Читать книгу Redemption's Kiss - Ann Christopher - Страница 11

Hurry, Jill. You can make it.

Hurry…hurry…HURRY.

But as she unceremoniously left Beau’s house and sped back down the hill to the B & B, where she belonged, she didn’t think she could make it at all. Overhead, the sun had begun its midmorning blaze and the air was thicker now, a humid sludge of unbreathable oxygen, all but useless to her.

Run, Jill!

No. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t risk Beau looking out the window and seeing what he’d reduced her to. If it killed her, and it just might, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and ammunition of knowing how he affected her. He’d only use it against her the first chance he got.

Almost there. Hang on.

Ahead of her loomed the B & B, her beacon, the only thing saving her from collapsing in the street. For a minute it seemed like it was coming closer, but then her legs slowed down, her lungs emptied out, and her tiny safe haven from Beau remained as unreachable as a rainbow’s end.

Meanwhile, her frantic heart had gone berserk and seemed determined to pump out a thousand erratic beats per minute. The staccato pounded in her tight throat and battled with her breath for supremacy. Neither won, leaving her gasping and panicked.

Passing out on the sidewalk seemed like a real possibility. With the way her luck was running today, she’d fracture her skull on the concrete as she fell, and lapse into a coma before the EMTs came.

Maybe she should sit on the curb and wait for the spell to pass. Or maybe she should drape herself around the mailbox post so the mailman would see and rescue her when he came to deliver today’s batch of bills and catalogs.

No. She could do this.

One more step, Jill. You can do it. And another. Last one.

She staggered up the stairs and through the kitchen door into her refuge, where the cooler air didn’t make one damn bit of difference.

No sign of Blanche, though, thank God. She could really do without any witnesses to this, her first full-blown panic attack in months.

Doubled over now, the walls spinning until only streaks of random colors and patches of sunlight passed before her eyes, she lurched into the dark pantry, slammed the door behind her and hit the cold floor right between the fifty-pound burlap sack of basmati rice and the flour bin.

Put your head between your legs, Jill. Do it.

She did it.

Breathe, Jill. Just breathe. There’s no reason why you can’t.

There was a reason. Beau had unleashed these demons inside her, and now they had her throat in an iron grip trapped inside a cage of paralyzing anxiety.

It was too much. This was all too much: Beau and the B & B, Allegra and single motherhood, making lunch and the guests and the payroll and facing another day after this one.

She couldn’t do it.

She’d made it this far, yeah, and built a so-called new life, but she’d only been faking it, and the jig was up.

Now her horrible truth was out and the whole world would know her ugly and humiliating secret: she was a mess, unworthy of the title of mother or even woman. She couldn’t fake her way through another day.

Breathe, Jill. Just breaaaathe.

The constricting pressure around her chest eased up, just a little.

It was a start. Not a good start, but a start.

Trying again, working from her belly, she sucked in another molecule or two of air and it was a miraculous triumph, the same as giving birth to a healthy child or landing a rover on Mars.

Panting and choked, she wheezed her way to a complete lungful and then another after that, and by then her training kicked in to save her.

Good thoughts, Jill, she reminded herself. Think them.

She thought about Allegra. She thought about spending a day on the beach, splashing in the waves and enjoying the sun’s bright heat on her face. She thought about warm, gooey chocolate-chip cookies with pecans, and the fluffy comfort of her down-covered bed. She thought about all the emotional progress she’d made and how far she’d come.

The tension left her body by slow but sure degrees, and the crushing pressure let up until it no longer flattened her into a dark smudge on the floor. She took another tentative breath, just to be sure, and the lifesaving air didn’t kick and scream its way into her lungs.

And then, just like that, it was over.

But of course it wasn’t over at all because she was still a mess down to the marrow of her soul.

Exhausted, she slumped back and tried to ignore the low shelf of baking products cutting across her kidneys. The world came back to her and she became aware of the distant voices of guests in the foyer…the open and close of the front door…the heavy, rubberized footfall that announced the imminent arrival of Blanche.

Blanche. Oh, no. God help her if Blanche saw her like this.

Calling on the kind of supreme effort that Superman used to fly around the earth’s circumference and reverse time, she heaved herself to her feet and tested out her wobbly knees. They trembled but held.

She was just swiping some of the wetness from her face—she wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or tears and didn’t really want to know—when Blanche came into the kitchen singing, or rather rapping, Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power,” which was just…wrong.

“Fight, fight, fight the—” Blanche chanted and, without warning, swung the pantry door open, sashayed inside and came up short when she saw Jillian.

Jillian tried to look dignified. Blanche gaped.

Apparently, Blanche couldn’t get a good enough look, because she reached out and flipped the light on. Jillian wasn’t prepared. Wincing, she blinked and covered her eyes. Blanche tsked and jerked Jillian’s hand down.

The women faced off.

Judging from her horrified expression, Blanche knew the worst, but she asked anyway. “Have you had a panic attack?”

