The Family Man. Irene Hannon
Ethan found his voice. “No, thanks. This looks good, Betty.”
“Just give me or one of the girls a wave if you need something. Eat up.”
As Amy stared down at her plate of toast, she doubted whether she’d be able to choke down more than a few bites after listening to Bryan’s sad story. Maybe the cinnamon sugar would help. But as for turning the toast into comfort food…not today. It would take more than that homey recipe to ease the ache in her heart that Bryan’s story had produced.
He stirred beside her, and she heard the clink of cutlery against crockery as he forked a bite of egg. Ethan, bless him, had shifted the conversation to an innocuous discussion of fishing conditions on the Cumberland River, and Bryan was responding. Amy let them chat, keeping her attention focused on her plate. She didn’t want to look at Bryan. Not yet. Not until she worked through the emotions his story had stirred up. Not until she felt enough in control that she could risk letting him look into her eyes without worrying that he’d see right into her heart and know that she still cared for him. That his pain had touched her far more than it could have if she’d truly moved on with her life, as she’d told him she had in the staff meeting.
At least everyone ate fast. Ethan cleaned his plate, and Bryan put a good dent in his scrambled eggs. Amy tore her toast into little pieces and clumped them in a pile, hoping no one would notice that most of it remained uneaten. However, as she slid from the booth, followed by Bryan, he gave her plate a quick scrutiny. When he stood beside her, his face just inches from hers, his green eyes were questioning, probing.
Feeling somehow exposed, Amy checked her watch. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you two back at the office. Just put this on my tab,” she instructed Betty, who was passing by.
“Sure thing, hon,” the owner called over her shoulder.
Then, without a backward glance at the two men, Amy headed for the exit. And tried not to run.
Leaning back in her office chair, Amy rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. Since breakfast two hours before, in between phone calls from the printer and an impromptu—and disruptive—visit from Typhoon Tim, she’d managed to find out an awful lot about preeclampsia by surfing the Net. And none of it was pretty. The disease could cause headaches, visual disturbances, high blood pressure, confusion, impaired liver function, seizures, kidney failure, coma—and death. And that was just in the mother. The baby could suffer slower-than-normal growth, oxygen deficiency, low birth weight, premature birth—and death. According to everything Amy had read, dilemmas arose when early delivery would solve the mother’s problems but put the baby at risk of the effects of extreme prematurity.
Bryan’s passing reference about his and Darlene’s timing being off led Amy to believe they’d faced that very dilemma. As it was, Dylan had been born two months early—borderline for many problems, according to the Internet. But he didn’t seem to suffer from any lasting effects. Except maybe the glasses. It seemed that premature children were at higher risk for eye complications. She leaned forward to read a bit more on that subject. She’d had no idea that preemies could…
“Can I interrupt for a minute?”
At the sound of Bryan’s voice, Amy spun toward the door, a guilty flush suffusing her face.
“Sorry to startle you. I didn’t realize you were that deep in concentration.” His focus shifted to the screen behind her, and she tried to remember if the type had been large or small. In either case, she was sure he couldn’t read it from the doorway. Could he?
Steeling herself, she swiveled her chair just enough to reach her keyboard. In the second before she closed her Internet connection, she saw that the headline on her screen, “Long-term Effects of Premature Birth,” was more than big enough to be read from across the room. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and caught her lower lip in her teeth. She couldn’t keep her back to him forever. She might as well turn and face the music. Praying he’d let it pass, she clicked out of the screen, then eased her chair around.
“No problem. I was just doing some research. What can I do for you?” She congratulated herself for sounding far calmer than she felt.
Instead of responding at once, he folded his arms and propped a shoulder against her doorway, as if debating his next move. When he spoke at last, her heart sank. “If you wanted to know anything about Dylan, you could have just asked.”
Amy was used to being in control. At the magazine, at home, in her life. At least, as much as God let her be. Her self-confidence was solid, and it took a lot to fluster her. But Bryan had been doing it with almost no effort ever since his return. His mere presence was enough to throw her off balance, let alone his straightforward, cut-to-the-chase manner. She should have remembered how direct he could be when she’d agreed to hire him. At one time she’d admired that trait. Had liked his honesty, his willingness to address problems without game playing. Not anymore. Not when it put her on the hot seat.
His regard was steady as he waited for her response, and Amy forced herself to maintain eye contact as she spoke. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask for more information about such a personal subject. But I found Dylan charming, and after your comments this morning I wondered how rough his early start might have been for him.” And for you. She left the latter unvoiced, however.
Again, a couple of beats of silence ensued. She wasn’t sure he was even going to reply. But he did. “Pretty rough.” He studied her, as if considering how to proceed. Then he inclined his head toward the door. “Do you mind if I close this?”
She shook her head, and he pushed himself away from the frame, then eased the door shut. Before she could suggest that he sit down, he strolled over to stare out of her window. It offered a scenic view of the Cumberland River, which ran through the middle of town a few blocks away. The strong midday light highlighted the faint lines around his eyes, the slight horizontal creases in his forehead, the hard line of lips that had once been supple and soft. He had changed in so many ways, Amy thought with a pang. He’d been tested by fire, and while he’d survived, he’d paid a price. Bryan had always been serious, but he’d known how to laugh, too. The flashes of spontaneous joy in his sparkling eyes, his dry wit, his ability to make lemonade out of lemons—and do it with a smile—had always appealed to her. Looking at him now, Amy suspected that joy and laughter had been absent from his life for some time. Only around Dylan did she catch a glimpse of the man he had once been. Bryan might still be doing his best to make lemonade, but the flavor of the ingredients seemed to have left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He turned to her then, and his question caught her off guard. “Why did you hire me, Amy?”
Trying to steady her fluttering pulse, she told him what she’d told herself. “You were the best qualified person for the job. Heather recommended you. I couldn’t find any grounds to object.”
“But you don’t want me here.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’m picking up…unsettling…vibes.”
“Maybe it’s your imagination.”
“I don’t think so.” He walked over and put his hands flat on her desk, leaning toward her, his face just inches from hers. “Look, let me just lay this on the line, okay? I know you don’t want me around. I got that message a long time ago.” His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile, there and gone in a flash. “Frankly, I don’t want to be here, either. In fact, I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for Dylan. But I need this job, Amy. At least until something else comes along. In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible. I promise you that I’ll put our personal history and differences aside and give the magazine a hundred and ten percent.
“Now, as for what you were looking at on the Net. That’s why I need this job. After what I’ve been through these past six years, I know the value of insurance, and I can’t afford COBRA long-term. When Dylan was born, he spent eight weeks in neonatal intensive care. Even