Читать книгу A Father's Sacrifice - Karen Sandler - Страница 11

Her heart hammering in her ears, Nina stood in the kitchen just out of sight of Jameson, clutching her son Nate close to her chest. She trembled all over, her knees so weak she had to lean against the prep counter. Her arms tightened reflexively, the drive to keep her son safe pounding through her.

Angling herself a bit, she peeked through the kitchen pass-through. As if he sensed her focus on him, Jameson lifted his gaze to hers. Trapped by his scrutiny, she couldn’t move.

Had his eyes always been so impossibly blue? Had his arms always rippled with taut muscle or had prison laid down those striations of tension? It had only been one night, yet she could still remember the feel of his hair-roughened flesh against her palms.

“Mommy, let go,” Nate said, his mouth mashed against her collarbone. “I want down.”

Finally she tore her gaze from Jameson’s and stepped out of view. As she dragged in a shaky breath, she had to quell the urge to run, to make a dash for the café’s rear door. She could carry Nate up the back stairs to their apartment above the café, keeping him out of sight until Jameson left.

Nate wriggled in her arms and Nina realized the futility of that escape. This four-year-old bundle of energy wouldn’t stand for that much motherly protection. With a sigh, she loosened her arms and let her son slip from them.

“Stay back here,” she told him. “Go find your crayons and paper.”

He tipped his sweet face up to her, his brown eyes earnest. “I made a picture for you at day care. Got it in my backpack.” He twisted to free his arms from the pint-sized red and purple backpack.

“Take it back to your cubby. I’ll come look at it when I bring your snack.”

He gave her a winning smile. “Can I have chocka chip cookies?”

“And milk. I’ll bring them in a minute.”

He dashed off to the back of the kitchen where her parents had carved out a place for him when he was an infant. In an alcove that had once been a well-stocked pantry, they’d set up a portable crib, windup mobile and baby monitor. Those essentials had given way to a play-pen and toy shelf during the toddler years. Now Nate’s place boasted a child-sized table, shelves full of toys and a bookcase overflowing with books. A TV-DVD combo provided emergency entertainment on nights when the café was unexpectedly busy.

Once Nate finished his snack and his interest in coloring waned, he would appear in the kitchen, ready to be her helper. On most Thursday nights, business was slow enough that Nina could keep an eye on Nate as he busied himself with the small tasks she gave him. Tonight, she’d just have to make sure she kept her son occupied in the back until Jameson was safely gone.

The door bells jangled and Nina looked up, hoping the night cook had arrived for his shift. She welcomed any distraction to defuse the tension that crackled through her. But it wasn’t Dale, just an out-of-towner couple with two young children. No doubt they were on their way to Tahoe or Reno, making an early weekend of it.

As she stepped from the kitchen to bring them menus, another family entered, this one with grandma and four children in tow. Nina grabbed seven more menus as the two groups joined forces and started rearranging tables in the middle of the café. She waited at Jameson’s table as parents helped their children with their jackets before seating themselves.

Jameson wiped up the last of his gravy with his roll. “Early dinner crowd. Especially for a Thursday.”

She didn’t want to respond, didn’t even want to acknowledge that he was there. Why wouldn’t he leave? “It’s a church group from Sacramento. They’ve been in before.”

A third family jangled through the door, this one led by the church pastor. Their arrival brought the count up to nearly twenty. Nina added several children’s menus to her stack and left them on the row of tables the group had put together.

In the kitchen, Nina ran through the possibilities in her mind. She could call Lacey back. She could phone her mother, but Pauline Russo needed to be home with her husband, not cooking at the café. Nina’s father was still recovering from a mild heart attack.

Or, she could ask…no, she wouldn’t even consider it. She wanted him gone, the sooner the better. She shut her eyes, trying to think.

“Where’s the night cook?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and took a quick step back. She hadn’t even heard his quiet footsteps into the kitchen. “He’s a little late.”

Jameson nodded, his intense blue gaze never leaving her face. “You can’t wait tables and put up orders by yourself.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle. “He’ll be here soon.”

Jameson nodded. “You’ll give my number to your folks?”

“Yes, I will.” Now go. Please.

He nodded again, then turned away. He’d nearly stepped from the kitchen when the café phone rang. Back in his alcove, Nate called out, “I’ll get it, Mommy!”

Jameson stopped, looking back over his shoulder as Nate raced for the old-fashioned dial phone on the kitchen wall. As Nate snatched up the receiver, Jameson turned to watch the tiny whirlwind.

“Nina’s Café,” Nate said importantly. “May I help you?” He listened a few moments, then held out the phone to Nina. “It’s Dale. He’s sick.”

Nina sent up a silent prayer that Dale was faking and could be bullied into coming into work. But she only had to hear the few raspy words the young man could muster to realize he was genuinely ill, victim to the latest strain of flu.

