His Touch. Mary Baxter Lynn
chance to make things right between us.”
Elliot’s eyes flared. “Why?”
“Because you’re my son.” And because I love you. But for some reason those words stuck in Brant’s throat. “I want us to get to know one another. I want to find out what you’re up to, where you plan to go to school.” He broke off. “Stuff like that.”
Elliot’s mouth took a bitter turn. “Don’t you think it’s a little late?”
Brant ignored his sarcasm and kept his voice calm. “No, I don’t.”
“You never cared before.”
“I always cared, Elliot,” he said with patience. “It’s just that—” Brant broke off, refusing to make any more excuses for the way he’d treated his son.
“Look, you’re right on target with your contempt of me. I’ll admit that. And I know saying I’m sorry won’t do the trick. Instead, I want to show you.” He paused, trying to gauge Elliot’s reaction, only he couldn’t. His features were as blank as a stone wall. “So what do you say?” Brant pressed. “You have any free time?”
“I’ll call you,” Elliot said, pawing at the ground with the toe of his left running shoe.
That wasn’t the answer Brant wanted, so his initial response was to say no, to set a time and place right then. Beg, if necessary. But he held his tongue. If he pushed, he sensed Elliot would push back. Get further away. At least Elliot hadn’t told him to get lost. And while that was a mere crumb, he was grateful for it.
“Calling me will work,” Brant said at last, blowing out his pent-up breath. “That’ll work just fine.”
Elliot nodded, shoving both hands down in the pockets of his jeans and not responding.
“You have my cell number, right?” Brant asked. He felt foolish, but he was loathe to end the conversation. Just being near his son gave him a new lease on life.
“Elliot?”
Brant froze. Marsha. He hadn’t even known she was home, but then, he hadn’t cared. When he’d darted up the driveway, he’d had tunnel vision. Everything else had fled his mind. Now, looking up and seeing his ex-wife standing outside the front door brought reality home with a bitter jolt.
She hadn’t changed much in the years since their divorce, except that her hair was more frosted, probably to cover up the fact that she was getting older and grayer. Perhaps she’d put on a bit more weight as well. Yet she was still attractive in an ordinary sort of way. She was short and curvy, with a reserved manner.
Her main goal in life had been to marry and have a home and children. She had resented his job from the get-go, mainly because he’d been away from home so much. Back then, he’d blamed her for that, throwing it back in her face how much she liked to spend the money he made.
So many mistakes. But losing her was not one of them, except that it had affected Elliot and their relationship. Still, he didn’t have anyone to blame for that but himself, certainly not Marsha, although she had done everything in her power to keep that wedge between them.
His downfall had been letting her get away with it. No longer. He was ready to fight.
“Hello, Marsha,” he said into the growing, hostile silence.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes pinging from him to Elliot, concern knitting her brows.
Elliot, in turn, kept looking down, as though he wished he were anywhere but there or that he could simply disappear. Brant didn’t blame him. His son had been caught in the middle his entire life.
That was also about to stop.
“I came to see Elliot.” Since you obviously haven’t bothered to give him my messages. Like so many other words, they remained unspoken.
“I can see that,” she retorted.
“We’re planning a time to get together for dinner.”
“I didn’t say that,” Elliot countered with defiance in his tone.
Brant clamped down on his emotions. “Well, I’m hopeful that will be the case.”
“Elliot, come on inside,” Marsha said. “I’m sure you have some homework.”
For a minute his son looked as if he wanted to argue, which was another crumb Brant snatched. But then Elliot muttered something under his breath, strode up the steps and slammed the door behind him.
“Thanks, Marsha. I really appreciate that.”
“No one gave you permission to come here.”
“Dammit, I don’t need permission to see my son, certainly not from you.”
“Ah, so now you’ve decided to become the model parent,” she spat, her tone as nasty as her features.
“That’s right. I made that promise to myself. I also promised I wasn’t going to have a verbal slinging match with you about Elliot.”
“What about Elliot?” she flared back.
“What about him?”
“He has no say-so in this. Right now, he’s a happy, normal young man who has a father. And it’s not you.” Marsha paused, as though giving him time to digest that thought. “It’s Preston. He’s taken your place in Elliot’s life.”
Those harsh words cut like she’d taken a knife and slashed his heart to pieces. Yet Brant never so much as flinched. “No matter what has happened in the past, Elliot is my son. And no matter how much you wish that weren’t true, it is.”
“I’ll continue to fight you.”
“That’s your prerogative. But I’m not giving up unless it comes from Elliot. You can hate me all you want, but I’m asking you not to let your hate spill over to our son.”
“Stay away from here, Brant.”
“For god’s sake, Marsha, you’re being unreasonable. Why not let Elliot make some choices on his own? He’s certainly old enough.”
“Because I don’t trust you not to hurt him again,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “He’s suffered enough at your hands.”
“I swear to you, that won’t happen,” Brant said in a soft tone. “And while I might have done some unpardonable things in your eyes, I’ve never lied to you.”
“Somehow I take little comfort in that.”
“Can’t we just please reach a truce, for Elliot’s sake?”
“I’m making no promises, Brant, either way. I’ll talk to Preston.”
Brant clamped down on his lip so hard to stop his retort that he tasted blood. “You do that, but it’s not going to change things. Meanwhile, leave the boy alone. Use me as a whipping boy all you want, but don’t stand Elliot beside me. He deserves better.”
“And you can go to hell.”
“Thank you very much, but I’ve been there for some years now.”
For once Marsha didn’t seem to have a comeback. Instead, she let out a deep sigh, then said bitterly, “I doubt I’ll have much to say about it, anyway. As much as I hate to admit it, Elliot’s as stubborn as you when he makes up his mind.”
“Then let him make it up.” Brant stopped short of pleading.
“I told you, I’m making no promises.” With that she turned and flounced back into the house.
Brant remained rooted to the spot, feeling much like he had the day he’d gotten shot in the gut. Numb all over. That was when he noticed Elliot standing at the window, peering out, his face pinched in sadness.
Pain,