Stand By Your Man (10 page)

Brooke greeted her with a warm hug, then sat her down on the porch on a slatted-wood couch with green-and-white-striped cushions. “Tea or beer?”

“Tea, please.” In her state, alcohol would hit her too hard. And she did have to drive home eventually.

When Brooke went inside, her marmalade cat came outside, jumped onto the couch, and made his way onto Karen's lap. Stroking Sunny soothed her, as did the sound of Kenny Rogers singing “The Gambler” from somewhere inside the house. Brooke too was a CXNG fan.

A few minutes later, her hostess came back with a tray. On it were a teapot, two mugs, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, obviously homemade. She handed a mug to Karen. “Peach-ginger. It's soothing. Now tell me everything.” She curled up in a cushioned rattan chair and picked up her own mug. Her engagement ring, a vibrant opal surrounded by tiny diamonds, sparked fire as she moved her hand.

How serene she looked. Brooke's happiness was hard won, but still Karen felt a little envious. She sighed and dove straight in. “You know Jamal's an alcoholic.”

Brooke nodded. “He hadn't told you, had he? I guessed that, and I . . . Well, it was bothering me, so I mentioned it to Jake on the phone. I gather he went roaring over and blasted Jamal. I didn't mean to interfere, but—”

“No.” Karen held up a hand. “You were looking out for me.” And so was Jake. They were people she really could trust. “Jamal told me today. Before that . . .” And now she started at the beginning. Once she got going, there was a sense of release in letting the words spill free: initial attraction, meals shared, dreams spun. As she spoke, she stroked Sunny, sipped tea, and nibbled a couple of cookies.

Brooke nodded, commented occasionally, refilled their tea mugs, and reached out to touch Karen's arm a couple of times.

Karen finished with a summary of Jamal's abbreviated visit today, leaving out only what he'd said about drinking on the job and Jake getting shot as a result. She guessed Jake would have kept Jamal's secret.

How good it felt to let down her hair and share her emotions. Or at least it felt good until Brooke said, “Jamal called you judgmental? Well, he was obviously angry, but I do think there's a grain of truth in that.”

“Seriously?” So much for having a friend who'd take her side.

“Karen, a few minutes ago, you said you had thought Jamal was the perfect man. But those words don't go together. He is a man, which means he's human, which means he's imperfect, just like the rest of us.”

She huffed impatiently. “Of course no one's perfect. But I don't see how I could ever trust him again.”

Brooke reflected, then said, “When Jamal deceived you, was it to hurt you or to protect himself?”

“Huh?” And what difference did it make?

The blonde put down her mug and leaned forward, her blue-green eyes peering intently at Karen. “You told me his background. This is a man who has always, since infancy, had to protect himself because no one else in his life was doing it.”

“That's true. But that doesn't excuse what he did.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were Sunny's purring and the music on the radio. Which, Karen now realized, was Tammy Wynette's “Stand by Your Man,” a song that had been playing the night she and Jamal made dinner in her kitchen.

Brooke must have been listening too, because she said, “Like the song says, Jamal is just a man. Not a superhero. He's a man who has survived by being strong, tough, independent. In control. You don't know what alcoholism is like, Karen. You can't even imagine. You don't have control; this horrible craving takes over and it makes you do terrible things. I'm sure Jamal hates that part of himself. He wants to wish it away, to not acknowledge it. He wants to believe he's conquered it and can put it behind him.”

“You can't do that with alcoholism.”

“No.” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I thought of leaving Caribou Crossing when I realized I was an alcoholic and was diagnosed as bipolar.”

“Why didn't you? Wouldn't it have been easier?”

Brooke shook her head. “My sponsor helped me see that it could be a kind of denial. Running away. Pretending that if I got a fresh start somewhere else, I'd be a different person. If I was going to get sober and stay sober, better to do it in a place where I'd be accountable.”

“That sounds wise.”

“I think Jamal has his own form of denial. And it does take time to learn the lessons.” A smile bloomed. “I've hit five years sober now.”

“Brooke, that's wonderful.” For a moment, Karen forgot her own misery. She raised her mug in a toast. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It hasn't been an easy five years, but each year—each month, week, day—gets easier. Jamal's only at two years. He still has some learning to do.”

Karen nodded firmly. “He has to learn to acknowledge who he is, including the weak parts. And he has to realize that he needs support to stay sober.”

