Just Around the Corner

“Okay.” She nodded, holding his gaze steadfastly. “I can live with that.”

He blinked, stared her down.

“I mean it,” she said. “You served your time. Whatever you did is in the past. Let’s leave it there.”

Still he stared. Said nothing.

“The question is,” she said slowly, “can you leave it there?”

“I left it there the minute I left there.”

Arms folded casually, Phyllis crossed one ankle over the other. Retreating with body language. Because it was the only way she could retreat.

“If it’s behind you, then why should it have any effect on your being a father?”

Clenching his jaw, he stood there staring at her once again, but the invisible barrier between his gaze and hers couldn’t be missed. She suspected he was keeping himself in place by sheer force of will. He carefully, deliberately, closed the door.

“The reason I was in prison is not the issue.”

“It’s not.”

“No. I was not guilty of the charges.” The words were clipped, succinct.

“But you served the time, anyway.”

“Part of it.”

Phyllis nodded, consciously slowing herself down. Her thoughts were flying in several diff

erent directions. There was so much she wanted to know. She was usually better at waiting people out. Letting them talk in their own time. But with Matt, she had a feeling there wouldn’t be such a time. He’d been alone so long that not talking seemed to have become more natural to him than talking.

“So what happened?”

“I was acquitted.”

Frowning, she watched him, wishing she could read minds as she’d often been accused of doing. He was confusing her.

“So, if you didn’t do anything wrong—and your name’s even been cleared—where’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say I did nothing wrong—only that I wasn’t guilty of the crime I was sent up for.”

Oh. More questions. Assessing every nuance on his face, she determined that now was not the time to ask them.

“I grew up the child of a convict. My brother grew up the child of a convict. So, for that matter, did a cousin of mine. The stigma that carries does something to a kid.”

“What stigma?”

“Doubt. Fear. People judge.”

Okay, she could see that. “Why do they have to know?”

“You spend enough time with someone, it eventually comes out.”

She supposed he was right. Holes in one’s past were usually revealed, unpleasant truths exposed.

“And they always judge the kid by the father?” she asked mildly.

“Don’t most people judge a book by its cover?”