“Take care of yourself, Dale.” Nina hung up the phone, then looked out at the tables of hungry customers.

“Nina,” Jameson said.

She didn’t even think before she answered. “No.”

“Let me help you.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t think when he was here. If he would only leave she could come up with a solution to her dilemma.

Nate tugged her hand. “I can help, Mommy. I can fill all the sugar shakers and all the salt and peppers.”

“Lacey filled them already, sweetheart.” Nina put her arm around her son and led him back to his alcove. “I’ll bring you your cookies right now.”

She hurried to the dry store shelves and pulled out the plastic container of homemade cookies. She grabbed a handful and put them on a paper plate, then stopped in the walk-in refrigerator for a carton of milk. She brought cookies and milk to Nate, then found his cartoon cup.

“I’m going to call Grandma,” she told him. “She’ll take you to her house tonight.”

She couldn’t impose on her mother to come in to work, but Pauline would never pass up a chance for a visit from her grandson. Leaving Nate munching cookies and drawing on an art pad, Nina returned to the kitchen.

A glance out at the floor told her the crowd had grown, three new parties staking out their own territory in the café. As she watched the latest arrivals settle in, she remembered the item in the Sacramento Bee about a church convention in Reno this weekend. It seemed every congregation in the Central Valley had made the detour to her café on their way up Interstate 80.

When she didn’t see Jameson, she felt grateful and anxious all at once. So he’d left. That was just what she wanted, right? It was crazy to feel so abandoned.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed her parents’ house. She focused on her father when he answered, heard the tiredness in his usually hearty voice.

“It’s bingo night, honey,” Vincent Russo reminded her. “Mom won’t be home until ten.”

Nina rubbed at the tightness between her eyes. Thursday had been bingo night for her mother for at least a decade. Jameson’s presence had so scrambled her brain, she’d clean forgotten.

“She’s got her cell, hon,” her father said. “You can call her there.”

“That’s okay, Daddy. I’ll call her later.” The last thing she wanted was to deprive her mother of that small weekly pleasure.

Hanging up, she returned to Nate’s cubby. “Grandma’s busy tonight. You’ll have to stay here, sweetie.” She turned on the TV-DVD combo.

“Yay! A video!” Nate went down on hands and knees to search the DVDs on the bottom bookshelf. He pulled one out. “This one.”

Nina set up the Disney movie and gave Nate the remote. “Finish your snack first. Then you can start the movie.” She hurried back out to the kitchen.

She nearly stumbled when she saw Jameson at the prep counter, a white apron tied around his waist, his deft hands slicing tomatoes. “I think they’re ready to order.”

“What are you doing? You can’t be here.”

He speared her with his gaze. “You’ve got nearly thirty customers out there and you don’t have a cook.”

She looked out on the floor and saw three more families had arrived. “I’ll find someone else.”

“You don’t need to. I’m here.”

Panic flared inside her. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that he might guess. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to protect Nate. “You need to leave.” She bit out the words, her fear making her harsh.

“I know you don’t want me around your boy.” His shoulders tensed, his hands stilled. “I’m the world’s lousiest role model, I know that. If he was my son…”

He’s not! He’s not your son! She wanted to shout the words.

“I just want to help.” He looked back at her. “I won’t talk to him, okay? I’ll keep my distance.”

A heaviness settled in Nina’s stomach. It felt wrong to let him believe she wanted him to go because he was an ex-con. Yet how could she tell him the truth when it left her so vulnerable?

The noise level out on the floor increased as another party entered. Jameson stared at her, waiting for her answer. She nodded. “I’d appreciate your help.”

She saw a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he turned away and sliced the last of the tomato on the prep counter. “Anything new on the menu I should know about?”

“Blackened catfish. The spice is there.” She reached past him for a small shaker.

He should have stepped back out of her way, he knew that. But somehow, the temptation of being near her rooted him to the spot. When her shoulder brushed against his chest it took everything in him to keep from reaching for her.

The contact was obviously unwelcome. She jumped back, the plastic shaker slipping from her fingers into the aluminum square full of tomatoes. When she would have grabbed for it, he plucked it from the juicy red slices and set it aside.

He wiped the blade of the serrated knife on a paper towel and placed it out of the way. “Just the catfish, then?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Her hands fluttered like birds as if she didn’t know what to do with them. He could come up with at least a dozen suggestions, most of them involving naked skin and hot passion.

She must have seen something in his face because she backed away from him and escaped the kitchen. He watched her through the pass-through as she snatched up an order pad and headed for the largest table of customers.

Jameson tore his gaze from her and focused on the prep counter. He quickly surveyed the familiar layout of makings for cold sandwiches, gravies and sauces for hot food, the griddle and grill behind him. He’d only worked here a year, yet that time stood out with greater clarity than any other in his life. Because of Nina, surely, and their incandescent night together. But also because of her parents, their kindness and trust in him.

