A Mother's Heart (Sweet Hearts of Sweet Creek Book 6) Page 10

  “Her ex?” Nik asked. Claire had alluded to her ex-husband but only in the vaguest terms. “What issues is she struggling with?”

  Tess sliced her hand in the air between them. “I don’t want to say too much about that. Why do you want to know?”

  He held her penetrating gaze then said, “Just curious.” He knew it was a brush off and he also knew Tess didn’t believe him.

  “Just be careful with them,” she said, giving him a cautious smile.

  “I will,” he said.

  But as she left, he wandered to the doorway, and watched Claire stack up the boxes containing what she had salvaged from her apartment. She was in profile to him and she looked at the stairs, a half-smile playing around her mouth.

  He turned away and set the box he held onto the counter, his emotions battling with the happiness he saw on her face. How she felt about this house shouldn’t matter.

  But even as he ripped open the box to set its contents on the counter, Claire’s happiness sifted around his own feelings. Tapped lightly at his plans, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  “Thanks for fixing that for me,” Claire said, glancing over at Nik. He stepped down from the kitchen chair he had dragged into the middle of the room and dropped the screwdriver into a toolbox he had carried into the house.

  “Gladly done,” he said.

  “Of course, the irony of you repairing something in a house you’ll be tearing down isn’t lost on me.” Nik heard the forced lightness in her tone and wished it didn’t bother him.

  “Having a smoke detector go off at midnight for no reason affects me, too,” he said with a shrug.

  “Makes sense.” Claire gave him a careful smile, as if sensing his pretext.

  These little connections had become more frequent lately. From both of them. Covert glances and quick greetings as they passed each other in the yard held more weight than they had before. It was a connection he knew he shouldn’t encourage but couldn’t stop himself from making.

  So, when she called him to ask him to fix the smoke detector, he’d been far too happy to oblige.

  “I made coffee, did you want some?” she asked. “Emma baked some cookies she wanted to give to you but didn’t have time to bring them over.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Sleeping. She had a busy day at school and went to a birthday party afterwards. She was beat.”

  He felt a tinge of regret. He would have liked to have seen Emma.

  He mentally shook off his reaction, his head fighting with his heart. He was becoming too attached to that young girl and, even worse, her mother.

  Things were shifting between him and Claire and moving to a nebulous place where they could reach an emotional tipping point. He knew he should leave, but the thought of returning to his empty trailer held no appeal.

  “Sure. That sounds good.” He looked for a place to sit by the table, but the chairs all held clothes and assorted items.

  “Sorry about the mess. Emma’s been digging around for some of her toys. We can go sit in the living room if that’s okay.”

  “Fine by me.” He preferred the living room anyway. Less drama had happened there than in this kitchen.

  Claire picked up a tray and he let her go ahead of him.

  Music was playing in the background and the lights were turned low. An afghan was draped over the back of the couch and the coffee table held a plant. Despite the boxes stacked along one wall, the room looked and felt cozy and welcoming.

  “I know it looks like I’m settling in for the long haul,” Claire said, apologetic as she set the tray on the low coffee table. “But my mom and sister insisted that I make the place look homey.”

  “Fine by me,” Nik said, lowering himself to the couch opposite the easy chair he guessed was the one Claire sat in. A throw lay over its back and the table beside it held an assortment of books.

  Either her or her family had also strung curtains on the abandoned curtain rods and hung up a few pictures.

  She poured him his coffee then sat down in her chair, curling her feet up under her. Her hair hung loose, spilling over her shoulders, gleaming in the half-light of the room.

  They were quiet for a moment, as if unsure what to say.

  Nik wanted to ask about her plans, but he didn’t want to pressure her and he guessed she didn’t want to hear about his plans.

  “Does Emma enjoy playing baseball?” he finally asked, thankful to find an easy discussion topic.

  Claire tilted her hand in a gesture of uncertainty. “Not really. She doesn’t feel like she’s very good at it.”

  “It’s not a pre-cursor to the big leagues,” he joked, settling back in his chair.

  “No. But she is a perfectionist. Curse of being an oldest or in her case, an only, child.”

  “You sound like you know what that’s like. Are you the oldest?”

  Claire took a sip of her coffee. “Yep. And I’m also a perfectionist. But what I’ve struggled the hardest with is being a people pleaser. I heard that was an oldest child’s thing too. Did you have that problem?”

  “I like things done a certain way,” he admitted. “As far as being a people pleaser, I think that was always part of my makeup.”

  A memory of sitting upstairs, struggling with his math homework; carefully erasing mistakes so he wouldn’t waste paper. Needing to get everything just perfect. Blended through the fear of being punished if he didn’t get it right was an innate desire to earn some kind of praise from either his foster mother or father.

  He never did.

  “It’s a hard thing to get rid of. The people pleasing as well as the perfectionist part,” she said.

