The Man from Her Past

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His friend had probably changed her mind about letting him in—and changed the locks.

Back at Leo’s house, he parked in the driveway behind Cassie’s rental and carried their dinner to the front door, tapping the newly painted porch with his fingertips to make sure it was dry. He rang the bell and then waved the bags in front of the wood to spread the delicious aromas. That market might have a froufrou name, but their cooking smelled great.

Nothing happened on the other side of the Warne door. He backed up and looked around one of the porch stanchions, but the blinds remained shut tight. If the lights were on, not one sliver of illumination leaked through.

He rang the bell again. Would she really change her mind? Could she lock him out of her life again?

The door opened, and Cassie stared at him, accusation and embarrassment on her face.

“How long did it take you to decide?” he asked, fighting a smile.

She stared at his mouth, and resentment firmed her beautiful lips. “I’m letting you in, but it doesn’t mean anything.” It should have sounded churlish, but her sad eyes made him feel responsible.

“Whatever makes you feel all right, Cassie. Where’s—” he cursed himself for the three seconds it took to say her name “—Hope?”

“That’s why I don’t want you around. I don’t doubt you mean well and, obviously, I’m some sort of penance to you.” She lowered her voice. “But every time you look at my little girl, you’ll see that man.” She said it without a shudder, as if that didn’t happen to her. “Or you’ll wonder why I kept her.” She took both bags.

He caught the door in one hand, half expecting her to close it, and then he took back the heavier bag. “I’d never hurt you—or Hope.”

This time her daughter’s name stopped her for a second. “Not on purpose.” She nudged him with the other bag. Cassie, who’d never had a violent bone in her body, actually tried to push him outside. “But you can’t help—and your feelings hurt me more than anything he ever did.”

It was a kick in the gut. He swallowed—twice—before he was able to speak. “Don’t ever say that again.” The connection between his mouth and brain seemed to break. Finally, he managed to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Don’t compare me to him.”

He turned for the door, but she caught him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he believed her because her eyes shone with unshed tears and her mouth trembled. “It just came out. I didn’t mean—”

“Let it go. There are some things you and I can’t talk about.” Nor could he explain he’d been walking through life blind, not living since she’d left him. “I was surprised about Hope. A man doesn’t expect his former—” He glanced toward the kitchen. “I never thought about you having a baby and me not knowing, but none of this is her fault. I want her to feel comfortable around me, and you’d better want that, too, because someone has to look after her while you visit your father.”

Maybe Hope could hang out with one of the nurses for the few minutes it would take for him to—“I’m the closest thing to family he’s had for the past few days. You need me to remind him who you are.”

VAN’S SPEECH, half apology and a whole lot of assumption, hung in the air.

Cassie stared, her mouth half-open until she noticed she was catching flies and closed it. “Remind him?” The bag slipped in her arms. She managed to catch it. “You honestly think he won’t know me?”

Van eyed her right back as if he was worried she might also be losing her memory. “I told you that, Cassie.”

“I didn’t understand.” She turned with the bag, not certain where to go next. “How am I going to make sure no one tells him about—I don’t care if he hates me, but I don’t want him to hurt her.” Van’s reaction to Hope had proved she was right to shield her daughter from everyone in Honesty. “Plus, I don’t want him to get worse. Making him angry could easily make him sicker.”

“What are you talking about? You think he hates you?”

She lifted her head, an animal scenting a challenge. “I liked you better when you couldn’t hide anything you felt.” Including the fact that he’d blamed her, too. “He thought what happened was my fault.”

“He was scared. Still is, but he doesn’t hate you.”

Trust Van to protect her father. She went toe to toe with the only man she’d ever loved more than her dad. “I could never blame Hope for something like that. That’s how I know his love wasn’t enough, and he does blame me.”

Deep down, she realized she was still accusing Van, too. She couldn’t help it. His rejection—turning from her in their bed, stepping away from her as they’d gazed together out of their kitchen window—those moments lived under her skin, thorns too sharp to bear.

They’d argued until he had no more words, and hers only made him angry.

“Your father isn’t well.”

“He was fine five years ago.” A new rush of resentment shocked her. She had to get a grip. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Seeing you and being here brings it all back.”

“I didn’t like your answers to our problems then. I still don’t.” Answers. Nice, antiseptic way to describe ripping out her own heart and throwing it onto a barbed-wire fence.

“You don’t get a choice,” she said, not to be unkind but to make him see it was too late to change things.