Nina put up the first orders on five separate tickets, only pausing long enough to give him the briefest glance before she hurried back out to the next table. He didn’t have time to think then, unless it had to do with grilling a hamburger patty or dropping a basket of fries into the deep fryer. They were slammed hard with a steady stream of customers, and he was glad to have his hands and feet constantly busy.

But then the old rhythm settled in and it might have been five years ago, when he had worked the dinner hour nearly every night. His actions became automatic—a quick glance at the ticket, turn and toss a T-bone on the grill, pull the catfish from the broiler, slice open a foil-wrapped baker and toss it on the plate.

If he hadn’t let his mind drift a bit from the actions of his hands, he might have missed the flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye. As it was, he was so occupied with moving the T-bone from the hottest part of the flame, he couldn’t turn to confirm what he thought he’d seen. There was a shuffle of feet next, then when Jameson glanced over toward the source of the noise, he saw a small form duck out of sight.

After four years constantly on edge, aware of the peril around every corner, it was a relief to have nothing more to fear than the spying eyes of a young boy. When Jameson heard another rattle, then a clang when a large metal spoon slipped from a counter to the floor, he sensed the child didn’t want to be seen so he kept his attention on his work.

He’d gotten only the briefest glimpse of the youngster before Nina had swept him away. He had Nina’s coloring—dark hair, lively dark eyes, a sweet smile. Thin as a whippet, unlike his mother’s generous body. Energy to spare, Jameson guessed from the way the boy had rocketed into the café.

So, who was the father? Jameson remembered Nina had had quite a thing for one of the local ranchers. That was part of the reason she’d been so vulnerable to him, he recalled with a twinge of guilt. Despite the passion blazing through him, he’d made certain that night she was willing, but even then, he’d known he wouldn’t have had a chance if her heart wasn’t aching for another man.

So, could the rancher be the father? Had he and Nina linked up after Jameson had disappeared from her life? If so, the rancher certainly wasn’t in the picture now, or he would have been the first one she called to stand in for the missing night cook.

Suddenly, there was Nina on the other side of the pass-through, her wary gaze on him. Jameson flushed, half wondering if she’d somehow guessed his thoughts. But she was only there to slap another order on the shelf.

Jameson reached for it, then when Nina made to pick up the slip of paper again, his fingers tangled with hers. She stared at him, startled, her hand tense against his. He had to pull away, shouldn’t be touching her, but she was too warm, too real. He couldn’t seem to break the contact.

She snatched back the meal check. “Sorry. Forgot to add fries.”

“No problem.” He turned away on the pretext of checking the steak on the grill. He flipped the T-bone, giving her time to drop the check and go. But when he returned to the prep counter, she still stood at the window, her brown eyes troubled.

“We always worked well together,” she said. Then she tipped her head down, set down the check and hurried out to the tables.

Emotion tugged at him, a shadow of what he’d felt years ago when the Russos had taken him into their lives. At the time, he would have jumped over the moon if it would have won their acceptance. And yet he’d betrayed them—once with their only daughter, a second time when he took the path that led to Folsom Prison.

He set his mind back to his work. Take the T-bone off the grill. Serve up mashed potatoes and gravy. Spoon up a dish of peas and put the order up.

He quickly finished the other plates for the ticket, rang the bell and stabbed the check onto the spindle with the other completed orders. When Nina arrived to take the plates out, he made sure he was on his way to the walk-in for more steaks.

As he passed what had once been the dry store pantry, he was surprised to see the space had been converted into a kind of playroom. His small spy had returned to home territory and was now bent over crayons and paper, toys scattered at his feet, a video playing on the TV. The name “Nathan” was stenciled on the wall. Jameson kept moving, his promise urging him on.

They’d reorganized the walk-in refrigerator, but it didn’t take long to orient himself and locate the steaks. He tugged a ten-pound box from the metal shelf and pushed open the walk-in door. As he rounded the heavy door, he nearly collided with a three-foot-tall dynamo in blue jeans and Harry Potter sweatshirt.

The boy jumped back, craning his neck to look up at Jameson. “Who are you?”

Something about the boy teased at Jameson, the stubborn line of his jaw, the pugnacious turned up nose. When he recognized the familiarity, pain stabbed at him. That childish face reminded him of his brother Sean when he was ten years old. Because his grandfather had forbidden any visits, it had been by sheer happenstance Jameson had seen Sean that day in San Francisco. Several years older than Nina’s son was now, he’d nevertheless had that same innocence in his face. It wasn’t until later the rebelliousness and anger engulfed him.

He forced a smile. “I’m Jameson.”

The coffee brown eyes narrowed on him. “Are you the new cook?”