  “Funny, I never pegged you for a people pleaser,” Nik replied

  “Oh, I’ve had my struggles there. I think I spent most of my life trying to make my mother happy. That got harder to do as I got older and then there was the whole unwed mother thing I dropped on her.” Claire shrugged, her smile was a bit forced and Nik heard a faint note of pain in her voice. “But the perfectionist part. Yeah. That’s totally me. When I set up the coffee shop, Tess kept telling me I should relax. That good enough was good enough.”

  “But good is the enemy of best,” Nik returned, quoting one of his beloved foster mother’s favorite maxims.

  “Right?” She flashed him a smile—one much less superficial than the last; it reached her eyes. “Tess likes to deal with things as they come but I need a plan. We agree to disagree.”

  “You and Tess get along really well, don’t you?”

  Claire smiled again. “I’m thankful that we’re back together in the same town. She’s my sister but she’s also my best friend.”

  “I remember that about the two of you.”

  “What do you mean, you remember?”

  “I saw you two out and about once in a while.”

  “I thought you never went to school?” This netted him a puzzled frown.

  “No. But sometimes I’d sneak out of the house. Walk around town. I’d see you and your sister together. I remember one time especially.” He stopped there, realizing how that sounded. Like he had been stalking them.

  “When was that?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’d like to know,” she pressed.

  He thought for a moment, but figured he had nothing to lose by telling her. “It was in the park. Tess was walking on a narrow ledge and you were holding her hand, steadying her, warning her to be careful. Then she fell and landed on you. I thought for sure you would be angry, and she would be crying but you were both lying on the grass, laughing your heads off.” He smiled at the memory of the girls lying side by side, helpless with giggles, laughing up at the sky. “It was neat to see.”

  “We did have a lot of fun together,” Claire said, cradling her mug.

  “You were lucky to have such a good relationship with your sister.”

  “You had siblings when you lived here, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah
. The foster family I lived with had two of their own kids. A girl my age and a boy a year younger.”

  “Were they foster kids as well?”

  “No. They were the Baleys’ natural kids.”

  “And also homeschooled?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you didn’t get along with them?”

  Nik took another sip of coffee, buying time as other memories invaded, trying to find a way to explain that wouldn't make him sound like he felt sorry for himself. “I wouldn’t say we didn’t get along, I just didn’t spend much time with them.”

  Her frown showed her puzzlement. “How could you not? You lived in the same house.”

  “I spent a lot of time in my room.”

  “Ah. A recluse.”

  “Not often by choice.” The words jumped out before he could stop them. Claire set her coffee cup down and leaned forward, her face puzzled.

  “What are you saying?” She asked the question in a soft tone.

  Nik wanted to stop there. He knew going back to that time would bring out emotions he couldn’t control. He blamed it on the house. On being here and the mood it projected.

  “That was in the past,” he said, struggling to sound casual.

  “Maybe, but I believe it’s seeping into your present,” Claire said.

  Nik clenched his fist as he wrestled the memories back into submission.

  Then to his surprise and dismay, Claire was sitting beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

  “What happened here?” She asked. “You told me once you didn’t have happy memories here, but I think it’s worse than that.”

  He drew in a shuddering breath as frustration and anger surged through him. He couldn’t tell her everything. “You wouldn’t understand. You with your perfect life and your perfect family,” he managed.

  “My family is far from perfect. And my life is far from perfect. I’m living in someone else’s house, the single mother of a six-year-old daughter. I would hardly call that a fairytale ending.”

  Nik felt ashamed. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

  But she kept her hand where it was, and much as he knew he should pull away it had been so long since someone had tried to connect with him, had shown him even an ounce of sympathy, and he didn’t want to move.

  “So, what happened here?” she insisted.

  Nik wove his fingers together, his hands so tight his knuckles turned white as pictures crowded to the forefront of his mind, clamoring to be released. Maybe it would help if he dumped them. Maybe.

  “When I first moved in with the Baley family, I was about eight years old.”

  “But Cory said you were adopted out when you were four,” she said.

  “I was. But that adoption failed. And I got put into the foster system. That’s how I ended up with the Baleys.”

  “That must’ve been so difficult for you.”

  “It was hard. Especially when I found out that the first couple who adopted me hoped taking in a child would fix a marriage that was falling apart. Guess it didn’t work.” He tried to inject a light tone into his voice, hoping he could show her he was over that. “Anyhow, I got into the Baley family when they lived in Lethbridge. It was okay at first. Then my foster father lost his job and we moved here. They insisted on home-schooling me and their children and that’s when I found out how dysfunctional my foster parents actually were. It went okay at first, but slowly the cracks started showing. Nothing I did was ever good enough, I was a waste of time, I wasn’t their kid, they weren’t getting paid enough to take care of me.” His knee bounced again, and he pushed his elbow down on it to stop it. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He had to get over this.

  “You said you spent a lot of time in your bedroom. Was that because you were sent there?”

  She asked her questions quietly, gently probing. He wanted to resist, but then he looked into her eyes. The sympathy he saw there bothered him. He didn’t like a woman feeling sorry for him.

