His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) Page 18

  Joe’s shoulders sagged. “Pieces?”

  “Mind and body, working together. The mind is the key at your stage. I can show you how to safely strengthen your body within the limitations of your condition. But you’ll undermine everything we try if you push too hard or continue ignoring my advice—and your doctor’s.”

  “I’ve been working my ass off.”

  “You’ve been exhausting yourself, because your instinct is to keep going as hard as you can, or you worry you’ll stop being able to go at all. I can get you working smarter, not harder. How long has it been since you were released from the rehab center?” Mike asked. “You’ve been pushing your system ever since, weakening it even more. Your resistance to your recovery plan is your biggest liability, Mr. Dixon. Joe. It’s the threat to you regaining your quality of life. Not your meds. Not the physical limitations I can help you deal with.”

  “You think I’m depressed.”

  “I think you’re in pain. And you’re overdoing it at work and at home, putting your game face on, thinking no one will notice. You’re a fighter, sir, just like your daughter. And that’s admirable. But you’re making risky decisions about your recovery. You need to stop, before you permanently damage your ability to be there for your family the way you want to.”

  Joe’s panic was palpable. “I’d do anything for them.”

  “Depression can be a tricky thing. The denial. The need not to need help.” Mike could remember his brother’s bouts with it, and being there by Jeremy’s side each time. “A strong man with your responsibilities thinks he shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of hopelessness. It’s a destructive cycle.”

  “I . . .” Joe’s hands were shaking. He rubbed them over his face. “I can’t lose them. Any of them. What Marsha and I are doing here is too important. And my Dru’s wedding . . . You have no idea how hard she’s fought for the happiness she has with Brad.”

  “Then let’s work together and make sure you’re a part of all of it. We’ll get you stronger. You’ll be there for your family, as long as you can accept the time that it’s going to take for you to truly heal.”

  “Dad?”

  Joe and Mike looked toward Bethany. She stood in the bedroom doorway, light from the hallway windows framing her with the same glow that seemed to follow her everywhere.

  She wore a gauzy dress today. For once there were no splashes of paint covering it. She said she’d be coming straight from working with her kids in Midtown. Mike wondered how she’d managed to remain unscathed. On her feet were delicate sandals. And her hair . . . She’d pulled it back in a glittering, princess-worthy headband, tiny gems catching the light and casting rainbows of sparkling color.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  Joe pushed to his feet. He limped to her side in a slow-motion hurry and drew Bethany into a hug. Her attention tracked to Mike as he stood, too.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked again.

  “It will be.” Joe kissed her cheek. “Your fella here’s getting me straightened out.”

  “My fella?” Her grin wobbled, squeezing at Mike’s heart.

  Joe let go. “I’m going to tell Marsha we’ve got a walk to take tonight.” He glanced back at Mike. “Every night. And that Mike and I will be working out back on the patio next time, no matter who’s around.”

  “Tomorrow at one,” Mike reminded him, keeping his relief to himself. “We’ll start with stretching and therapeutic massage. You’re going to be sore, but we’ll get you moving.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Joe made it sound like he was agreeing to be waterboarded.

  He patted Bethany’s shoulder on his way out the door.

  She watched his slow progress down the hall and then the stairs.

  “It’s so hard for him,” she said. “Nothing’s ever stopped my dad before. Now . . .”

  She turned to Mike, her fear making him wish he could tell her she had nothing to worry about.

  “My mom says he’s barely dragging himself out of bed before noon on the weekends. His manager at work said not to worry about coming to the office until Joe feels better. That’s making him even more determined to be there every day.”

  “He’s angry and frustrated, and he should be. His determination will become an asset, once he focuses it on the right things. We’ll work it out.”

  Bethany smiled, taking Mike at his word and making him feel as if he’d won the lottery. She moved closer until she was within reach.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself,” he responded, flashing back to their first meeting, their first kiss. “Is everything okay?”

  Dark circles shadowed the fragile bone structure of her face. “It was a long afternoon at the youth center. But a really good one.”

  He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, a little in awe as she leaned into his touch. “What happened?”

  She began telling him how proud she was of her sister, the art program at the center, and how it was making an amazing difference in one special student’s life. And that while it was happening, she’d realized whom she wanted to share the story with first.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “Helping kids discover art really can make magical things happen in these communities.” Her eyes shone up at him. “You must hear stories like Darby’s all the time, in your residents’ reports about their volunteer hours.”

  He did. “But it never gets old. Is the family getting help?”

  “We talked with the mother. Sat with her and Darby while family services took their statement. The brother’s had a lot of emotional problems. The family hasn’t had the money to get him the counseling he needs. The state’s going to assign a family therapist. A caseworker followed Darby and her mom home, to talk with everyone together. Hopefully the brother will agree to it. If not, the caseworker will make sure the home is safe for the night, even if the brother has to be removed. I hope it doesn’t come to that . . .”

  “You did the right thing.” Mike was proud to know her. Proud that she and other talented, caring artists were reaching out into the Atlanta community on behalf of the co-op. “You have an amazing heart, Bethany Darling.”

