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Not so long ago he’d felt closer to Savannah than anyone in the world. Now, in many ways, a stranger lay on his sofa.
A stranger because the withdrawn, obviously in pain woman wasn’t the woman he’d known in Chattanooga. Not even close.
He’d done that to her.
Not directly.
But he was responsible for her pregnancy, for her unhappiness, for her being on that interstate.
He’d only been trying to help.
Just as his father had only
been trying to help when he’d married Charlie’s mother. That hadn’t turned out so well.
Neither had Charlie’s involvement in Savannah’s life.
Perhaps he should have hired a nurse to take care of her twenty-four-seven. He sort of had.
What would she think of the fact that he had hired her friend Chrissie to care for her while he was at work?
She surely would appreciate that he hadn’t hired a stranger to stay with her. Her mother had thought it a good idea and given her blessing. Plus, Chrissie had jumped at the opportunity to make what he’d offered to pay her to stay with Savannah. Fortunately, the nurse had just worked four twelve-hour shifts in a row and was off for the next four days. Charlie had hired her for three of those four days. She would be with Savannah while he was at work through Friday. He was off work and call this weekend. He’d care for Savannah himself on Saturday and Sunday, had rearranged his schedule so he could go with her to her appointments with Dr. Kimble and Dr. Trenton on Monday. They’d figure out what needed to happen from there.
Regardless, he’d make sure she was taken care of.
Always.
Which might not be his right.
It wasn’t even now.
But he felt responsible for her, for their baby.
He wanted to take care of her.
And their baby.
Which was why he’d paid for a hotel room for Chrissie and her son for them to go to in the evenings after he got home. He’d take care of Savannah and their baby while he was home from work. Chrissie had agreed to return to his apartment if he had any emergencies and had to leave after hours.
He studied Savannah on the sofa. He’d given her a blanket, and she’d covered herself. She looked frail and banged up, with her black eye, bruised face and body, healing but still swollen lip, and bandaged leg.
“Can I get you anything?”
Without looking at him, she shook her head.
“Something to eat or drink?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Are you not going to talk to me?”
She opened her eyes, looked up. “What do you want me to say?”
Good question. What did he want her to say?
That she forgave him for doing this to her.
Only which this did he mean?
