Tender Vow (36 page)

“Rachel?” he repeated. “You down there?”

She silently tiptoed back to the stairs, went all the way down, then retraced her path to his door, making each step count, loud and exaggerated. Swallowing a hard lump, she rested the tray on a forearm and turned the doorknob. “I brought your supper,” she said, pushing the door ajar.

“Hey,” he said with a smile as she entered. He then winced as he sat up. “Smells great. What is it?”

“Ham and potato chowder.”

“Mmm. You’ve been knocking yourself out downstairs, haven’t you? You don’t need to do that, you know. You can go home if you want.”

There it was—his attempt to casually dismiss her so that Candace could come over. As she lowered the tray onto his lap, she was tempted to feign losing her balance and then dump the contents all over him. But a voice in her head told her how un-Christlike that would be, and so she resisted.

She glanced down and noticed the pool of water and the empty glass on the floor.

“Oh, sorry about that. I spilled.” He sounded strangely like Meagan in his admission.

“No problem,” she said, turning. “I’ll go get a towel.”

“No, wait.” She paused in mid stride. He waved a hand at her and patted an empty space on the bed. “Why don’t you keep me company?”

“Hmm?”

“Here, sit.” He shifted his body a couple of inches, so she slowly advanced. “I’m not contagious, you know.” Her volatile emotions made it hard for her to keep from screaming. Hadn’t he just told her to go home? Men! Why did God have to make them so altogether impossible to figure out?

She lowered herself carefully onto the bed as he slurped a spoonful of hot chowder and sighed happily. “This is delicious. What’s in it?”

“Ham and potatoes.”

“I guessed that much, silly. What else?”

“Let’s see…onions, celery, milk, flour, bouillon, salt, pepper, and, well, that’s about it. Do you want the recipe?”

“Do I need it?” he asked, arching one eyebrow.

“I suppose if you want more potato and ham chowder, you do,” she said with an edge to her voice.

They stared at each other for half a minute, he chewing, she clasping her hands and squeezing the blood out of her knuckles.

“How come you’re not joining me?”

“I sampled enough to equal a meal,” she replied.

“Gotcha. I do that when I make macaroni and cheese from the box, one of my staples. By the time it’s ready for the bowl, I’ve already eaten almost every last noodle straight from the pan.” He chuckled, but his attempt at humor fell flat for her. Did he plan to break it to her about Candace or not? She had half a mind to ask him. Instead, she glanced down at the puddle of water.

“Did you know there is nothing on daytime television but soap operas, cartoons, and home decorating shows?” he asked.

“Is that so? I only watch
Sesame Street
.”

“What’s an invalid like me supposed to do with himself? And don’t tell me to read.” He pointed at his beautiful, brown eyes; the left one had swollen shut, and the right one was puffy and bruised, having been smashed with his handlebars. He’d been wearing a helmet, but it had done little to protect his face.

This would be the perfect opportunity to elicit a confession about his conversation with Candace. “Oh, I suppose you could talk to…people. I presume you have your cell phone handy.”

With one hand, he lifted a corner of his pillow to reveal his phone, then shook his head. “As you can imagine, it’s been ringing off the hook all day.”

“Yes, you’re so popular, it’s almost scary.”

He dipped his spoon into his chowder, swishing the contents around and grinning as best as his swollen lips would let him. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? Let’s see, there was my mom—she called me three times—my pastor, my foreman, another guy who works for me, and Diane, my office assistant.” He shook his head. “I’m telling you, I couldn’t even get the rest I needed.”

She gave a halfhearted laugh and pulled a piece of lint off her holey jeans. How smart of him not to mention his most recent caller. “Well, I’m going to go get a towel to mop up this spill, and then I’ll go tidy the kitchen,” she said, standing up.

“But we didn’t even talk, and all you’ve been doing is cleaning. You’re going to leave me to eat the rest of my supper alone?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive just fine. Besides, you have your home and garden channel.” She left him to stare at her back when she went to his bathroom.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked when she returned with the towel.

“Why would you think that?” She bent and mopped up the puddle with one sweep.