Faltering, Van turned to a safer subject. “Leo’s worse when he’s tired, and what about Hope? I’ll be glad to look after her, but she’ll have to go with us when I introduce you to him.”

“I can explain if he doesn’t know me.” She hated the thought of accepting his help. As if coming back had turned her into the naive young woman who’d married her personal Prince Charming, the habit of leaning on Van tempted her. “And Hope doesn’t know you. I’m not comfortable leaving her with anyone.”

“Like it or not, I’m not just anyone.”

“Close enough.”

He looked her straight in the eye and pretended not to have heard. “I could ask my sister to come to the hospital.”

“Beth.” Her heart ached. She’d lost more than her father and Van. “I’ve missed her.”

“You could have stayed in touch.”

“How would I have asked her not to tell you about Hope?”

“You couldn’t.” He lifted the other bag of food. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

Hope appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mommy, I’m starwing. I need foods.”

“Coming, sweetie.” Cassie led the way. “I’ll call the hospital and see if my father’s still awake.”

In the kitchen, Hope climbed back into a chair. The water Cassie had set to boil in a saucepan on the stove was still, the gas beneath it turned off.

Hope looked up as Cassie put two and two together. “I did it.”

The stove was like theirs at home, far from here. Her little girl wanted to be a big girl as quick as she could and never thought about saucepan handles. “I’ve asked you not to mess with stoves when I’m not in the room.”

“I’m okay. It’s like ours. I knew how.”

“Hope, I’ve asked you…”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Do you like to help cook, Hope?” Van started removing paper cartons from his sack. The poisonous resentment in his voice had faded.

He was so very friendly.

“We were gonna have those instant grits.” She pointed at the counter.

He made a face at the box. “I’ve saved you from an ugly fate.”

“Mommy likes ’em.” She slid out of her chair and went to his elbow.

“You’re not such a big fan?”

He still hadn’t looked into her innocent face.

“I don’t mind ’em.” Lying, Hope smiled at Cassie, offering her loyalty.

“Maybe you’ll like this stuff instead.” Setting the last carton on the table, he looked at Hope and a smile spread across his face. A real smile. Wide, warm. Real.

Hope laughed out loud. “I was kinda scared to come here, but you’re nice, Mr. Van. I like your face.”

He laughed, too. Slowly, his hand curved around the back of Hope’s head.

For a split second, before he pulled back and whisked the bag off the table.

CHAPTER FOUR

VAN FOLDED the Posh bag as deliberately as any bit of paper anywhere had ever been folded, and then he stared at the recycling bin, stunned by Cassie’s look of relief.

She must love her daughter more than he’d imagined if she thought he could forget the past so easily.

“Mr. Van, are you saving that bag?”

He pushed it into the bin and got himself under control. Ridiculous that a little girl could do this to him. But it was what she stood for—those hellish images he had never escaped.

“No.” He choked as his throat tightened. “I’m not saving it.”

He turned. Cassie was waiting, still watchful.

“What did you bring?” Cassie asked with a hand toward the cartons.

“Antipasto, spaghetti, tiramisu for Hope and me and cr?me br?lеe for you.”

“I smell the spaghetts.” Hope’s nose quivered like a kitten’s. “And look at the salad, Mommy.” She prodded the one see-through package. “Can I have your cootons?”

“Croutons.” Her voice was absent. “Spaghetts are Hope’s favorites.”

There was more in her tone. An extra warning. She looked at her daughter with her heart literally in her eyes and more love than Van suspected she’d ever felt for him. Hope owned that much of her. Cassie would fight with her last breath to keep her little girl safe.

Even from him. As if he’d hurt a baby.

She took down plates and salad dishes from the cabinet. Then she helped Hope open the plastic container. “What else did you want to talk about?” Her briskness suggested he make it fast and beat it.

“I didn’t come back just to talk about your father.”

She found serving utensils and scooped salad onto Hope’s dish without looking up. “He’s all that’s left. Face it, Van.”

“No.” With Hope hanging on every nuance, he couldn’t elaborate.

Cassie just looked at him. Then she popped the tops off the other cartons and started to add food to her daughter’s plate.

“Wait.” Van reached for her hand, but she backed up. Message taken. “I need to warm up the pasta.”

Cassie shrugged. “Okay. I’d better call the hospital, but you can start now with your salad, baby.”

“Goodie.”

“Will you talk to Mr. Van while I’m gone?”