  “I’m not the only one.”

  She looked around the bedroom at the equipment Mike hadn’t yet packed up. Her attention landed on a bedside table and a grouping of children’s photos, like the ones hanging on the wall at the base of the stairs. Images of the vulnerable lives that Marsha and Joe’s love had forever made better.

  “Thank you for helping my family.” Her lips found Mike’s, where he’d wanted them since her dad left. “I know I haven’t made it easy.”

  Mike kissed her back. He lifted her to her toes, sweet-smelling softness gliding across every unbearably hard inch of him. He molded her toned body closer, her filmy dress like a cloud beneath his hands. Then he made himself let go and put several inches of space between them.

  “Every time.” He plucked his hat from his duffel and jammed it onto his head. “This happens every time. I forget who and where I am. You go to my head, and suddenly I’m doing crazy things.”

  She ran a fingertip down the T-shirt that was damp from his and Joe’s session. Mike had a fresh set of clothes in his bag to change into before their date. “Lucky for you, I’m the kind of girl who likes crazy things.”

  He eased her hand away with a groan. “Your parents know we’re up here. If we don’t do something about that soon, I won’t be responsible for my behavior.” He kissed her. Soundly. Torturing them both. “Assuming you haven’t changed your mind about going out tonight.”

  Bright gray eyes sassed him. “You’re not getting off that easily. I’m starving, Mr. Taylor. And I’m dying to see where a rambling cowboy takes a girl on their first date.”

  He tipped his hat. “Nothing but the best for a pretty little filly like you. We’re dining in the finest eating establishment in Midtown.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “What’ll
ya have? What’ll ya have?” shouted the server taking Mike and Bethany’s order.

  They’d finally reached the front of their line at the Varsity.

  “What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?”

  The iconic question continued to be repeated up and down the vast counter. At least a half dozen other lines were teeming with customers, ten or more people deep, patiently waiting for their chance to devour the Southeast’s best burgers, hot dogs, fries, and rings. Perpetually moving and shouting servers took and filled orders in front of the divider that separated the counter staff from the Varsity’s kitchen. Behind it, kitchen staff worked feverishly, producing the savory, tangy food unique to the historic, no-frills Midtown eatery.

  Bethany would never forget her teenage excursions to the Varsity with Marsha and Joe and her brothers and sisters. Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons, kids piling into Marsha’s minivan, everyone splurging on their favorite, nothing-fancy food that was always fabulous. Everyone sitting at whatever tables they wanted to. Hanging out, having a blast, sharing their fries and rings and ketchup and mustard and milkshakes like a family.

  She’d finally been part of a real family.

  The multistoried interior had changed very little since its 1940s renovations. Complete with the view of the car-hop beyond the kitchen where runners hustled out food to what was touted as the world’s largest drive-in. The Varsity was an official Atlanta landmark, daily attracting hordes of hungry locals, tourists, and celebrities, all jonesing for the experience as much as the cuisine.

  “What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?” Bethany and Mike’s server prompted again.

  “One of everything?” Bethany teased Mike.

  “A slaw dog and onion rings,” he said to the lady behind the register, his voice carrying over the Sunday dinner crush. “A pimiento cheese dog with fries. A Diet Coke and ice water.” He propped his arm on the counter and grinned at Bethany. On the drive into the city they’d vigorously debated the merits of slaw versus cheese on their hot dogs, and rings over fries. “What else?”

  “And an FO,” Bethany said.

  “A Frosted Orange girl?” Mike nodded his approval.

  “It wouldn’t be a trip to the Varsity without one.” The vanilla-and-orange concoction was a decadently rich cross between a Dreamsicle and a milkshake.

  Their server shouted Bethany’s request down the counter to where ice cream and shakes were prepared. Mike handed over a twenty to cover their meal. The woman made change and shouted the rest of their order toward the kitchen, then began pulling their drinks from the fountain beside the register.

  Another server produced a tray, filling it with heaping portions of onion rings and french fries—Varsity staples continuously being supplied from the kitchen. While Mike and Bethany waited for her shake and their dogs, the server at their register moved on to the family of four waiting behind them.

  “What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?” she shouted.

  The young couple’s two kids jumped up and down and squealed, excited to finally be ordering. Mike plugged his ears. Bethany swiped a fry from her and Mike’s tray and popped it into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she let the memories swamp her.

  Marsha driving the family van to Piedmont Park before or after those long-ago lunches. The friendly competition of touch football games. Swing sets and slides so high you felt like you were flying. Ducks to feed and chase after. And Bethany . . . sitting on a grassy, sloping hill watching the happy mayhem from a distance, sketching, dreaming under rolling clouds, being part of the day by drawing herself into each perfect scene.

  She’d never known family could be that simple. Feel that safe. Make you want to experience every drop of it, even though she’d been too scared to really try at first. Those special trips into the city, to the Varsity and other wondrous places, had been the beginning. Her foster parents had opened her heart a tiny bit more with every beam of sunshine, each hug and smile and patient moment of understanding. They’d been coaxing her into belonging from the very start.

