The Secret Heir

She hated to think that this latest crisis could drive the final wedge between them, but she knew it very well could unless they both made every effort really to communicate this time.

She would do her best, she vowed. Whatever the problem turned out to be. But she couldn’t do anything if he didn’t come home.

Another half hour passed. She thought about calling Donna, demanding to know what had gone on between her and Jackson. She thought about calling local hospitals to make sure he wasn’t hurt, or worse. She thought about calling the police. She actually had her hand on the phone, though she didn’t have a clue whose number she planned to dial, when she heard the back door open.

Exhaling in relief, she moved away from the phone, hurrying toward the kitchen, which connected to the garage. “Jackson?”

She found him standing in the darkened kitchen, his expression that of a man who had wandered into the wrong house by mistake. “Jackson?” she repeated, turning on the light and making him blink. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“I, uh, I’ve been out. Driving,” he added, sounding as confused as he looked.

She frowned. “Have you been drinking?”

She’d never known him to drown his problems in alcohol, a crutch Carl had taught him to avoid. She certainly didn’t want to think of him driving under the influence, endangering himself and everyone else on the roadways. But he didn’t sound like himself.

He moved then, tossing his keys on the table and shoving a hand through his hair. “No, I haven’t been drinking. Just driving.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

He seemed to make an effort to remember before replying, “No.”

“I made dinner. I’ll put a plate in the microwave for you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She opened the r

efrigerator door. “You need to eat.”

“Maybe something to drink.”

“There’s iced tea,” she said, setting a covered plate of pot roast and vegetables in the microwave. Maybe the aromas would make him hungry, she thought as she poured tea into a glass. “Sit down. Your dinner will be ready in two minutes.”

Automatically following instructions, he sat, lacing his fingers on the table in front of him. He didn’t move when she set his tea beside his hands. She hesitated a moment, then turned to get out silverware and a napkin.

As often as she had wished Jackson would let her see him in his vulnerability, she found herself shaken by the lost look in his eyes. Maybe she had come to depend on a strong Jackson more than she had realized.

He still hadn’t moved when she brought his reheated dinner to him. “Move your hands, Jackson,” she said quietly.

He pulled them off the table, allowing her to set the plate in front of him.

“Now eat.”

He looked at the plate as if he couldn’t remember exactly how to begin.

Her heart in her throat, she picked up his fork and put it in his hand. “Eat.”

She watched as he complied again. She suspected that he might as well be swallowing chalk for all the enthusiasm he showed. Sitting across the table, she waited until he’d eaten enough to satisfy her before asking, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The clipped tone didn’t encourage any further questions. She tried again, anyway. “Maybe we should call your parents and let them know you’re okay. Your dad sounded a little worried when I talked to him earlier.”

He didn’t look up from his plate. “Did he?”

“Yes. He, um, said he thought you were upset after your talk with your mother.”

“He was right.”