“I wouldn’t mind some company,” Angel said.
Her eyes widened, and he saw for the first time that they were a soft silver-green. “You wouldn’t?”
Francis sighed—a deep, tired sound of defeat, then scooted back in his chair and got to his feet, a tall, awkward blond kid, looking at her like a puppy dog, begging her silently to see him.
Angel felt a stab of regret, but it was too late to remedy what he’d done, and he didn’t want to anyway. It was the first time in his life he’d gotten something Francis
wanted, and it felt good.
The girl—he’d learned later that her name was Madelaine Hillyard—looked up at Francis as he left the room, gave him a pretty white smile, and whispered good-bye. She hadn’t looked at Francis again, not then and not in the magical months that followed. Months that changed all their lives.
At first, Angel had wanted Madelaine because Francis wanted her; plain, unvarnished selfishness, made all the more ignoble and painful because of what was to follow.
Quite simply, Angel fell in love with her. Head, heart, body and soul, he fell in love for the first—perhaps the only—time in his life. The quiet, unassuming teenager with the huge, haunting eyes had become his world for a brief, heart-wrenching summer. She saw something in him that no one had ever seen before—she believed in him—and when he held her in his arms he almost learned to believe in himself. But not enough; he hadn’t believed in himself enough….
And though he’d left her, he’d never been able to exorcise her from his soul. That was the tragedy in all of it. He’d abandoned her, broken all of their hearts, and for what? For a life spent drifting aimlessly from seedy bar to seedier hotel room, telling and retelling the same tired stories to dozens of overly made-up eyes, whispering the same worn lines against a hundred pairs of lips. But never the right lips, never the right words.
And here he was again, back in the hospital.
Only this time, maybe Francis had come out the winner, maybe it was Francis who slept with Madelaine now, Francis who sucked her pale, pink nipples and kissed her full lips.
He winced.
Jealousy sluiced through him, twisting his stomach, making him suddenly angry.
He didn’t want Francis to have Madelaine.
“Christ,” he whispered, wishing that it were a prayer and knowing that it was too late for that. It had always been too late.
Chapter Eight
Madelaine sat at the edge of the couch, her bare feet pressed together, her cold hands locked in her lap. It was Saturday morning, and she’d gotten up early to fix a good, healthy breakfast. She’d dressed carefully in baggy sweats and an oversized T-shirt. She looked as casual as she knew how.
But inside, she felt jittery and afraid.
I promise I’ll contact your father….
She heard the toilet flush down the hall and she jumped to her feet. Scrambling into the kitchen, she whisked out the cutting board and started busily cutting carrots.
It wasn’t until she’d peeled and cut three of them that she realized she didn’t need carrots for breakfast.
She pushed the vegetables aside and stared at the closed door. Her anxiety hitched up a notch. What if she couldn’t pull it off—what if she couldn’t lie well enough to protect her daughter?
The bathroom knob turned, the door swung open. Lina stood in the doorway, wearing a tight-fitting ribbed sweater and a pair of pants that an NFL linebacker couldn’t have filled out. The crotch hung between her knees, and the frayed, cut-off hem dragged on the floor.
“Hey, Mom,” she said, slamming the door shut with an army-booted foot. Dragging a backpack, she headed down the hall toward the living room. “I’m going to the mall.”
Madelaine’s throat went dry. “Wait until you eat something.”
Lina stopped dead. “You’re cooking?”
“I-I am. Ham and cheese omelet and toast.”
“Made with fake eggs and turkey ham? Yum, yum.”
“You used to love turkey ham.”
Lina rolled her eyes. “Get real, Mom. I was too young to know the difference.”