Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)

Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6) Page 17

“I was drunk. Drunk out of my mind. I had no idea what I was doing. If it makes any difference, you should know I didn’t even f ind her attractive.”

“It doesn’t,” Phoebe snapped. “That’s completely irrelevant.”

Clark lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”

She so badly wanted to believe him, and yet she knew she couldn’t. “Being drunk doesn’t excuse that kind of behavior.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t, but maybe it’ll help you understand why it happened. I was weak and—”

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t be…weak again?”

Phoebe asked.

“Because it would kill me to hurt you this way. It won’t happen. I give you my word.”

“He means it, sweetie,” her mother said imploringly. “Listen to Clark. Every word is sincere. He couldn’t be more repentant. Let him have one more chance. That’s all he wants, all any of us want.”

Phoebe turned to Clark, meeting his eyes for the f irst time. He wore a woebegone look that would’ve softened the hardest heart. Despite everything, Phoebe found herself on the verge of surrender. She was about to capitulate when the waiter arrived with their meals. The relief she felt at being interrupted, at not agreeing to yet another chance, nearly overwhelmed her. Winning was vital to Clark; she couldn’t know whether he meant what he said or just needed to remain in control by persuading her to take him back.

Clark seemed to sense that her determination was f lagging because he reached for her hand, intertwining their f ingers. He held on to her while the waiter served them.

“Shall I order champagne?” he asked her. “Tell me we have something to celebrate.”

“Not yet,” she whispered.

Her mother leaned forward. “Phoebe, please. It would mean the world to Marlene and me if you and Clark were engaged again.”

As if on cue, Clark took the solitaire diamond engagement ring from his suit pocket and set it on the table next to her bowl. “I’ve carried it with me from the moment you dropped it off,” he confessed brokenly. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve looked at this diamond. I can’t lose you, Phoebe. I can’t. You’re everything to me.”

“Unless you’re drunk,” she added. She knew she sounded bitter and angry, but didn’t care.

“If it’ll help, I’ll quit drinking. You say the word and I swear I won’t touch another drop.”

Phoebe pulled her hand away. “Why would you do that?”

Clark enjoyed his drinks. To the best of her knowledge he rarely overindulged.

“If that’s the only way I can have you back, then I’ll give up alcohol for good.”

“Why are you trying so hard?” she demanded. She needed proof that this was more than his pride talking, more than his desire to be in control of their relationship. He blinked as though he didn’t understand the question. “You don’t know?” he asked softly. “You honestly don’t know?”

“Tell her,” Leanne urged. “Tell her what you told me.”

“I love you,” Clark stated emphatically. “It’s as simple as that. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want us to raise our family together and when we’re old and gray, you’re the one I want at my side.”

A lump f illed her throat. No woman could listen to those words and not be affected. “I…I have to think.”

Clark’s gaze held hers, f illed with triumph at the f irst crack in her defenses. She suddenly realized it was what he needed, what he’d been hoping to achieve.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said.

“You’ll be right back?” her mother asked. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Reluctantly Clark slid out of the booth and she followed, leaving her raincoat behind. Taking her purse, she hurried across the restaurant to the restroom and quickly went in. Locking herself inside a stall, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes.

The f leeting look on Clark’s face just then. She’d seen it—that small display of satisfaction that he could manipulate her. He assumed he’d won her back…and he almost had. He’d almost done it, but now that she was away from his inf luence, away from her mother, cool reason returned.

Without questioning her own actions, Phoebe left the stall and hurried out of the restaurant. Thankfully there was a taxi parked at the curb. With rain beating down on her, she climbed in the backseat and gave the driver her work address. Not until she was several blocks away could she breathe easily again. She felt like someone who’d taken a wrong step, who’d lost her footing and faltered. Only now, safe from Clark, did she feel secure.

Chapter 12

Alix Turner

During her fifteen-minute morning break Alix lit up a cigarette in the alley behind the café. Closing her eyes, she took her f irst drag. She held the smoke in her lungs an extralong moment, savoring the instant sense of relief before exhaling. When she opened her eyes again, she could imagine—all too clearly—her husband’s pained look of disappointment. Good boy that he was, Jordan Turner had never smoked. He couldn’t begin to understand how diff icult it was to quit. What he understood even less was why Alix had started again after four years of not smoking.

She wanted to quit. Except that she couldn’t seem to do it, although they both agreed that she needed to be one hundred percent free of nicotine before she got pregnant. A baby.