  And yet, at the same time, he saw concern.

  “Were they abusive?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “Emotionally and physically.” He ground the words out, wishing he could distance himself from that time.

  “Why?”

  Why indeed?

  “I don’t know, but nothing I ever did was good enough. No matter how hard I tried. And after a while, I stopped trying. And that’s when things got really bad. I mouthed off to them. At first they would yell back, send me to my room. But things escalated each time.” He sucked in a long, slow breath, struggling to slow down the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes but that only made it worse. Again, he could feel the sting of a callused hand across his cheek. How his head would snap back when his foster father hit him extra hard. A boot to the shins and, if he fell down, an extra one to his ribs. “Things got physical.”

  “And all of this was happening while you lived here? Oh, Nik. I’m sorry. We never knew.”

  “No one knew. Rick was always very careful not to create bruises in places that would show. And if he did, off to my room I went until they healed. They had many ways of controlling me. Food was a big one. I spent so many years in this house hungry…” His voice trembled, and he fought the weakness into submission. He should stop now. He didn’t want to go back into that darkness, but it was as if the words he’d held back so long demanded release. “I tried to run away a couple of times, but I always got caught and brought back here. Which started off another cycle of abuse and pain and hunger. Those little hidey-holes your daughter loves so much were, to me, a place of fear and terror. I’d be locked in there sometimes for days at a time.”

  Claire’s hand tightened on his shoulder as the words spilled out. He struggled with the mixture of anger and even worse, sorrow. As a child he had shed enough tears and he wouldn't let that happen again. Not in front of Claire.

  “I wish we’d known,” she agreed. “I wish we’d known what you were going through. I used to come by this house just to look at my old home, and sometimes I’d see you sitting on the deck. Should’ve come and talked to you. I should have been a better neighbor. I should have been a better Christian.”

  “How were you to know?” To his dismay the question came out through an ever-thickening throat. He swallowed and swallowed again. “No one knew what was going on in this house. Not even the cops who brought me back here every time. Or the social worker the few times that poor overworked woman would come for a visit.”

  “And you had nowhere to turn.”

  This sympathy in her voice was his undoing. A sob crawled up his throat followed by another. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his hands tighter as his shoulders shook with silent grief. He hadn’t cried since he ended up in Rebecca Huizinga’s home and he didn’t want to now. Not in front of this woman who was growing more appealing to him.

  “Oh Nik,” Claire said. “What you have had to deal with is unspeakable. I’m so sorry we didn’t help you. I’m so sorry we didn’t pay attention.”

  And then her arms were around him, holding him close.

  He wanted to push her back; he wasn’t a child anymore. He was a man, and he didn’t need sympathy from a woman.

  But he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Her comfort filled the empty places in him that he’d tried to fill with more work, more holidays, more of whatever he thought would make the ache of it go away.

  It never did.

  He slipped his arms around her, swallowing his grief.

  Then, to his dismay, she brushed a kiss over his cheek.

  And another sob slipped past his reserve. He struggled to fight it into submission but the hunger in him yearned for the closeness Claire offered. Comfort he was now receiving from this amazing and wonderful woman.

  He pressed his hands against his face, still fighting but the sobs came faster now. And she held him even closer. Pictures flashed through his mind, each creating more pain and anguish. His mother leaving him, the Jensen’s leaving him, his foster father beating him. He co
uldn’t let the memories win but the pain took over and the tears flowed.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally fought the sorrow into submission.

  He tried to pull back from Claire as he regained control.

  But she wouldn’t let him move away. She cradled his face in her hands her eyes gentle on him. “I wish I could tell you how sorry I am. I apologize that we did not help you. That you had to suffer this all alone.”

  Nik held her gaze, heard the sincerity in her voice, her hands gentle on his face. He felt as if he should man up, take control but other emotions flitted over her face. She was about to remove her hands when he caught them in his own, curling his fingers through hers.

  “Like I said, how were you to know if the people who were supposed to protect me didn’t? Wouldn’t?” He swallowed, drawing in a shaky breath, thankful his emotions were falling back into line.

  She looked at their interlocked hands. “I understand why this house doesn’t make you happy.”

  Her admission surprised him but also validated his feelings and his plans.

  “So, you know why I have to get rid of it?”

  “Maybe.” She lifted her eyes to his and he could see pain in them. “But I remember laughter and fun and joy and a family that enjoyed being together. It was a good home for me and my family. It was the best place I ever lived in. That happened in this house too.”

  “I need to move on,” he said quietly, struggling with his conflicting emotions. “And I don’t think I can do that until this place is gone.”

  “But it’s just a building,” she replied.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  She blinked again, and, to his surprise, dislodged a tear.

  Now it was his turn to comfort her as he held her face and thumbed the tear away. But he let his hand linger, stroking her face. His breath quickened as their eyes held and then he didn’t want to talk anymore.

  All the lingering glances they had shared the past few weeks, the memories he had harbored of her, the attraction he knew was growing blended in this moment.