“Yes. And the people who care about him need to respect his strength rather than judge him for his weakness.”

Karen bit her lip. “I respect that he's sober, but I don't respect that he won't admit he needs help.” Nor did she respect his refusal to tell the RCMP that he was an alcoholic.

“So you want a man who's as close to perfect as possible, who's dealt with all his flaws and basically stopped learning and growing? A man who doesn't need any help from you?”

Her mouth opened but she couldn't answer. Was that true?

“Karen, you need to really examine your feelings. All these things you told me about Jamal, the physical attraction and great sex, these dreams you're sharing with your ‘I see the future' game, well . . .”

Brooke frowned and pressed her lips together, worrying them against each other. “Is it all just new and exciting for both of you, spinning fairy tales? Each of you has a vision of the future, and wow, suddenly you meet someone who shares the vision, and it just happens you're both cops so you understand the demands of each other's work, and it also happens that the sex is amazing.”

“I'm not quite following.”

“Is it an endorphin high, like teenagers who think they've met that one Mr. or Ms. Right and they're going to live happily ever after? That's how I was with my ex, but it wasn't real. I don't think I ever truly loved Mo, and he didn't love me. Being with Jake, that's taught me what love really means.”

“You're asking if I love Jamal?” Karen swallowed. “I thought I was heading in that direction, but he's not the man I thought he was.” Sipping tea, she reflected on what Brooke had said. “My gosh, you're right. I was like a teenager, assuming that my boyfriend was totally perfect.”

“But you're not a teenager, you're a woman. And you have feelings for a man who has many fine qualities, but definitely isn't perfect.”

Slowly, Karen nodded.

Brooke went on. “Jake stood by me before he even realized he loved me. He does that with the people he cares about. He does it with Jamal, even when it's hard. It seems to me that Jake's been the only person who ever stood by Jamal. Those two have something special. And so, I think, do you and Jamal.”

“Maybe.” She used to believe that.

“You need to figure out what it is, Karen. And then decide what you're going to do about it.”

“I guess.”

“Life's never straightforward. It's how you handle the rough patches that shows you what you're made of, deep inside.”

Karen studied Brooke's lovely face with the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. This woman knew all about rough patches. “You're right.”

“The man came to you and he trusted you with his deep, dark, very painful secret.”

“He should have trusted me from the beginning.” Even to her own ears, her tone lacked conviction.

“Maybe he was afraid you needed him to be perfect.”

“Oh . . .” Karen wrinkled her nose. In the past, when people had said she was judgmental, she'd told herself that it was good to have high standards. And it was, but not if it made her self-righteous. “When he did come to me,” she said slowly, “I got up on my high horse and reamed him out.”

“You did.”

“I owe him an apology for that.”

Brooke nodded.

“But I still have trouble with his notion that he can stay sober without any support.”

“Discuss it with him. Perhaps he'll let you support him. Or if he's looking for someone to talk to, who's been through what he's going through, I'd be happy to.”

“Oh, Brooke, that's so kind of you.” Karen reached over to capture her hand. “I'm so glad we've become friends.”

“So am I.” Brooke smiled. “Now, what would you say to some dinner? Chicken and veggie kabobs on the barbecue?”

“Sounds wonderful. I'll meet you in the kitchen in a sec. First, I need to leave a voice mail for Jamal.” He'd still be on his bike, riding back to Vancouver, but when he had a chance to pick up messages, she wanted him to hear her apology.

“Oh, Brooke, what if he doesn't give me a second chance?”

The blonde paused in the doorway. “You're giving him one. If he doesn't do the same, you're better off without him.”

Karen felt considerably better a couple of hours later, driving home from Brooke's. Her tummy was full of good, healthy food, and she'd heard all about how Jake had proposed and Brooke had accepted. Her phone hadn't rung once, but she told herself that Jamal might not be home yet. And if he was, he might not have checked messages.

He'd call. She knew he would.

She sang along to the radio: Sheryl Crow, Kenny Chesney, Taylor Swift, Johnny Cash. CXNG played a nice mix of old and new songs. Before she'd come to Caribou Crossing, she'd hardly ever listened to country music. Now she knew most of the words to most of the songs.

Belting out “Ring of Fire” along with Johnny Cash, she turned onto the street to her house. And there, parked in front, was a BMW motorbike.

