Wish Me Tomorrow. Karen RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
real,” he said, figuring it was safe to admit that much. “That’s the only difference.”
“Oh.” Silence stretched between them. “Don’t you like working with beautiful women every day?”
“It was a paycheck.” Makeup and hair extensions didn’t add up to beauty in his eyes.
“Was?”
“Now I run my own graphic-design business from home. But I used to work for Faire du Charme magazine.” He held up one of the glossy publications fanned on his coffee table. Where on earth had she found it? He thought he’d gotten rid of them all.
Christie leafed through the pages. “Impressive. Why did you leave?”
“My ex-wife is the assistant to the editor-in-chief...as well as his current spouse.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” She studied a large picture on the wall beside his TV. Its simple black frame set off rows of waving corn and a red tractor beneath a hazy purple sky. “Is that what you photograph now?”
He wished. Artistic photography was a financial gamble. To provide for Jacqueline’s expensive lifestyle, he’d put aside his dream of showing his work in a gallery. Once his illness arrived, and she left, he’d lost interest in photography altogether. That was, until he’d seen Christie. Her mobile face made him itch to capture every expression.
“Haven’t taken a picture in over two years. I took that one seventeen years ago, the day I graduated high school. Working that farm paid for my ticket to New York.” He stood and walked toward the kitchen, his foot recovered. “Would you like something to drink?”
“That’s okay,” she replied. “I probably should get going.”
Eli put up a hand to forestall her rise from the couch. “Please stay. The elevator’s out and stairs are dangerous in the dark. Besides, I’m still too wired to sleep after what happened to John. I’d appreciate the company.”
She considered him for a moment then put her purse back on the coffee table. “All right. Anything that’s still cold would be great, then, thanks.”
He grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and noticed that she’d arranged the kids’ artwork on the refrigerator door. Someone had drawn a picture of a blond-haired boy in a race car, and he guessed Tommy had put Christie to work on the sketch. With an effort, he swallowed down old resentments at Jacqueline’s absence from the kids’ lives.
“How does sweet tea sound?” he asked, trying to get his head back into their conversation.
“Perfect. Where was the picture taken? It reminds me of home—Kansas.”
Back in the living room, he wiped the condensation from the glass before handing it to Christie.
“I’ve been to Kansas.” He sat beside her and tried to ignore the electric sensation of her arm against his as she lifted her drink.
“Very good,” she said after a long gulp. “What part of Kansas?”
“Hutchinson. My parents travel the state-fair circuit. They’re in charge of the games on the fair’s midway.” He winced inside at the crazy sound of that. But it had been his life...well, theirs, really.
“And you?” She traced the rim of her glass and his eye was drawn to her slender fingers.
“I stayed with my grandparents in Kentucky and visited my parents during school vacations. My grandma’s the one who taught me how to make sun tea.”
“Do you use Luzianne tea bags?”
Eli lowered his glass and nodded. “They’re the best. I put the pitcher on the windowsill every morning.”
“Your grandma sounds great.”
The familiar emptiness rose. “She was. But she passed the year after Becca was born, my grandfather six months later.”
Her warm hand found his. “You miss them.”
He jerked away, unnerved by the leap of his heart at her touch. “Every day.” He stood. “Excuse me. I should check on Becca and Tommy.”
In the hall, he pressed his burning forehead against Tommy’s door, glad for the shadows. He was enjoying this time with Christie too much. As much as he wanted her to stay, he probably needed her to go before she got under his skin even more. The way she laughed, spoke, touched him...it made him forget the danger she posed. He had no business letting anyone into his life.
Tommy’s door creaked as he eased it open. Scout raised his head, ears pricked forward.
“Hey, boy,” he whispered. He tiptoed into the room, rubbed Scout’s ears and pressed a light kiss to Tommy’s forehead. The boy slept on his back, one arm flung across his eyes, the other dangling over the side of his bed. He tucked the loose arm under the covers before backing out and shutting the door.
At Becca’s door, he ignored the Keep Out sign and peeked in. Funny how much younger she looked asleep, her face free of the scowls she gave him. He advanced to her bed, gently pulled out her earbuds and placed them with her iPod beside her bed. She turned over and muttered in her sleep. After a moment her quiet breathing resumed, and he returned to the hall, his equanimity restored.
Seeing his children firmed his resolve to separate Christie from their lives. She was charming. Too charming. It’d be easy for them to get attached.
Though Becca and Tommy rarely complained, he knew their mother’s abandonment had crushed them. She rarely called and visited even less. He tried to keep up a pretense that Jacqueline cared, assuring them that her work took her to countries without reliable cell service. He even bought them Christmas and birthday presents and signed her name. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. And he’d never let anyone hurt them like that again.
When he returned, he found Christie pacing by the window, purse in hand.
“I should be going, Eli. I really don’t mind navigating my way out.”
“A marble staircase without lights? Never a good idea.” His eyes searched hers, willing her to stay longer. He could keep a few boundaries without letting her go off just yet. “Won’t you stay until the electricity’s back?”
She nodded, the candlelight silhouetting her in gold. “If you want me to.”
“I do.” With a firm hand on her back, he guided her back to the couch. This time, he seated himself in a chair—it was safer that way.
“So tell me about Kansas.”
Her expression stilled. Strange. He imagined her life filled with homecoming parades and town picnics.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he probed.
“An older brother. William.” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward. “He passed away when I turned eighteen.”
He half rose then sat back down. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.” He wanted to offer comfort, but how much closer could he afford to get? With an effort, he remained in his seat.
She rubbed her temples. “It’s okay. He died of leukemia at the end of my senior year in high school. I moved in with Gran to attend nursing school at Columbia a few months later.”
A lot about her suddenly made sense. “Is that why you became a grief counselor?”
Christie’s head snapped up. “What? No. Maybe. It’s not something I really think about.”
“Oh,” he said, understanding more than she knew. Strange that she talked about cancer with strangers but when it came to herself, she stayed mum. He wondered if she shared her experience with her support group. Then again, her story didn’t have a happy ending—not the positive focus she wanted. Time to switch subjects.
“And your parents. Are they still