A Gift from the Past. Carla Cassidy
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me all about this business of yours and about all the loony people in California. I hear tell the women sun-bathe stark-naked there.”
Claire didn’t want to listen to Joshua extol the luxurious lifestyle he’d built for himself, nor did she like the way his very presence stirred not only memories of what had once been, but also an edge of physical awareness that was distinctly uncomfortable.
She excused herself from the table and left the kitchen. She wandered back into the living room, drawn to the tin box Joshua had left on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa and pulled the box onto her lap.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it and picked up the picture. Immediately, a strange electrical surge washed up her arm. It wasn’t unpleasant, just warm and disconcerting. She’d felt it when she’d first taken the picture from Joshua.
She dismissed the sensation, telling herself she was out of sorts, highly on edge and that’s why she thought she felt something strange.
Again she studied the features of the two people in the photo. There was no question about it. They shared more than a passing resemblance to her and Joshua. It was as if she and Joshua had sat for the photo in one of those vacation photo places where you could dress up in historical outfits.
But they had never had a photo like this taken and there seemed to be no explanation as to why Sarah and Daniel Walker looked exactly like Claire and Joshua McCane.
The couple in the picture wasn’t smiling, nor did there seem to be any hint of intimacy between them. He stared straight ahead, one of his hands resting not on her shoulder, but rather on the top of the chair where she sat.
She thought she detected a weary sadness about them, especially radiating from Sarah’s eyes. Who were these people and why had they buried a photo of themselves in the middle of nowhere?
She placed the photo back in the box, disturbed by it more than she cared to admit.
“Sarge would like you to take him back to his room for a nap.”
She started at the sound of Joshua’s voice coming from the kitchen doorway. Fighting against a burst of weariness that had become as familiar as the color of her own eyes in the mirror, she rose from the sofa.
“He usually gets quite tired at this time of the day,” she said unnecessarily.
He stepped out of the doorway and into the living room. “I’ll just wait here. We need to talk.”
“It usually takes me a while to get him settled in.” She hoped he’d get the hint, that he’d realize they had nothing to talk about, that she had nothing to discuss with him.
“I’ll wait.” He sank onto the sofa where she had been seated only moments before, looking for all the world as if he had a right to be there.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to get Sarge into bed and settled comfortably. As always, seeing him so thin and helpless against the sheets nearly broke what was left of her heart.
Sarge was all the family she’d ever had. He’d raised her since she was eight, when her parents had been killed in a car accident. She loved him as fiercely as she’d ever loved anyone in her life. “You rest easy,” she said softly, then left his bedroom.
When she returned to the living room, Joshua was still seated on the sofa. He rose when she entered the room. “You want to tell me what’s going on around here? What happened to Sarge?”
She raised a finger to her lips and indicated he should follow her out the front door. When they were both on the porch, she turned to him. Maybe if she answered his questions he would go away.
“Three years ago, Sarge began to complain about his eyesight, but you know how he’s always been about going to doctors.”
“Yeah, wild horses couldn’t drag him.” He leaned a hip against the porch railing and for the first time she noticed the small differences time had wrought in him. He’d been recklessly handsome at eighteen, dangerously attractive at twenty.
But now, at twenty-five, tiny lines had appeared, fanning out from his startling green eyes, and there was a sheen of worldliness about him that merely added to his physical appeal.
“Anyway, I didn’t realize just how bad it was until he wrecked his police car.” She looked out toward the yard, finding it easier to speak if she wasn’t looking at him.
“The accident wasn’t a bad one, but it convinced him he needed to see a doctor. We discovered he had diabetes, probably had had it for years and the degeneration in his eyes was massive.”
“Is there anything they can do? Any kind of operation?” he asked.
She shook her head, still keeping her gaze focused in the distance. “He’s had two operations on his eyes, but they were unsuccessful. Anyway, over the last two years he’s adjusted fairly well to the blindness. Then, last month he had a stroke. That’s what put him in the wheelchair and he hasn’t been dealing very well with the new challenges.”
She didn’t even realize Joshua had moved from his position until his hand closed around her forearm. “Why didn’t you contact me and tell me what was going on?” His green eyes held the first stir of anger. “I had a right to know that he was ill.”
She jerked her arm away from his grasp and took a step back from him. You had no right. You lost your rights when you walked out, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. “There was nothing you could do…nothing anyone could do. Besides, I’m handling things.”
“Handling things?” He gestured toward the yard. “That’s certainly not the way I see it. It looks like everything is falling apart around you.”
“That’s not true,” she protested. “I’ve just…just gotten a little behind with things.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You look tired, Claire, and you’re too thin. Who is helping you care for Sarge?”
“I don’t need help taking care of him. I told you, we’re fine.” She raised her chin and for a moment their gazes remained locked. “I know Sarge issued an invitation for you to stay here, but I really think you’d be more comfortable at the motel.”
His eyes lightened in hue and a smile curved the corners of his lips. “Why, Cookie, you’re almost making me think you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t want you here. This is Sarge’s house…my home, and you chose to leave it a long time ago.”
“You made it impossible for me to stay,” he replied, the light in his eyes diminishing. “But I have no intention of rehashing the past.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “However, you’re mistaken about one thing. Two years ago I paid off the mortgage on this house, and Sarge insisted I put it in my name. So, I’m really not intruding in your house, for the past two years, I’ve allowed you to live in mine.”
This was the second shock of the day, and Claire wondered how many of these she could take without having a breakdown of some sort. “Then, I guess I have no say as to whether you stay here or not,” she finally said, hoping her voice resonated with a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
“Claire.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and took a step toward her. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m not here to cause you grief. I’d say five years ago we pretty much exhausted that particular emotion.”
He drew a deep breath and looked away from her. “I’d like to spend some time with Sarge, and at least for the short period of time that I’m here, I could help you out a little. You know, maybe mow the lawn and do a little yard clean-up.”
“The spare bedroom is made up,” she finally said, knowing that she was being selfish in not wanting him here. Sarge would enjoy his company and that should be all that was important. Surely she could handle his presence here for a few days as long as he didn’t intend to talk about the past.
“I’ve