Tension skittered down her spine. Alix hoped to get pregnant soon and Jordan wanted that, too. They’d moved into his grandma Turner’s house on Star Lake and it was ideal, certainly for her, but perhaps even more for him. So many of his childhood memories were associated with the lake house. Only last night Jordan had said it was the perfect place to start their family. Which, of course, she’d been saying all along…. It’d be nice, Alix mused, really nice—until her gaze fell on the cigarette. In a f it of frustration and anger she tossed it on the asphalt and crushed it with the toe of her work shoe. And then she immediately regretted wasting most of a cigarette. Besides being a nasty habit that made her hair smell and stained her f ingers, it was an expensive one. At least she was down to a maximum of five cigarettes a day—less than two packs a week. The daily total varied, depending on the sort of day she’d had, but she never exceeded f ive. That was her limit, and she was proud of her discipline, proud she’d whittled the number down from twice that many just a few months ago. She knew it wasn’t sufficient. But still…

Jordan had been kind enough not to say anything about the cost, but it had to be on his mind. It bothered Alix, too. But she recognized that her inability to give up cigarettes was about more than the addiction. As much as she wanted Jordan’s baby, she was afraid. She didn’t think of herself as a fearful person. A few years back she’d stood up to an armed drug dealer without even f linching. But back then she didn’t much care if she lived or died. The truth was, becoming a mother terrif ied her. She’d tried to describe her fears to Jordan. He was better at listening these days, but after only a few words she realized her feelings on this subject were simply beyond his experience.

His family had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with hers.

Jordan’s father was a pastor; Jordan was following in his footsteps and would one day have his own church.

Jordan’s parents were good people—loving, compassionate, down to earth. His mom was the Brady Bunch kind of mother who baked cookies and still owned an ironing board. Parents like hers didn’t fall within Jordan’s frame of reference. He couldn’t possibly comprehend what it was to hide in a closet to drown out the noise of her parents’ drunken brawls. He knew things like that happened because he’d worked with troubled teens in the past. But he knew it in a theoretical, indirect way. It wasn’t part of him, a memory always hovering, always there. Okay, so motherhood was scary. Alix admitted it and suspected the cigarettes were an avoidance technique. If she smoked, she could put off dealing with her doubts. She could defer f inding out whether she was capable of being a mother. After all, crying babies upset her. She thought messy diapers were disgusting. As for breast-feeding an infant, which Jordan seemed to think came naturally to women, the idea f illed her with trepidation. Other women might have strong maternal instincts, but not Alix. And after her mother’s example, who could blame her?

“Alix.”

Becky Major, the middle-aged prep cook, stuck her head out the door.

“Winter’s looking for you.” Winter Adams was the woman who owned the French Café.

“Hey, I’ve got another ten minutes.” Alix intended to take her full allotment of time. After a week of dismal rain, the sun was shining and she wanted to enjoy it as long as she could.

“Lydia’s here, too. She’d like to talk to you.”

Alix didn’t hesitate. She’d return to her motherhood worries later. A visit with Lydia was always a treat. On her way through the kitchen Alix poured herself a cup of coffee. If she couldn’t have nicotine, she’d settle for caffeine.

Lydia was waiting for her at the counter with a cup of her own.

“Have you got a few minutes?”

Alix noticed her friend’s anxious look. “Of course. What do you need? Shall we go outside?” she asked, and Lydia nodded. They’d have more privacy there.

The sidewalk tables were set up with the umbrellas open and Alix chose a shady one close to the café. Lydia sat across from her.

“I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your morning.”

“Not at all,” Alix assured her. Actually, she was grateful for a reprieve from her scattered thoughts.

“It’s about Casey.”

“Who?” As soon as Alix asked the question, she remembered.

“Oh, yeah. The foster kid.”

“Right.” Lydia held her coffee mug with both hands, resting them on the table.

“Wasn’t Casey only supposed to be with you for a week?” She knew that because of a comment Margaret had made during last week’s class.

“She was.” Lydia sighed. “Now it might be longer.”

Alix didn’t ask her why. Lydia would explain if she wanted to. But Alix didn’t have any diff iculty f iguring out that the social worker hadn’t found another home for Casey. Alix wasn’t surprised, either; she’d been shuff led around enough to know what that was like.

“So, how’s it going with Casey?” she asked, although she had a fairly clear idea.

“About all I can say is that we’ve tolerated one another. When Casey comes home from day camp, she goes straight to her room and closes the door.” Lydia paused. “It’s the craziest thing…”

“What?”

“She hoards stuff.”

“Like what?”

Lydia looked mildly embarrassed. “Toilet paper. I came across six rolls in her bedroom. Last Monday I got groceries and then later couldn’t f ind the crackers. They were in Casey’s room, hidden under the bed. The end of the box was sticking out and when I knelt down to pick it up, I found a box of cereal, some cookies and the toilet paper. When I asked her about it, she said she might need them.”