“Uh, the cold shoulder was the first clue.”

“Maybe I’m tired.” Until he came clean about Candace, she had no intention of making small talk.

Things went down a slippery slope after supper. Something definitely had Rachel’s dander up; however, she failed to shed any light on what it was. So, he finally came right out and asked her what had her so miffed.

“Nothing,” she replied.
Translation: You ought to be able to figure it out, dodo.

He didn’t think she’d overheard him talking to Candace, as he’d been careful to keep his voice down. Besides, she’d been downstairs getting his supper ready, hadn’t she? On the chance that she didn’t feel appreciated, he made sure to tell her how grateful he was for her help, even told her she could feel free to leave if she wanted to, which is precisely what she did right after cleaning up the kitchen.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” he asked before she left.

“Should I?”

“If you want to.”

“Argh,” she spat back, giving her foot a little stomp.

“What? Did I not answer that in the way you wanted? I don’t want you to feel obligated. Why exactly did you come, anyway?”

“I wanted to help, all right? It’s time I did something for you.”

“So, you did feel obligated. Nice goodwill gesture, Rach, paying me back for all the times I looked in on you. But I didn’t do it for the payback.”

She narrowed her eyes into shimmery, blue slits and stared at him. “Who sounds mad now? I suppose you wish someone else had come in my place. And I’m not talking about your mother.”

“What? Rachel, for crying out loud! You’re not making any sense!”

“And you are?”

Nothing he said came off sounding right to her, and nothing she said in response satisfied him, so they wound up in a quarreling match of sorts. After she’d left, he was tempted to call her on her drive back to Fairmount, but then his pride stepped in. What was a man to do? Of course, he wanted her to come back, but not if she did so out of a sense of indebtedness. Did she have any feelings for him, or were her affections purely platonic? He’d gone out on a limb by expressing his love some time ago. Wasn’t it her turn to express the same—if, indeed, she felt anything beyond a brother-sister bond? How many times did he have to tell her that the ball was in her court?

All day, he hadn’t ventured further than the bathroom adjoined to his bedroom; he’d felt weak-kneed, achy, and woozy from the pain meds. He’d tried to resist taking anything stronger than over-the-counter medication, but when his pain had reached a level he couldn’t ignore, he’d had to pop a pain pill. Now, at ten o’clock, he was feeling better, almost human, so he pulled back the blankets and sat up, moving slowly so as not to throw off his equilibrium. He got up and walked at a turtle’s pace to the door to look down at the living room.

As he did, he got the surprise of his life. Not only did his condo look as neat as a freshly starched shirt, but Rachel had rearranged the furniture. Okay, so he didn’t love the new look—he never had been one for major changes—but he did enjoy the smells of polished furniture and scrubbed floors. Even if he practiced for the next five years, he would never master housework at this level. His idea of cleaning was getting rid of clutter, not hauling out all the household products that eliminated grit and grime and made for a sparkling finish. Why, even the fireplace screen glimmered. He decided to venture downstairs for a look at the rest of the house.

The laundry room held the lingering scent of soap, and two stacks of clean, folded clothes lay on the washing machine. Even the tile floor showed no signs of the usual tracks he brought in from the garage, and his work boots, also appearing cleaner than usual, stood together in the corner, a significant departure from their customary positions five feet apart after Jason kicked them off.

In the kitchen, which gleamed and smelled of lemon, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and gulped it down at the sink, then set the glass on the counter and turned to walk away. But then, as if Rachel herself had caught him in the lazy act, he abruptly stopped, retrieved the glass, and wedged it in the top rack of the dishwasher.

Exhausted already, he shuffled back upstairs. Time to swallow his manly pride and call Rachel; forget whose court held the proverbial ball.

She didn’t answer, so he left a message. “Rachel, I’m sorry we fought. I do want you to come back in the morning. By the way, my condo looks great, and I like the way you arranged the living room. But how in the world did a little thing like you move that huge sofa? I guess you’re a lot stronger than I figured you to be.”
Stop rambling
, he ordered himself. “Anyway, if you get this message, just know that I—well—oh, never mind, I’ll talk to you in the morning. That is, if you decide to come back.”

