Weathering Jack Storm (Silver Strings G Series) (22 page)

Her habit at her own house had been to combat stress by showering until the water began to cool. In this house of infinite hot water, it was much, much later when she emerged from her numbed reverie and stepped from the steamy stall.

Down the hall, she found Jack’s room empty. Raiding his closet, she pulled one of his tee shirts over the revealing top of her cotton pajamas before treading downstairs.

After a barren search of the downstairs, she ventured onto the dark portico. Choppy acoustic guitar chords drew her eyes farther into the darkness where she made out Jack’s shadowy form. Her eyes adjusted and her heart clinched. Wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, he was laying on his back on the island in the middle of the pool, the guitar balanced atop him.

The night was overcast, and with barely any moonlight, she could not tell if he noticed her or not. He didn’t acknowledge her presence. For a minute, she stood remembering how he had once mentioned sleeping on the little island. That night, the feeling had come over her that he had lain in that exact spot, with a woman atop him, many nights. Tonight, the feeling came over her that he had lain in that exact spot, with only a guitar atop him, on many more nights.

The urge was strong to press in comfort against him, but having just showered, she didn’t want to undress and get wet again with pool water. She still didn’t know where Dax was, did not remember if the SUV was in the driveway, and she didn’t want to be caught in the pool in only her undies like Jack.

Besides, she rationalized, if Jack wanted company, he would have asked. Normally, he was insistent in that way, almost like a kid with the constant need for attention.

She returned toward the light spilling from the kitchen, but the melody drifting across the pool paused her at the threshold. Instead of going through, she slid the door closed and turned back.

The angry thrashing chords, that had originally drawn her attention to his whereabouts, were now crunchy chords with a hint of blues. These were the riffs she loved to hear him string together. Dropping to one of the cushy sofas, she laid back letting her eyes relax closed.

The heavy thoughts invading her mind refused to allow her to float on the peaceful cloud normally induced by Jack’s playing. Meg’s words continued to replay, and with her own promiscuous past recently outed, she wondered if Jack could have doubts about Tristan. The argument Meg had presented was farfetched, but logical.

The riffs dwindled a few times, and then stopped altogether. Just as she was wondering if he were asleep, he spoke.

“I cannot believe my sister. Sometimes, I wonder if she is capable of caring about anyone but herself.”

Marissa silently commiserated. No matter how logical, it had been humiliating to sit through Meg’s suspicions and devastating to know that Tristan was the product of those ugly accusations. Jack, however, had his own demons with his sister.

“She is always running off with the mouth and ruining everything.” His voice was quiet and sad, but it echoed across the water. “She has always been holier than thou. You have no idea how cool it was to be able to show Tristan off, to have a son too. And then, she fucking ruins the moment. Ruins everything—on the day that Tristan walked.”

She had no idea what to say to that, as until now, she had not considered how his sister’s words affected him. Naturally, he would be hurt as well as angry.

Her guilt seemed a physical, looming shadow at times like this. She had hidden the pregnancy. Whether they, as a family, at that time, would have actually worked out, or not, had not been for her to decide. She was beginning to feel like they had lost years together. Every indication in every conversation with Jack pointed to a positive reception of fatherhood, even from the beginning. Tonight had shown her something disturbing. To anyone, the years apart could look like the elaborate scheme that even Jack had once suspected it was.

“I’m sorry Jack,” The whisper was soft. She had no idea if it reached his ears or not.

“For what?” He had heard her, and was she imagining what she heard? The doubt. The slight concession that his sister might be right.

“That she said that. That the things she said fucked up the day.”

A quarter of an hour passed with the tension still hanging in the night air, yet slightly relaxed by the quiet. A few times, she opened her eyes wondering if he were asleep, if he planned to sleep out there, as he had before.

“Mariss? You can’t hear anything in the house from out here. Could you turn Tristan cam on that t.v.?”

Feeling as if she were accepting the bad mother of the year award for not thinking of this herself, she swung off the couch and crossed to the bar television. Pulling open a drawer, she extracted the remote, and once the screen powered up, tuned to channel eleven. Hitting the volume, she made sure it wasn’t muted, and was about to return to her spot when something seemed wrong with the screen.

Apprehension carried her closer, and when she saw that his bunk was empty, the covers balled to the side, she whipped around striding to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“He’s not in his bed. Probably in the bathroom. Just checking.”

The last chopped sentence fell in her wake as she left the sliding door open. Sniffling could be heard the moment she was in the kitchen, the hiccupping kind that ends a hard cry.

“Tristan?” She followed the sounds crossing the large entry hall, and the first oddity she noticed was Rusty at the foot of the staircase. Upon seeing Marissa, the dog, in true Lassie form, darted up the stairs stopping midway, and it was there that Tristan sat, his eyes swollen from crying.

“Momma!” His voice cracked with his happiness to see her. “Momma, I fell!”

Tripping up the stairs in her haste, she grabbed at the railing to keep from falling on her face. “Are you hurt?!”

“My arm hurts. Really bad.”

“Sweetie…” Easing down next to him, she automatically checked his head, his neck, back, and face, before gently taking his arm in her hand. He cried out when she carefully attempted to straighten the limb. “Don’t move. I will be right back.”

“Can you get Daddy?”

“Yes, honey. I’m getting Daddy.”

Two steps down, she tripped over Rusty, who was still lurking, and barely caught herself on the banister.

“Jack!” Her yells began the second she crossed into the kitchen, and she raced to the open door. “Jack!”

The emergency room trip was quicker than the one other time she had ever had to take him, and she wondered, without caring, if Tristan was getting preferential treatment.

