Seconds ticked by without any movement inside. Maybe he wasn’t home. Maybe she had the wrong address. Or maybe God was giving her a grace period.
Grace? God may have forgiven her, but she still had to pay for her sins.
Stephanie rapped louder and turned to view the property. She half expected a deer to leap onto the lawn, moist from an autumn drizzle. Crimson leaves fluttered down from a tall maple, and the cobalt blue of Michigan’s Lake Endwell peeked through in the distance. The lake threatened to unleash memories, ones she couldn’t afford to think about right now.
A lone figure jogged down the country road. He rounded the drive, and her muscles tensed.
Tom.
Did he still hate her?
If he didn’t, he soon would.
Drawing closer, he slowed to a walk. Shock flashed in those sink-into-them blue eyes, eyes that once lured her. Tousled dark brown hair softened his cheekbones. His straight nose pointed to a determined chin. He looked more athletic, more rugged than she remembered. Why couldn’t he have aged badly? And why did seeing him again make her feel as though she’d downed a warm cup of tea?
Stephanie leaned against the peeling porch rail and winced as pain shot up her rib cage. Now that he’d appeared, she had no idea what to say. Everything she’d rehearsed during the thirty-minute drive jumbled in her brain.
“What happened?” Tom closed the distance between them, reaching to touch her bruised cheek, but he snatched his hand back before making contact. His unexpected tenderness almost undid her. She chased away the sudden yearning for his touch.
“It’s nothing. I was in an accident yesterday. My car was totaled, but I’m fine. Bruised ribs. A few scratches.”
“Why are you here?” The tenderness was snuffed out like the candles she lit to chase away smells in her apartment.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Inside maybe?”
“Why?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest.
Because I’m about to shatter your world, and even strong Tom Sheffield will need a seat for this.
She gestured to the door.
He stood taller, legs shoulder width apart, intimidating in his gray sweatshirt and black shorts. The old Stephanie would have let him call the shots. But the old Stephanie had been a girl, not a woman in control of her life.
“It’s important.” A breeze played with the hair around her neck. She brushed it aside.
Finally he nodded, opening the faded red door. The living room, while tidy, lacked color. The only pictures were of some stadium and what appeared to be an autographed photo of a baseball team. A dark leather couch, love seat, matching chair and a huge television filled the room. No cozy aromas like vanilla or cinnamon lurked in the air.
She sat on the couch as he lowered his body into the chair. She’d mentally rehearsed this moment a million times. Gotten in her car to confess at least twice a week. Picked up the phone to tell him, to explain. And now she was here and her vocal chords went on strike.
“So?” He opened his hands, giving her a pointed look. Stephanie couldn’t tell if his gruff manner was real or an act, but it didn’t matter.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she said. “I’ve wanted to. I’ve tried. But the accident yesterday—well, it got me here when nothing else would.” The rest of her speech stuck in her throat. His clenched jaw didn’t ease her nerves.
“Well, could you move things along?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “I’ve got another hour of training to get in.”
“Training?” The Tom she’d known had been driven by work. By success. He’d rarely spent time exercising or, for that matter, on anything outside his car dealership. He’d preferred his job to her.
“Look, I don’t have time for chitchat. If you have something to say, say it.” He shot to his feet, but he seemed more uncomfortable than angry.
“There’s no good way to do this, so I’m going to be blunt.” Say it. Do it. Get it over with. “You have a daughter.”
His mouth dropped open. He shut it. Opened it again.
Stephanie’s legs instinctively prepared to run, but she didn’t move. The expressions crumpling his face hit her harder than tears ever could. The man’s world had just imploded, and she’d launched the bomb. What could she possibly say? Sorry?
Sorry wasn’t good enough, and neither was she.
His chest expanded. Cheekbones strained against skin, and the vulnerability, the pain she’d witnessed, vanished, replaced by something cold, something that would have broken her before she became a believer. She girded herself.
“What kind of joke is this?” His tone was lethal, the words quiet.
“It’s not a joke.”
Tom stared at her as if she’d grown two horns and a tail. Maybe she had.
“A daughter?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.”
His face drained of its healthy glow, replaced by a tinge of avocado green. “What’s her name?”
She hesitated, not expecting the question. What had she expected? Him to order her to get out? Absolutely. A slew of angry accusations? Yes. But the name? “Macy.”
“Macy,” he murmured. His glare was penetrating before confusion clouded it. “How? When?”
“She’s four. She’ll be five on April 20.”
He paced, growing six inches taller, everything about him bigger, restless. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She’d tried to justify not telling him—oh, how she’d tried—but only one of her reasons held up. Why would he care she’d stupidly thought she’d hurt him enough? That she’d feared he’d want to stay together for the baby’s sake? That she couldn’t, wouldn’t put him through a lifetime of being married to her?
“Remember the last thing you said to me?” Stephanie said softly. A flash of recognition crossed his face. She rose, setting her hand on the back of the couch to steady herself. “You said, ‘At least we didn’t have kids.’”
“I said a lot of stupid things that night. You should have told me you were pregnant.”
“I didn’t know I was pregnant then, and you served me with divorce papers the next week.” Stephanie trailed her finger over the leather. “But you’re right. I should have told you as soon as I found out. I was scared. Ashamed. I’d messed up our marriage. And I didn’t want to trap you into staying with me.”
If she could go back, be the person she was now instead of the insecure girl who married him... But she couldn’t. And it didn’t excuse him, either. His constant hours away had made it clear his job was number one. Macy deserved better than to be ignored.
“Not good enough.” The clipped words proved how much this was costing him. “Not when we’re talking about another life.”
“I know.” She tamped down the words battling to come out. His pale eyes held her captive, dared her to tell him the truth. What was the truth? “I told myself you’d moved on, so why disrupt your life? For all I knew, you could have gotten remarried, started your own family. You’d resent me barging into your world. But I know I was selfish.” Standing in front of him now, she could see how selfish she was.
“You’re telling me I have a daughter. A daughter.” He thrust his hand through his dark hair, his face haunted.