silence or lies and broken promises. Three years of living with a man who barely noticed I was there. I won’t sit back and watch our little girl stare out the window waiting for you the way I used to. Or lie in bed worrying that you’d wrecked your car because you were too drunk to drive and too stubborn to admit it. Or spend the day alone, waiting for you to wake up because you’d been out all night.”
Fury rattled through him. “I’m sober now!”
“I see that. And I honestly hope it lasts. But even you can’t tell me with absolute certainty that it will. And since you can’t, I stand between you and Trisha. I protect her. She will not go through what I went through.”
Her voice wobbled, and the anger that had been pulsing through his brain, feeding his replies, stopped dead in its tracks. She wasn’t just mad at him. She was still hurting.
She rose and paced to his desk. “Do you know what it’s like to live with someone who tells you they love you but then doesn’t have ten minutes in a day for you?”
Max went stock-still. This was usually what happened when he apologized. The person he’d wronged had a grievance. It had been so long since he’d had one of these sessions that he’d forgotten. But when Kate turned, her green eyes wary, her voice soft, filled with repressed pain, remorse flooded him. She had a right to be angry.
“I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s painful, but most of all it’s bone-shatteringly lonely.”
Guilt tightened his stomach. He’d always known he’d hurt her, but he’d never been sober enough to hear the pain in her voice, see it shimmer in her eyes.
And she wanted to save Trisha from that. So did he. But the way he’d protect her would be to stay sober. “I won’t hurt her.”
“You know, you always told me the same thing. That you wouldn’t hurt me. But you did. Every day.” Her voice softened to a faint whisper. “Every damned day.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
“Right.”
Righteous indignation rose up in him. He hated his past as much as she hated his past. But this time she wasn’t innocent.
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I’d have gotten sober sooner if I’d known I was having a child? Did you ever stop to think that if you’d stayed, I might have turned around an entire year sooner?”
“No.” She caught his gaze. “You loved me, Max. I always knew it. But I wasn’t a good enough reason for you to get sober. I wasn’t taking a chance with our child.”
“You could have at least told me you were pregnant before you left.”
“And have you show up drunk at the hospital while I was struggling through labor? Or drunk on Christmas Day to ruin Trisha’s first holiday? Or maybe have you stagger into her dance recital so she could be embarrassed in front of her friends?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
The picture she painted shamed him. Things he’d done drunk now embarrassed him as much as they had his friends and family. And he suddenly understood. Making amends with Kate wouldn’t be as simple as saying he was sorry. He was going to have to prove himself to her.
He blew his breath out on a sigh, accepted it, because accepting who he was, who he had been, was part of his recovery. “So maybe it would be good for you to be around when I see her.”
Her reply was soft, solemn. “Maybe it would.”
“Can I come over tonight and meet her?”
“I was thinking tomorrow afternoon might be a better idea. I take my mom to the hospital every day, but lately Trisha’s been bored. So I thought I’d start bringing her home in the afternoon.”
“And I can come over?”
“Yes. Until my dad is released from the hospital, we’ll have some privacy.”
With that she turned and headed for the elevator. Prickling with guilt, he leaned back on the sofa. But when the elevator doors swished closed behind her, he thought about how different things might have been if she’d told him about her pregnancy, and his anger returned. She hadn’t given him a chance to try to sober up. She hadn’t even given him a chance to be a dad.
Still, could he blame her?
A tiny voice deep down inside him said yes. He could blame her. He might see her perspective, but he’d also had a right to know his child.
He rose from the sofa and headed for his desk again. That’s exactly what his father had told him the night he’d confronted him about being his adopted brother Chance’s biological father. About bringing his illegitimate son into their home with a lie. A sham. An adoption used to cover an affair.
I had a right to know my child.
He ran his hand across his forehead as nerves and more anger surged through him. He hadn’t thought about that part of his life in years. His brother had run away the night Max had confronted their dad. Which was part of why Max drank. At AA he’d learned to put those troubles behind him, but now, suddenly, here he was again, wondering. Missing his brother with a great ache that gnawed at his belly. Because Kate was home and Kate was part of that time in his life.
Losing Chance might have been the event that pushed him over the edge with his alcoholism, but he wasn’t that guy anymore. He hadn’t been for seven long years. He only hoped seeing Kate, fighting with Kate, meeting a daughter he hadn’t known he had, didn’t tempt that guy out of hiding.
He grabbed his cell phone from his desk and hit the speed-dial number for his sponsor.
CHAPTER TWO
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Max left the office at noon and raced home to put on jeans and a T-shirt. Something more comfortable, more casual, than a black suit and white shirt, so he didn’t intimidate his daughter. Or Kate.
Like it or not, he had things to make up to her. His sponsor, Joe Zubek, had reminded him of that. He had to take responsibility for everything he’d done while drunk, and he’d hurt Kate—mistreated her enough that she didn’t want their daughter to suffer the same fate.
He had to take responsibility.
He chose the Range Rover over the Mercedes and drove past the expensive houses and estates in the lush part of the city in which he lived. Once off the hill, he headed across the bridge, through Pine Ward’s business district to the blue-collar section of town where little Cape Cods mixed and mingled with older two-story homes and a few newer ranch houses.
He made three turns to get to Elm Street and there it was. The redbrick, two-story house he’d loved. Not just because Kate had lived there, but because it had a wide front porch and a swing.
He stopped his vehicle and simply stared at the porch, the swing. He couldn’t count the number of times he and Kate had made out on that swing.
His eyes drifted shut at the memory. She’d been eighteen to his twenty-four. Not necessarily a huge age difference but Kate had been sheltered. So he’d had to go slow with her, be cautious. But when they’d finally made love—in