***

It wasn’t the most convincing apology Rachel had ever heard, but she decided she’d take it, even though he’d still omitted any mention of Candace. She hadn’t listened to the message until the next morning, so, after getting the kids up and dressed, she hauled them off to Grandma Evans’s place and then headed down the highway to Harrietta, praying about and planning her strategy for putting her feelings out on the table.

***

Jason lay in bed till 9 a.m., sipping coffee he’d made earlier and watching mindless TV shows. He was alarmed to discover how much he enjoyed the home and garden channel. After about half an hour, he switched the thing off and padded to the bathroom to examine his face.
Bummer
, he thought as he leaned into the mirror. He looked like a poster child for domestic abuse with his eyes still black and the scrape across the whole side of his face still red and raw-looking. On the positive side, he felt stronger and not as achy all over, his ribs weren’t as sore, and he hadn’t awakened in the middle of the night in desperate need of a painkiller. Shoot, he could probably even manage fine today without assistance, but he hoped like crazy Rachel would still come. He realized he might have to feign weakness for a couple of days just to wheedle the attention out of her. Of course, first, he’d have to figure out what had gotten her so peeved the previous night.

Later, scrounging around in the kitchen for something to satisfy his rumbling stomach, he settled on a bagel with cream cheese. This he scarfed down in a few famished bites, then poured himself a second cup of coffee and stood at the counter, gazing out the window as he sipped it. Just as he took a seat at the table, he heard a car door slam shut. His heart jumped. Rachel! He hobbled to the front door and opened it wide, only to have his soaring heart fall straight to the ground in a heap.

“Candace, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, my gosh, Jason, look at you! You look terrible!” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek—the less bruised one—then waltzed right past him into the condo, the stiletto heels of her knee-high boots clicking on the hardwood, her short, black skirt and the fitted leather jacket over her yellow cashmere sweater accentuating every curve. She always had been a looker, but nothing about her appearance appealed to him today. It didn’t help that her showing up unannounced galled him plenty.

She eased out of her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, gave her flowing, dark hair a gentle toss, then surveyed the room. “You’ve rearranged your furniture. I like it. The other way wasn’t exactly conducive to watching your TV or even conversing. This is much nicer.”

“Thanks.” Suddenly weak, he set his coffee on a side table and dropped into the sofa. Unfortunately, she chose to place herself right next to him. “You haven’t told me why you’re here, Candace. I don’t recall inviting you.” He set his hands on his knees and sat stiffly, trying to suppress his anger.

Her lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. “Is that any way to talk to your former sweetheart? I only wanted to check up on you. Can I make you some breakfast? Pour you some juice?” When had she ever lifted a hand for him in the kitchen?

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” No way was he about to offer her coffee, even though he had a steaming pot full of it. “Candace, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for—”

“Does it hurt bad?” she asked, cutting him off and moving a fraction closer before reaching up to touch his cheek. He winced and pulled away out of pain as much as in an attempt to discourage her closeness. She had a streak of determination a mile long; he’d give her that much. “I’m so sorry about your accident,” she crooned. “Last night after you told me about it, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I tried to imagine life without you, Jason. It was awful.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to get used to that, Candace. We broke up before Christmas, remember?”

She suddenly snagged his hand between both of hers and squeezed tight, her eyes pooling with tears. She never had been one to show much emotion, and whenever she did, he questioned her sincerity. “And I’ve been miserable ever since, Jason. Please tell me you have, as well.” But when he opened his mouth to deny it, she hurried ahead. “I think you should know, I never got over you. Oh, I’ve dated other men, but none of them compared to you.” She inched closer still. “We had good times, didn’t we, Jason?”

“We did,” he admitted, “but those were before—”

“What if we just started over?” she asked, sounding frantic and out of breath. “I know I could make you happy this time. Couldn’t you give us a second chance? Like I said before, I’m getting downright skilled in the kitchen, and I’m even going to church.”