She barely managed to stop the truck and wrench the keys out of the ignition. Jamal sat on her top step with Tennison beside him. Karen flung open the gate and raced toward the house, ignoring the dog who bounded to greet her.

Karen stopped at the base of the half-dozen steps, suddenly nervous. “You got my voice mail?”

“A couple hours ago, when I got here.” He rose. He hadn't turned on the porch light and the glow of the streetlights didn't reach his face. She couldn't see his expression.

“Here? You mean . . .”

“I'd already come back. Not much to do on the back of a bike but think.” He came down a step toward her. Now she could see his face, for all the good it did her. He looked tired, strained, anxious.

“Think?” Think that he never wanted to see her again, or that . . . ?

“That I was being an asshole.” Another step.

A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh, yes! “So was I.” She climbed the bottom step.

“You had a damned good reason to be pissed off.” He came down again, one step above her now.

“Yes. But I was self-righteous and didn't give you a chance. Jamal, I want to give you—give us—another chance.”

As she took that final step, he moved aside so she could come up beside him. And then they were in each other's arms, hanging on tight. He was hot and hard and smelled faintly of vehicle exhaust and sweat, but she didn't mind one bit.

He kissed her, quick and fierce, then said, “Sit down. There are things I need to say. I've been practicing on your dog.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Brooke's been talking some sense into me.”

“Jake tried, but I wasn't listening. I owe him an apology too.”

“He'll accept it.” She sat on the top step and tugged him down beside her.

He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

She snuggled there, wishing things were that easy, that two quick apologies could solve all their issues. But then, as Brooke had pointed out, real relationships weren't all sunshine and basketball hoops and line dancing. There were disagreements and tough problems to work through. Maybe this was a test for her and Jamal. Did they, as individuals and as a couple, have the . . . whatever—the internal strength, the flexibility, the genuine caring—to make it long term?

She sure hoped so. This man made her feel things she'd never felt before. Yes, she'd been spinning dreams, but when she examined those dreams with her practical, analytical eye, she couldn't imagine any other man in the picture but Jamal.

Tennison, tired of being ignored, head-butted their legs. Jamal told the dog, “You sit down too, and make sure I get this right.”

To Karen, he said, “I always thought I was so tough. Alcohol got the better of me and that pissed me off. I want to believe I have it beat. But it's a battle, every day.”

“Brooke says it gets easier. But she also recommends having support along the way.”

“I get it. What you said about me being arrogant . . . Yeah, I hear you. I'll go to meetings, get another sponsor, do whatever it takes. I'll keep winning the battle. I won't let you down, or let myself down.”

“I believe that, Jamal. You have that kind of strength.” And she knew how important it was to him to not let alcohol beat him again.

“Every time I stood up in A.A. and said, ‘My name is Jamal and I'm an alcoholic,' it felt like a knife was stabbing me in the gut. Everyone else in the room was an alcoholic too, and misery loves company, but I still felt like a loser. But now I realize I've got to focus on the positive. ‘My name is Jamal and I'm an alcoholic. I haven't had a drink in seven hundred and forty-eight days.”

“Congratulations, Jamal,” she said softly, resting her hand on his thigh and squeezing. “I'm proud of you.” Then, because he needed to hear her truth, she said, “I'm not so comfortable with you keeping your alcoholism a secret from the RCMP. I'm not saying you have to tell them about what happened two years ago, but . . .” She paused, not sure how to continue. Jamal was a private man, a proud and independent one.

He sighed. “I shouldn't deceive my woman and I shouldn't deceive my employer. That's what you're saying.”

She nodded.

Another long sigh. “Yeah. I need to have the guts to come clean.”

Relief flooded through her.

His arm tightened around her. “Hell, it's gonna be hard, Karen.”

She could only imagine what it would cost him to do it. She reached for his free hand and threaded their fingers together. “I know. I'll help in every way I possibly can.”

“Shit, you thought the worst you were getting was a tough old undercover cop,” he said gruffly.

She eased back in the curve of his arm so she could smile up at him. “You think Jake would love Brooke more if she didn't have bipolar disorder and wasn't an alcoholic?”

He tilted his head, an expression of discovery on his face. “Hell no. She wouldn't be the same woman.”