  She opened her eyes and found Mike studying her.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  She grimaced. Kissed him softly. “This is a lovely treat. Thank you.”

  He kissed her back, his gaze swirling with awareness of how nervous she continued to be with him. “You’re a lovely treat.”

  The kids next to them pounced on their own tray of fries and rings, stuffing their mouths. Their parents tried to slow them down. The boy and girl took off, the brother saying he’d get ketchup and mustard for everyone, the sister announcing that she’d scout tables in one of the three rooms of booths near the front, each with a wall-mounted TV preset to a different channel. The parents shook their heads, hugging, and waited patiently for the remainder of their meal.

  Mike and Bethany’s dogs arrived, along with her shake. Mike hefted their overflowing tray, and they set off. Stopping for their own condiments, they chose to sit at one of the smaller tables in a narrow, open walkway that had windows on both sides. They had a city view on the right and an overlook of the interstate connector on the left—where Interstates 85 and 75 merged and split Midtown in half, separating landmarks like Georgia Tech and the Coca-Cola headquarters from historic Peachtree Street.

  Sunlight showered everything in its late-afternoon sparkle. People bustled past, coming or going. Rowdy conversations echoed from nearby booths. Groups tromped up and down the stairs leading to the parking deck outside. It was a sprawling, distracting, not in the least bit romantic setting. Bethany couldn’t have imagined a better first date.

  “Seeing you smile like that”—Mike fed her a fry—“does dangerous things to a man’s best intentions.”

  “Intentions to let me eat first, before you try to have your way with me?”

  The pull between them was more combustible each time they met. And Bethany had been schooling herself that tonight was just about getting to know each other. With maybe a little bit of flirting on the side. Okay, a lot of flirting.

  “My intention,” he corrected, “was to not ask so many personal questions that I scare you off.” He took a bite of his slaw dog and watched her swipe a finger through her pimiento cheese. “Before I try to have my way with you.”

  “Maybe I’m not that easily scared.” Despite the ambrosia of aromas wafting up from their orders, Bethany only managed to nibble at her food as longing thrilled inside her.

  “I think you’re scared pretty much all the time,” Mike said. “But you’re also one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Says the man who wears an insulin pump, has to test his blood sugar before and after meals, and scales dangerous mountains to take photographs only a handful of people in the world could reach.”

  He’d explained about his diabetes testing after he’d parked the Jeep. He’d shown her the insulin pump at his hip and made it sound like no big deal that he’d worn one since he was a kid. He grew larger than life with every new thing she learned about him. While he seemed hell-bent on keeping the conversation focused on her.

  “Battling your fears,” he said, “whatever they are, makes you a fighter in my book. Scaling mountains, sticking needles into your finger, are no big deal compared to what a lot of people face every day.”

  She sipped her shake, surprised—though maybe she shouldn’t have been—at how quickly things were turning serious. They’d come at everything backward. Kissing first, their physical connection flashing to full life, while who and what they were as people had been left to be discovered more slowly, one drip, one drop at a time, until a flood of catching up was inevitable.

  “People like your brother?” she asked.

  Mike shrugged. “Jeremy. Joe. Your student at the youth center. You and your foster brothers and sisters? You’re all remarkable. Compared to that, I’ve got nothing much to complain about.” He motioned toward where the small insulin pump was holstered to the waist of his jeans, beneath his shirt. “I have medicine that makes
me good as new. I’ve always had whatever I’ve needed.”

  Whatever money could buy, at least.

  “Having things,” she reasoned, “being lucky enough to be healthy, doesn’t make you feel safe. Otherwise I’d have settled in with Marsha and Joe and never looked back.”

  “Back at your first home?”

  “With my mother, yeah. And all her loser boyfriends. Some of them liked little girls . . .”

  Mike stopped eating, but his expression remained steady, as solid as when she’d walked in on him talking with Joe. She either told this remarkable man the rest now, risking him knowing it all, or she never would.

  “So that was a problem,” she continued, “because I’d run, and my mom wouldn’t bother to come looking for me, and eventually the county caught on. I wound up with my grandmother. Not exactly a picnic. She was pissed at me and my mom because of the bother of it all. Then my mother took off with her latest guy. My grand liked the money the county gave her to take care of me, so we made it work. Stayed out of each other’s way until she died and Joe and Marsha took me in.”

  Mike’s gaze had hardened while he’d heard her out. Now she was done and waiting, wanting back the happy feelings of just a few moments ago. Guys hit the road once they discovered she couldn’t pretend every second of every day to be the happy, fun girl she’d first let them meet.

  Then Mike smiled, his easy acceptance of who and what she was like the sun brightening a bank of clouds.

  “Look at how far you’ve come since then,” he said. “The Dixons’ home must have been a great place to finish growing up.”

  She nodded, the rest of what she usually kept to herself rushing out.

  “Except I ran from them, too. When Benjie turned out to be using me just like my grand did. When I couldn’t paint or stand to look at anything that used to make me feel good. So instead, I fell for even more men who didn’t want me, the way none of the men my mom chased after turned out to want her, either.”