Chapter 4 #4
The sun was starting to set over the pretty gardens by the time the waiter came with a small bronze coffeepot with a long wooden handle, the dallah, that had always somehow reminded her of Aladdin’s lamp, and poured a fragrant brew.
The cups were without handles. Smiling, Nicole brought the warm cup to her nose and sniffed appreciatively.
The coffee had been brewed with cardamom and was dense, sugary, delicious.
It set off perfectly the tiny bite-sized pieces of baklava the waiter slipped on the table.
She loved the Lebanese version, made with rosewater syrup instead of honey.
The room was dramatically lit by the intense glow of the setting sun, turning everything golden; even Sam Reston’s dark, deeply-tanned skin turned bronze. Right at this moment, he looked almost sinfully attractive. And utterly beyond reach.
Sam put down his coffee cup, crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, face deadly serious. Deep grooves bracketed his strong mouth and his nostrils were white and pinched, as if from some strong emotion. “Now I have something to say to you.”
Nicole put down her cup, leaning a little forward, too. He’d done her the courtesy of listening carefully to what she had to say. Now she’d return the favor.
Whatever he had to say wouldn’t change the situation, but he deserved a hearing. Whatever it was he wanted to say wasn’t pleasant, though. His face had taken on such a grave cast.
“Here’s the deal. I never talk about my past. It’s no one’s goddamned business but my own. But I think there are a few things about me you need to understand. You know I talked about my brother Mike, and that though we don’t share any blood, we’re closer than most brothers?”
Nicole nodded. The cop. The cop who was going to be driving by and deterring Creepy and Creepier.
“There’s a third brother, Harry. He’s not in good shape right now.
He was blown up in Syria. He’s working with me.
I’m going to make him a partner as soon as he’s better.
Right now he’s barely on his feet. That’s the three of us.
The reason Harry and Mike and I are so tight is that we spent part of our growing-up years in the same foster home, run by a brutally cruel couple.
We had each other’s back, always, otherwise I don’t think we’d have survived.
We’ve been looking out for each other ever since. ”
He stared down at his clasped hands. They were clean, the nails short, but they looked like they’d been used a lot, and hard.
There were scars and nicks and calluses, the hands of a man who, though a businessman, didn’t shy from manual labor.
Completely unlike the hands of any other man she’d ever been out to dinner with.
Nicole couldn’t help herself. She reached out, one hand hovering over his clasped ones. She hesitated for just a second, then covered his hands with her own. She wanted him to feel the human connection. He’d known hard times, too.
His hands were warm, radiating heat and strength.
He spoke, looking at their joined hands.
“My mother abandoned me in a Dumpster. Just threw me away, like garbage.” He looked up at her shocked gasp, opened his hands and sandwiched her hand between his. A wry smile lifted his mouth. “It’s okay, honey. The story has a happy ending. Eventually. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are,” she murmured. He was here.
And how. Huge and strong and utterly unlike any other man she’d ever met.
She tried to suppress the sharp punch she’d felt when he called her “honey.” Stop that, she told herself sternly.
This wasn’t going anywhere. Getting her heart involved wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.
“Someone had seen her doing it and fished me out. They took me to the hospital immediately and I was put in an incubator stat. Apparently, I was about a month old and seriously underweight. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Nicole looked him over. Immensely broad and tall, with hard-packed dense muscles. It was impossible to connect him with an undernourished baby. This tragic story definitely had a happy ending.
“This woman—my mother—was a drunk and a prostitute. She was known in the area. I have no idea who my father was. I don’t think she did, either.
The police tracked her down and she was tried and convicted for attempted homicide and was sentenced to ten years in jail.
She served eight years, then was paroled.
She went looking for me at the orphanage, spouting nonsense about wanting to atone and start over.
” He rolled his eyes. “Some nutcase of a social worker believed her and they simply gave me to her. I was eight years old and I’d never seen the woman who claimed to be my mother before. ”
“Oh no,” Nicole breathed. The story might have a happy ending but it sounded like there was to be tragedy before they got there.
“Yeah.” His hands tightened on hers. “Her name was Darlene Reston. I can’t think of her as my mother, she was just this…
woman I had to live with for a few years.
She drank away the welfare checks and there were drugs going on, too.
One thing I do know is that she sure wasn’t buying food and milk and clothes with what the State sent her.
Once I got a bad ear infection that went untreated and I was left with a weakened eardrum.
I squeaked by the physical to get into the Navy but then a mortar round finished the eardrum off.
I was almost deaf in one ear, had to leave the Navy on a medical discharge.
I had an operation that restored some of my hearing.
But I can’t dive to any depth.” He shook his head. “Can’t be a SEAL if you can’t dive.”
Nicole had a flash of a young, skinny, vulnerable Sam, trapped in the care of a woman who drank away his food money, who wouldn’t get him medical care when he needed it.
“There were men around, too, lots of them.” Sam’s deep voice was low and dispassionate.
“Most of them were high and stayed high for days. They barely noticed me but when they did, I got the shit kicked out of me. For most of my childhood, I was badly undernourished and weak.” His mouth tightened.
“The kind of kid a bully loves to kick around. Makes them feel strong. When I was around twelve, a teacher finally noticed that something was deeply wrong. So the State took me out of Darlene’s care and put me in a foster home. ”
“Thank God.” Nicole blinked the tears back. The strong, successful man in front of her was light-years away from the small, abused boy and he wouldn’t want her tears. But her heart ached.
“Not really. The foster home wasn’t any better.
Old Man Hughes and his wife took in older, unadoptable kids because they got paid more.
The wife gave us watered-down canned soup and crackers bought in bulk, slapped us upside the head when the spirit took her, and locked herself in her room when her husband had his little spells of rage.
He could go beserk on a dime. Anything could set him off.
An unmade bed. Cracker crumbs on the table.
A look, even. We learned never to say anything, ever.
He hated a lot of things, but mostly he hated what he called ‘mouthy’ women and kids.
He was a big, mean son of a bitch and he loved using his fists on us. ”
There was a huge boulder on Nicole’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Her battle against her tears was a losing one. He reached out once more to dry a tear against her cheek.
How terrible life could be. She’d wept for her dying father and now she wept for a child who’d never known love, only neglect and violence. She met his impassive gaze. “Tell me something good happened. Please. Tell me they took you out of that foster home and put you in another one.”