Jillian pulled free, flicked off the light and tried to escape before this interrogation reached full swing. “No.”

Blanche didn’t buy the lie, which was no surprise since the woman had the unerring instincts of a baying bloodhound on an escaped convict’s trail. “You’re all wild-eyed and sweaty, missy.” She looked around, as though she expected to see a masked intruder. “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing.” Jillian smoothed her hair and tried not to sound too defensive. “I was just…you know, checking the supplies and—”

Blanche’s brows inched up toward her artificial hairline. “And—what? You were crying because there weren’t enough tea bags? Don’t kid a kidder, honey. What’s wrong with you?”

Jillian opened her mouth to dodge and deflect, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Why bother? Blanche would know soon enough anyway.

“Beau bought the Foster place.”

Blanche, who knew the rough outlines of the implosion of Jillian’s marriage, if not every gory detail, took this news with appropriate solemnity. With a single sharp nod, she squared her shoulders and marched to the far corner of the huge pantry, where she rummaged around behind an enormous sack of coffee beans and extracted a fifth of Patron tequila.

Whoa. The good stuff. How much was she paying Blanche, anyway? And did Blanche drink on the job? This early? She’d have to revisit these issues later, when she wasn’t so overwrought and behind on the lunch preparations.

And what—Oh, no.

Blanche had by now produced a stack of Allegra’s Dora the Explorer Dixie cups, and poured a shot for each of them. “Blanche, I don’t dr—”

Blanche shoved one of the cups at Jillian and raised the other in a toast. “Cheers. Now drink.”

Yeah. Cheers. Whatever.

Jillian drank.

The liquid courage both burned and was smooth as the finest silk going down. Jillian choked just a bit on the swallow, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake by imbibing so soon after her panicked trauma of a few minutes ago, but then a funny thing happened. She coughed and gasped and the warmth spread through her, empowering her with enough strength to get mad.

What the hell had gotten into her?

So Beau thought he’d reappear and turn her world upside down, did he? So he thought he could just materialize and pick up where he’d left off? So he thought she’d forgive him?

Well, she had news for Beau: no freaking way.

That man had already taken enough from her. She wasn’t about to give him another inch, thought or tear, not one more cry. It didn’t matter where he lived. It didn’t matter what he said. All of that was meaningless.

The only thing that mattered now was the life with Allegra that she’d painstakingly built here at the B & B. Everything else was sound and fury, signifying nothing—especially Beau.

Let him move down the street. It was no skin off her nose.

Catching Blanche’s watchful eye, Jillian smiled and held out her cup. “Hit me again.”

“That’s my girl.” Blanche beamed with approval and topped them both off. “Cheers.”

“Salut.”

They tapped cups and tossed back the tequila, which Jillian was really starting to appreciate. She was just debating whether a third hit would make the lunch prep and cleanup go any more smoothly, when there was a sharp knock at the kitchen door and her insides turned to stone.

Oh, God. That wasn’t a normal knock. That was Beau’s knock. She knew it.

And it was all well and good to stand there in the closet and tell herself to be brave and strong, but it was something else again to be brave when Beau was actually in the room with her.

Facing him again this soon would take another thirty years off her life. She couldn’t do it.

The blind terror must have shown on her face because Blanche took charge. Hitching up her stretchy pants and reminding Jillian of Gary Cooper adjusting his holster in High Noon before the shoot-out, she gave her a grim nod and took charge.

“You leave him to me, honey.”

Relieved as Jillian was by this offer, how humiliating was it to hide in her own damn pantry while her employee took care of her ex? Sure, she felt a little wobbly at the moment, but was she that big a coward?

Blanche had cracked open the pantry door and peered out to survey the enemy. Now she retracted her head and faced Jillian with a low whistle of feminine appreciation, looking resigned to the worst possible outcome.

“Oh, Jilly,” she said. “That man’s a god. You’ve got a big problem.”

“Thanks for the news flash.”

Beau knocked again, more insistently this time, and Jillian made up her mind. Hiding in the closet was for children like Allegra. She was a grown woman and needed to act like one.

Drawing on some inner reservoir that she really hoped was filled with courage rather than suicidal tendencies, Jillian gave Blanche a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

“Go on and let him in. Give me a second. I’ll be fine.”

Blanche didn’t look at all convinced. “You sure, honey? I can tell him—”

“Now, please.”

Blanche sighed and looked to heaven for strength. Either that or she was praying for Jillian’s ultimate destruction to be as painless as possible. Then she marched out, a stiff soldier prepared for battle.

The second she was gone, Jillian snatched a paper towel from the roll on the shelf and dabbed her eyes and face. No need to look like she’d been teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Then she fluffed her hair and grabbed the nearest thing she could find, which turned out to be a giant bag of dried cranberries, and followed Blanche out into the airy brightness of the kitchen.