When they were released, Tristan rode piggyback on Jack, holding to his neck with one arm. A blue cast wrapped the other arm, and the boy was extremely proud of it.

The automatic doors slid open, and even though it was late—after midnight—upon exiting, a blinding light similar to sunlight hit her eyes. Jack immediately pivoted away, and she followed his lead. However, the exit doors worked only one way, and the glass they encountered reflected strobing camera flashes.

This was the first run in with paparazzi since the drop party, and her maternal protective instinct kicked in tenfold. The glass of the door may as well have been a mirror, and she beheld the bedraggled image that she knew was now on a digital card. Before leaving the house, all she had done was trade her pajama bottoms for jeans. Her hair hung in an uncombed ponytail.

Jack’s hair was also uncombed and still damp from the pool. He had pulled on a pair of running pants and a band tee shirt, and his shoes fit loose, sloppily tied from quickly shoving his foot into them.

He scanned the concrete expanse to the entry doors, and she could see the speculation on his face. “Put his face down on my back.” Pulling his phone from its clip, he tapped at the screen. “Car’s now unlocked. I don’t want to hurt his arm trying to get him in the back. Can you drive?”

Seriously? He was asking this less than a week after she had caused a pileup on the freeway?

“Sure.” Determinedly, she nodded.

“Alright let’s go for it,” he muttered.

“Keep your head down on Daddy, Tristan.” Marissa soothingly brushed at her son’s hair as she settled his face again on Jack’s tee shirt.

“Try to keep your purse between him and them.” As Jack gave the advice, he caught her hand and they turned. With heads ducked, they darted down the walkway, off the curb, and across the lot.

It took less than a minute to load up.

Of pure bedlam.

“Jack, do you mind, just one picture, mate.”

“I’m sorry. Not tonight.” Jack’s voice was amazingly calm, and she marveled that he didn’t yell at them to step off.

“Marissa! Over here, lovie!”

Surprised at having her name called out, she looked and was instantly blinded with a flash. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she continued the sprint, all the while using her purse block Tristan’s head.

“Is that a cast? How did he hurt his arm?”

“Just a short statement. No pictures. Please. Marissa? Jack?”

The click of the locks as they took refuge in the car was comforting, as well as the black tint of the windows. One man leaned across the hood with his camera, and Jack quickly flipped the visors down and issued the voice-start command for the ignition.

When volunteering to drive, she had not considered trying to keep from splattering random paparazzi as roadkill. Jack’s car jerked with pent-up power at the mere tap of her foot on the gas, and in panic, her foot smashed on the brake.

“Just coast back, Mariss honey, they will move.”

A few miles down the road, she pulled into a gas station where, after carefully settling Tristan in the back, they switched seats.

“Who were those people?” Tristan wondered, and a quake of anxiety riddled his voice.

Jack fielded the question as truthfully and as concise as possible, and Marissa loved him even more for having learned that Tristan was capable of understanding things well past his age.

“...and they like the music a lot so they are interested in what we as a family do every day.”

When he wound up the explanation, Tristan asked, “Why do they want my picture? If they like your music?”

Slowing to a stop at a red light, Jack considered, and Marissa watched as he came up empty. No matter how mature the tiny boy was, it would not do to tell him his picture was going to be sold! Jack’s dark gaze slid to her face, and reading the silent plea, she jumped in.

“Because you are as handsome as your daddy!” Leaning around the seat to better peer into the back, she contorted her face into the tease by widening her eyes and her smile and crossing her pupils for a second. “Get used to it. Because I have a feeling if we stick with daddy we are going to get that a lot!”

The broken arm was the one Tristan normally used for his crutch. Awkwardly, he attempted to use his other arm, and frustration filled his features. Jack carried him up the front steps, and after a quick snack in the kitchen, up to the master suite.

Settling their son in the middle of the giant bed, Jack tucked a pillow under his arm. Then, he turned, whistling to Rusty and latched the pup inside the cage.

“Why does Rusty have to sleep in there?” Tristan’s inquisitive voice was growing weaker and wearier.

“Remember the torn up couch pillows?” Jack sardonically inquired. “Rusty is not always a good dog when he’s left on his own.”

“Rusty didn’t mean to make me fall,” Tristan sighed.

JACK’S HEAD SWIVELED
around, and Marissa froze in the act of stepping out of her jeans. Kicking them aside, she dropped to the edge of the bed instead of pulling on the waiting pajama bottoms.

“Tristan, honey,” her fingers smoothed at the hair on his face, noting the droopy eyes. “Momma’s been wondering. Why were you on the stairs?”

“I needed to ask you and Daddy something. And you weren’t asleep in your rooms.”

“But why were you on the stairs and not the elevator?”

“I’m almost better. I walked some at the beach. I thought I could use the stairs like you and Daddy.”

The tips of her fingers stroked over the smooth skin of his forehead, then cheekbones. He never liked feeling different. Probably, she should have used the elevator more in coming or going from the second floor even when she was alone. The only time they really used the convenience was when Tristan was going up at the same time as them.

At some time during the last few days, the blockade gate at the top of the stairs had been removed and not put back making their son’s try even easier.

“You are almost better,” she assured.

Jack climbed into bed scooting to Tristan. His hand moved over the cast, and lightly touched the fingers extending from it. “What did you need to ask us?”

“Did you get my skimboard from Aunt Meg’s?”

Jack’s eyes speculatively raised, and Marissa wondered if he was afraid of inciting a riot right while the tired boy was so close to sleep. Jack’s truthful answer was a surprise since Marissa herself had just opened her mouth intent on somehow deferring the negative answer without an outright ‘no’.

“No buddy,” Jack brushed at dark hair the same shade as his own. “She will put it up for you though. And it will be there next time we go.”