tremble broke Claire’s reverie.

Claire pulled back and looked at Dutch. “It’s a truck driving down the highway—it’s not coming up here,” she said.

Dutch allowed her one more glimpse of the passion in his eyes before he stretched out his arms and forced Claire to take a step back. He loosened his grip on her arms and lowered his own.

He stayed against the cab. Claire hated the instant cold vulnerability caused by the sudden break of contact between them.

“So much for making things clearer.” Dutch sent her a wry grin. “But my point remains, Claire. You don’t
disgust
me, not in the least. It would be a lot easier if you did.”

He straightened up and put one foot on the running board. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

She understood. He felt the attraction, too. But his lack of respect for her, his inability to forgive her—hell, she couldn’t let go of their past, either.

Spending time with Sasha, offering Natalie’s daughter unconditional love, might give Claire a chance to make peace with her inaction of the past. She had to accept that an easy, friendly relationship with Dutch was never going to be part of the package.

Not as long as his kiss could affect her like
this.

Dutch rubbed his chin.

“Sasha’s at an age where she thinks I need to date. She’s also not blind to the undercurrents between us.” Dutch’s face had returned to the impassivity she’d grown accustomed to.

“I don’t want her getting her hopes up with you, Claire. As much as we share a physical attraction, you and I have too much history. We know each other too well. That means we don’t have a future. I won’t have Sasha disappointed.”

Claire tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
Do
not
cry in front of him.

“I realize you probably think your time with Sasha is a way to atone for the time you lost with Natalie. I can’t deny you that, especially when it seems to be helping Sasha.” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “I need to know you and I can agree on that.”

“I get it, Dutch.” She ran her hand through her hair in an attempt at a casual gesture. “As they say, ‘this too shall pass.’ She’ll outgrow her infatuation with the idea of a romance between us and accept me as a family friend, period.”

She fought the urge to scream at him that she didn’t need his permission to make amends to Natalie. And that he didn’t have to worry about her assuming there was more to their relationship than there was.

He’d kissed her first, hadn’t he?

“Right.” He climbed back up into the driver’s seat. The physical advantage it gave him was so obvious she had to bite her tongue to keep from making a scathing comment. Wasn’t his emotional rejection of her enough?

“Claire, one more thing. Don’t overpay her when she works in the barn. Make her earn her wage—she needs to learn that money doesn’t come easily, regardless of the profession.”

“Fine.” She turned toward the house as soon as she could without appearing rude or as though she was running away from him. But she didn’t want to watch him go down the drive like some lovesick teen, either. There was also the matter of the tears scalding her cheeks.

Blinded, she stumbled up to her door. Only when the sound of the engine had faded did she wipe her eyes.

No one ever said atoning for past mistakes was easy.