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His mother’s knuckles flashed, white and worried, around her coffee cup. “When I told him I would leave him if he didn’t stop hitting me, he didn’t lose his cool or scream and holler. He didn’t even try to hurt me.”
Blue plaid flannel, smelling like whiskey over laundry soap, strong hands— too strong for Jackson to counter— yanking him out of bed…his mother in the doorframe…
“It’s me you want. Leave him be.”
“Oh, God, Ma.” Jackson stared, unable to say anything else.
His father had come after him, and she’d taken the punishment by defending him. How could he not have made the connection after all this time that it wasn’t passion or impulse or love that had made his father hit his mother?
It was cold, hard evil.
His mother gave a tight nod. “I managed to keep him away from you that night, but I swore to myself right then and there I would never put my children in danger again. I told you he hurt me because he loved me too much, but that’s not why it happened. Your father hit me because he was a mean, terrible man, Jackson. And it’s high time you realized that despite being his son, you’renothinglike him.”
“I…I don’t know what to say. I should’ve done more to protect you,” Jackson whispered, his eyes tightening with wet heat.
“Oh, sweetie, oh no. Don’t you see? I should’ve done that for you before it got so bad.” She dropped her chin into the folds of her bathrobe. “After we left, I thought your memories would fade over time. Kids are resilient, and even your sisters came to terms with our leaving after a while, although of course I never told them exactly why. Once you became an adult, I assumed you’d forgotten. You’ve always been so easygoing that I didn’t think much of your not having a serious girlfriend. Not until recently, anyway.”
Jackson jolted upright, his listening-trance broken. “Don’t,” he pleaded with her. “Please.”
But his mother persisted, putting her coffee cup down on the soft grass so she could take both his hands. “Being in love with someone doesn’t mean you’re going to lose control and hurt them, honey. It means you’d do anything to keep them safe.”
Jackson opened his mouth, ready to respond with one of his many ingrained defensive maneuvers.
Instead, everything he’d felt about Carly, from the instant he’d seen her through the screen door at the bungalow to the gut-wrenching moment he’d left her in the hands of paramedics, spilled from his lips in a torrent of emotion. His mother simply listened, her only response being a slight flinch when Jackson described exactly how Carly had gotten hurt.
“You didn’t hurt her on purpose, Jackson. You must know that,” she insisted, but he shook his head, resolute.
“But I did. I may not have hit her on purpose.” He stopped, nauseous at the memory. “But what I said was unforgiveable. I told her she never meant anything to me. I walked away when she needed me most.”
Oh, hell. No way could he fix this. No amount ofI’m sorryor heartfelt explanation was going to convince Carly he hadn’t meant what he’d said.
Even if he shouted it from the rooftops, she wasn’t going to believe what was really in his heart.
It was her, plain and simple. He was in love with her.
Catherine smiled. “She’s a smart woman, honey. At the very least, trust her to give you a good listen. You might be surprised at how things turn out.”
“I don’t know, Ma. I think this is too big.” He swallowed hard. “Plus, she’d have to be here in order to hear me out, and she’s going back to New York.” Jackson tried to picture the restaurant, the garden, Joe’s Grocery—hell, even Rural Route Four—without Carly, but he came up painfully empty.
Feed her.
Christ! His inner voice had gone outer limits. He couldn’t right this with a goddamn peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Far be it for me to tell you what to do, honey. But she can still forgive you for an accident, even if she’s taken that job.”
But the numbness had returned to Jackson’s body, filling him with resignation and defeat.
“Some things you just can’t fix withI’m sorry.”
* * *
“All in all,Ms. di Matisse, you’re actually very lucky.”
Carly snorted. “I don’t feel very lucky,” she said, the words more soft joke than snappy rebuke. What shedidfeel like was someone who’d been lying on a lackluster mattress for nine hours with the headache from hell, trying to hash out some kind of a plan for her wounded body, a career that had been thrown in the blender, and her utterly jumbled sense of trust and belonging.
She didn’t even want to get started on her shattered heart.
“Well, your nose isn’t broken and your stitches will heal nicely. Your MRI shows nothing out of the ordinary and you’ve passed concussion protocol, so other than the swelling and discomfort, I think you’re in the clear.”
