Sawyer resembles his mother in some ways. He has her full upper lip, bearing a pronounced Cupid’s bow. And her long eyelashes. Beyond that, he is his father’s son.
“I’m sure that wasn’t easy.” Beau drifts up behind me in our bathroom, placing his chin on my shoulder. His arms twine around my waist, his gaze searching out mine in the mirror.
Even after all these years, the regret appears instantly. Despite what happened so long ago, my husband is a loyal man. This loyalty extends even to his remorse. He will never be free from it. I have forgiven him. Forgiving himself is a separate beast.
I look back at my husband of almost forty years. Beau’s skin bears the markings of stress and time spent under the often brutal Arizona sun. His crows feet and forehead creases have permanent residence on his face. As do mine. It strikes me now, probably because of Sawyer’s reemergence in our lives, that our marriage is as weathered as our skin.
“I did what I’d hope someone would do for one of my children if the situation were reversed.” I’d been distracted during the entire ASL lesson, considering whether I should invite Sawyer to stay for dinner.
Loosening Beau’s grip on my midsection, I turn so we’re face to face. “Him being here will create a problem eventually. Did you see the way he looks at Jessie?” My arms encircle his neck and I let him pull me close. He needs to hold me as much as I need to be held by him.
“I’d have to be blind to miss it.” Beau’s voice falls over me, and a shiver slips down my spine.
Even after all this time, through small transgressions and the most colossal of mistakes, Beau holds my heart.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
He presses his forehead against mine. “Like you’re an angel.”
I manage a smile. “You’re sweet, but that’s not what I was referring to.”
He takes a breath, the exhale a warm stream of air from his nose. “Like a bomb has been thrown into the center of my family, and I’m waiting for it to go off.”
“They’ll be okay, you know? If the bomb goes off. Our kids will make it through.”
“They shouldn’t have to.” The regret is gone, replaced by disgust.
I shrug. “It’s too late for that.”You shouldn’t have done what you did back then. I don’t say it. It won’t help the situation. And comments like that don’t make me feel better, either.
“Come on.” I step from his embrace and he follows me to our bed. We climb in and slide under the covers. He reaches for me, tucking me into his chest.
We made our babies in this room. We’ve fought and loved, argued and consoled. These walls have seen us through some of our best and worst moments. They will continue to do so.
The seed Beau sowed more than twenty years ago has finally sprouted. What will come of it is anyone’s guess. I pray Jessie will not be the hardest hit once the truth comes to light.
In all honesty, how can she not be? After all, Beau’s long-deceased mistress’s son is all grown up and has set his sights on our daughter.
If that’s not poetic justice, I don’t know what is.
15
Sawyer
She's tryingto be quiet, but I hear her anyway. The soft, muted thud of bare feet padding over hardwood floors. She doesn't approach, and I don't move to peer over the back of the couch. I'd like to see her, though. Her hair is probably messy. Maybe it's tangled up a little in the back, soft snarls she hasn't yet run a brush through. The rustle of fabric floats through the air as she moves. Maybe she wears matching pajamas. Maybe she wears an oversized T-shirt.
It has been a long time since I've heard these sounds. They weren't special, or notable, until they ceased to exist. I didn't know I missed them until right now, listening to Jessie make them.
There's a tug in the center of my chest, a quick pull of the organ I keep locked up tight. I don't want to think about Brea. I don’t want to hurt. I want to think about Jessie.
I lie on the couch, listening to the sounds of coffee being prepared, percolating, and brewing. Minutes later, the smell wafts in from the kitchen.
I push up to sitting. The cabin is a wide-open concept, and I can see directly into where Jessie stands. With one hand braced on the edge of the counter, she rises on tiptoe and reaches into a higher cabinet. Her short, pale-yellow nightdress rides up her legs, revealing tan, toned thighs and the bottom swell of her ass.
I blink and look away, a twinge of guilt creeping through me, as if I've seen something not meant for my eyes. Standing, I reach down and grab the blanket I used last night, folding it. The movement grabs Jessie's attention. Our eyes meet, and even from across the room, I sense her discomfort.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asks, her voice strained, motioning to the mugs she has set on the counter.
I nod, rounding the couch and coming closer. "Yes, please." They are my first words of the day, and they sound rough. I clear my throat. Jessie grabs a glass, this time from a cabinet that doesn't require her to stretch, and pours a glass of water for me.