“I’m just helping your mom tonight. Are you Nathan?” Jameson asked, remembering the name on the wall.

“Nate,” the boy corrected him. “Mommy needs lots of help. ’Cause some of the cooks really stink.”

Jameson stifled a laugh. “I’m sure they do their best.”

“Nope. They’re all flakes. That’s what Mommy says.”

The box of steaks was cold and clammy in his hands, and no doubt he had another order waiting, but he couldn’t resist the restless, wiry charm of Nina’s dark-haired son. He found himself trying to think of something to keep the conversation going. “I like your playroom.”

“Come look,” he said, snagging Jameson’s wrist. “Papa and Granny made it for me.”

Nate towed Jameson along toward the playroom. They’d nearly stepped inside when Nina appeared and blocked Jameson’s way.

Alarm burst inside Nina when she saw Nate’s small hand on Jameson’s arm. She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “What are you doing with him?”

Jameson backed away. “I’m sorry. I came back for steaks. He was just—”

“I like this one, Mommy.” Nate eyed Jameson from head to toe. “He doesn’t stink at all.”

She took a breath, tried to calm herself. “Go back to your cubby, Nate.”

Nate’s lower lip came out as he considered rebellion. Then he turned toward the alcove, feet dragging. Just before he slipped inside he looked back at Jameson. “Can you come say goodbye to me? Before you go?”

Jameson glanced over at her. How could she say no? She nodded.

“Sure,” Jameson said. “Before I go.”

Arms crossed, she returned to the kitchen, Jameson behind her. He dropped the box of steaks on the prep counter and ripped open the flaps. “I didn’t go looking for him.”

“I know.” Nina stepped back out of his way as he crossed the kitchen to the stainless steel refrigerator.

He yanked open one of the double doors and pulled out a plastic bin. “I would never hurt him, for God’s sake.” He grabbed steaks from the box and slapped them into the plastic bin. Pitching his voice lower he said, “I’m not a damn pervert.”

Guilt warred with her protective instincts. “I didn’t think you were.”

The bin refilled, he returned it to the refrigerator, then glanced out at the floor. “Any more orders?”

“No. I was just coming back to tell you we have a bit of a break.”

He pulled down the last ticket, scrutinized it as if it was the Rosetta stone. His dark brown hair, always such a startling contrast to the blue of his eyes, was cut too short to curl the way it had when he’d worn it longer. She remembered the night they’d been together, that it had started with her brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.

She never should have touched him. But the loneliness she could usually keep at bay had swamped her that night. She’d seen Tom Jarret in the café, and the hopelessness of her love for him had hit her hard. She’d gone back into the kitchen for a quiet moment to collect herself and there was Jameson, his intense blue eyes reading her soul.

Nina shook off the old memories and hurried out to the register where a customer waited. She rang up the sale, then took out a bus tray to clear the dirty dishes. Once the tables were clean, she took the dishes back to wash. Sending the backlog of four bus trays through the sterilizing dishwasher took nearly twenty minutes. By then, Jameson had dinged the bell for the last order.

As she carried the plates out to the last table of customers, Nina’s conscience hounded her. You ought to tell him, an inner voice demanded. He has a right to know. But if Jameson knew the truth, Nina would no longer be in control. There was no telling what he would do and whether she could keep Nate safe.

Vehicular manslaughter. She didn’t know all the details of what had sent Jameson to prison, but she knew that much. He’d driven a car head-on into another and killed the driver and passenger. He’d pled guilty and been convicted.

The Hart Valley busybodies had had a field day when they’d heard. Jameson O’Connell was always such a wild boy, they said when word of the twelve-year sentence filtered down. He was always headed for trouble. He finally got what he deserved.

Could he be out on parole already? It had been only four years—not nearly a long enough sentence for killing two people.

Nina sorted flatware into a partitioned tray, then carried the tray back out front. When she returned to the kitchen, Jameson was scraping down the griddle with a pumice brick, the muscles of his forearms flexing and bulging as he worked. Nina stared in fascination, remembering how those muscles had felt against her palms as she’d run her hands along them.

When he looked up expectantly, she was tempted to run, and only just managed to stand her ground. “You can take off if you want. I can do the cleanup.”

He shook his head, using a scraper to clear the black mess from the griddle. “I like to finish what I start.”

Her secret weighed heavy on her conscience as she watched him labor. He’d made some huge mistakes, but wasn’t this something a man ought to be told? Did she have the right to keep it from him?

But if she just stayed quiet, let him go on his way, maybe he’d be happier never knowing. “So where are you headed to next?”

She could see the surprise in his face when he looked up at her again. “You mean after I’m done tonight?”

“No, in general. Where are going after you leave Hart Valley?”

He set down the scraper, wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m not leaving Hart Valley. I’m here to stay.”