Granted, several hours have passed since such a discussion would have taken place, and last I checked, she is asleep down the hall. Prior to that, though, we lie in her bed and talk. There’s no reading here. I’m not sure if she fears Jack will think she needs a goodnight story. But how can I argue with talking? Guy seems to agree, since soon after we settle into it, he rouses enough to jump up onto the foot of the bed, stretch out on Joy’s lime tank top, and go back to sleep.
The thought that he might wake in the night and lunge at her throat has crossed my mind. But Jack is right. The vicious pit bull is a stereotype that does not seem to apply to this dog.
And the stereotype of a headstrong Jack? Headstrong can be good or bad.
I do have to give him credit. He doesn’t mention my New York plans when, after I leave Joy to her book, we settle on the back porch with glasses of wine. Out there, we talk about everyone else or nothing at all. The silence of the latter, accompanied by the night sea, is pleasantly arousing. It isn’t until we are upstairs in a state of post-coital half-sleep that he pops the immediate question.
Drowsy and warm, I press my fingers to his mouth and whisper, “Don’t ask that.” The moment is too sweet for reality to intrude.
Headstrong Jack whispers back, “Fine. No asking.Begging.Stay.”
We are lying face-to-face in a mess of white sheets. His long legs tangle with mine, an arm at my waist holds me close. I want to think he’s too tired to be fully aware of what he is saying, but no. Not Jack. His eyes are wide open, reflecting the night.
I slide my fingers along his stubbly jaw, pleading for time with a look.
And he sees it, oh, he does, but he isn’t dropping the bone. “I can’t let you go.”
“I have another life.”
“Another man?”
“No, but a home, a job, commitments.”
“Change them. Move here.”
I exhale into a dismayed laugh. “How noble.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You want me to drop everything I’ve spent twenty years building? To trust that what happened between us then won’t happen again?” I keep my voice to a whisper, but my vehemence is clear. “It isn’t just me. Joy has a life, too.”
“She hates her school.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yeah, she did. She says people here are more friendly.”
“She hasn’t met any kids here yet, and if she were to, it could happen here, too. She goes against the grain. She says what she thinks. Kids her age don’t necessarily like that.”
He arches a brow. Oh, he knows. He lived this himself.
“Jack,” I complain softly, but his large hand climbs higher on my bare back, not letting go at all.
“If she’s unhappy there, can’t she be unhappy here?”
“Jack.”
“Seriously.”
“And what about me? My work?”
“Okay. What if you kept your place there and went back and forth?”
“With Joy where.” It isn’t a question. It’s a problem.
Jack is unfazed. “Here. Anne wants her here. I want her here.Paulwants her here.”
Dropping my forehead to his chin, I close my eyes. “You’re not making this easy.”