Beau and Blanche stood there, shaking hands and sizing each other up, but his penetrating gaze went right to Jillian the second she appeared. Jillian focused on looking cool and unconcerned and trying not to feel the hum of electricity she always felt when they looked at each other. Maybe it was still there, but she didn’t have to succumb to it. Above all, there’d be no more emotional outbursts from her today.

She set the cranberries on the counter and found her apron.

The dog, she realized, had also come down for a visit. On a leash, he’d been sitting quietly at Beau’s feet, but now he walked over and settled on his haunches in front of Jillian, open adoration shining in his midnight eyes.

This guy was a beauty. Maybe she had no smiles for Beau, but she sure had an ear scratch or two for his dog, who groaned with canine ecstasy the second she touched him.

“What are you doing here, Beau?”

“We didn’t really finish our talk.” He leaned heavily on his cane and sweat beaded on his forehead. Was he in pain? Why had he walked all the way down here in this heat? Was he trying to kill himself and give her a heart attack in the process? And why couldn’t she remember that Beau’s health or lack thereof was no longer her problem? “And I was hoping I could see Allegra and tell her I’ve moved.”

“Hmm.” Jillian tied her apron. “This is Blanche.”

“We’ve met.” Blanche looked like she was working on vaporizing him with the glint from her narrowed eyes. “I was fixing to say that my mama always told me to be polite to folks, but I’ll make an exception for you if you start upsetting my Jillian here—”

“Blanche—” Jillian tried, but Blanche was not to be deterred.

“—and I don’t care how pretty you are. I’ll snatch that cane right out of your hand and wallop you upside the head with it. And then—”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Blanche.”

“—I’ll take the broken ends and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. And that’d hurt me more’n it’d hurt you, ’cause you’ve got one fine ass. But I’d do it.” Here Blanche paused long enough to extend a plate of pumpkin muffins and flash Beau a smile that held all the warmth of a snarl from a rabid wolf. “Help yourself, sugar. There’s butter if you need it.”

Grateful as she was for this massive show of support, Jillian wanted to tell Blanche to duck and run because the poor woman had no idea what she was up against. Any second now, Beau would unleash his overwhelming, devastating charm, and Blanche, who was more susceptible to a handsome man than the average woman, would be reduced to a simpering mass of blushes and giggles.

Jillian might as well pop some corn, pull up a chair and watch the show.

Only, Beau didn’t fall back on his masculine appeal. He didn’t even smile.

Instead—oh, wow, would he ever stop surprising her today?—he nodded in a grim show of humility and met Blanche’s ferocity head-on with no excuses.

“I deserve that,” he told Blanche. “Hell, if you knew all the trouble I’ve caused in my life, you’d go ahead and call the sheriff to escort me off the property right now.”

Neither of the women had expected this and they exchanged a wide-eyed look over Beau’s shoulder. Blanche recovered from her surprise quickly enough to put down the plate, fold her arms over her chest and hike up her chin as though she’d like nothing better than to take the meat mallet to him.

Beau didn’t quake before this withering assessment, didn’t even blink. “I’m glad Jillian has a friend like you. I hope one day I can earn your trust.”

The disapproving lines around Blanche’s mouth softened for a second, but then she caught herself and renewed her disdain. “Doubtful,” she said.

Beau’s energy seemed to dim, as though a light had gone out inside him, but he held tight to his cane and stood tall. “I understand.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, crooked and humorless, and that vivid red scar puckered. “I’m not giving up, but I do understand.”

Blanche shrugged. “Honey, you can do what you want. Long as you understand that I’m protecting my girl here.” She looked to Jillian. “You want me to toss him out? We got lunch to fix.”

Yes. Toss him out. Bolt the door. Call the sheriff.

The words were all right on the tip of Jillian’s tongue, but then Beau pivoted on his good leg to submit to her verdict on his fate, and she couldn’t speak to save her life.

What was this new thing about him? There was infinite patience in his expression, resignation as well as determination, and she had the terrible feeling that if she told him to come back tomorrow each day for the next fifty years, he’d come back tomorrow.

But the one thing he would not do was give up.

This put her in an untenable position, stuck squarely between her need to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, and her conflicting resolve to be brave and not let him turn her into a panic-attack-stricken mess.

Her pride won out in the end, and she shrugged in an Oscar-worthy display of indifference. Keeping her voice strong and audible was much harder.

“If you want to stand there for three minutes and watch me fix lunch for my guests, that’s fine with me. I’ve already said everything I have to say.”

A relieved grin flashed across his face, as brilliant as a streaking comet across the starry night sky. And then he sobered just as Jillian’s knees were weakening to mush. “Thank you.”

Oh, God, this was a mistake.

Already her pulse was flittering again in the telltale skip that told her another panic attack was in her near future, but it was too late to backtrack now. Blanche was moving toward the hall, about to leave them alone together, and there was no way Jillian could weasel out of it without looking like the full-grown, yellow-bellied coward that she was.

“Humph.” Blanche pursed her lips, shot Beau a few more death sparks from her blue eyes and disappeared.

And Jillian faced Beau.