“Exactly. She's strong and wise because of the ways she's been tested. So are you.” She squeezed his hand. “Jamal, I'd be so proud of you. In my dream of the future, I see you like Brooke, five years sober, then ten. Strong and healthy, out shooting hoops in the driveway with those two cute kids.”

“Basketball dreams,” he said softly. “A family, a home. A fine woman to love. I never thought I'd have those things.”

He pushed up to his feet and brought her with him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, “But now I'm really starting to believe it.”

“So am I,” she said as he lowered his head to kiss her. No, he wasn't the man she'd first believed him to be. He was far more complex, more fascinating, more lovable.

But then she remembered something else Brooke had said, and eased away from the kiss. Again, nerves fluttered. There was one more thing she needed to know before she could relax and truly be happy.

He took a step back. “What's wrong now?”

“Brooke asked me if we're really serious about each other or if we're, well, in love with the dream. If we're like infatuated teenagers, spinning glittery fantasies about happily ever after. If we're so carried away by all the ‘I see in the future' visions that we're just, you know, slotting each other into those visions because the timing's right.”

He frowned. “You think you're doing that?”

“No. I thought it through, and no, I'm not. This afternoon, the fight we had, that's definitely not my dream. Being with a man who's an alcoholic isn't my dream. Well, not my old dream. You're not a perfect fit for that old dream, but . . . you're you. You're Jamal, the man I've come to—” She broke off, because the word that leaped to her lips was
love
. And yes, that was how she felt. It was just the beginning of love, a fragile and tentative love, but if it was nurtured, it would grow into something strong and true.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I've come to care for you,” she said quietly. “You, with your strengths and your flaws. You're unique, exciting, frustrating, amazing.” She gazed into his eyes, black and unreadable in the dim light. “But how about you? When we met, you hadn't even thought of being in a relationship, and within days we were talking about kids and a basketball hoop. I don't want to push you into a future that isn't what you truly want for yourself.”

He nodded slowly. “I hear you. I hadn't consciously thought about settling down. I think that's because I couldn't believe I'd ever have a real home and family. When I was a kid and I wanted them, I got shit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know. Me too. But that's long past. Anyhow, there was something that started pushing me away from undercover work. Yeah, in part it was the drinking, the fear that I'd screw up again. And a feeling that I might be using up my luck. But I think deep down, this need, this hope for something more in life, was resurfacing.”

“Then you met me, and we felt an attraction, and suddenly the possibility was in front of you and you grabbed at it because it was easy.” Her heart sank. That sounded like the teen thing, endorphins rather than true emotion.

“Easy?” His rich voice rolled the word around with a certain humor. “A woman who wouldn't sleep with me until I figured out what I wanted out of life. A woman who got me up on a horse and made me go line dancing.” He touched her cheek, smoothed back a messy curl that had escaped her ponytail, tweaked the curve of her ear.

A hopeful smile trembled on her lips.

“A woman who made me talk about stuff I'd stopped even thinking about years ago because it hurt too much. A woman who calls me on my shit.” He let out a slow, lazy chuckle. “Oh yeah, Karen MacLean, that's been real easy.”

“If it was so hard, why did you stick around?” Tension quivered her nerve endings.

“Hey, you forgetting who you're talking to? The tough undercover cop?” Then the joking tone faded and he said, “I stuck around because I was falling for you.”

Her heart skipped. Oh, yes!

“Earlier today,” he went on, “I left because it cut me to the core that you didn't respect me, didn't trust me. I thought, I don't need this shit, don't need to be disrespected.”

When she started to speak, to apologize again, he hushed her and went on. “But that was a hurt kid getting defensive. Three or four hours down the highway, the grown man kicked the little kid's butt and told him to get over himself. To focus on what's important.” He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “And that's you, Karen. It's you, my feelings for you, and your feelings for me. It's how you expect me to be better than I am, and I want to do it. It's the fun we have together, the good we can do in the world, the life we can build together.” A twinkle lit his dark eyes. “And then there's the sex.”

“Sex? Hmm.” She gazed into those deep eyes and teased, “Don't you mean lovemaking?”

“Yeah. That's exactly what I mean. Speaking of which, seems to me we left off right about here.”

When he leaned down she came up on the balls of her feet to meet his kiss. His lips were tender and caressing. They cherished her mouth, letting her know how much he cared.

She poured her own emotions into that kiss too: relief, joy, hope. Love.