Page 73 of Marrying the Gardener
Kaleb’s grip on my shoulders hardens before slipping free. “I’m thinking of my child, Adelhilde. I want him to be healthy.”
“Him? Since when do we know the babe’s gender? She ain’t even showin’ yet.”
“I don’t need this disrespect in my own home.”
“Then I ’spose you don’t need dinner either,sir.”
Kaleb, mock furious, turns to me, opens his mouth, and—
Adelhilde snaps, “I know you ain’t about to stress an expecting mother with your nonsense.”
Growling—hotly—Kaleb throws up his hands. “I don’t have to deal with this. Enjoy dinner.” Then he marches from the room.
Like a toddler drama king.
In my brain, the curtains close, and he takes a bow. In reality, I just told Ava everything was totally fine, but now I have to have dinner all by myself. And—I hate to say it but—I like having Kaleb around. Even when he’s not being completely himself. Sometimes, the real him slips out into the nonsense, and it’s like seeing the sun cast a rainbow from the clouds.
I fully understand why people stay in abusive relationships if it is anything similar. You stick around, simply desperate to see a flickering of refracted light from the people you love.
I mean, heck…how many years of my childhood did I hold out, waiting for my father to show me even a scrap of something kind? Delusion and hope are lovers, and they have no shame being affectionate in public.
Adelhilde tuts, setting her frying pan down hard on the stove. “I do not like that man one infuriating bit.” She huffs, glances toward me, and bites her lip. “Sorry, Ms. Nightingale. He’s just… He ain’t near good enough for you.”
Wishing I had another pint of ice cream, I say, “He’s just hada bad day.”
“A bad day? Doing what? Lounging about? Forcing himself on you in the halls while you’ve been trying to work?”
Ava interjects, “Now, Adelhilde, if Mrs. Nightingale says her husband’s having a bad day, the graceful thing to do is accept that.”
Adelhilde clicks her tongue, turning her back on us as she faces the stove. “I jus’ hate to see the cycles repeatin’ is all.”
That makes me wince because this cycle absolutely isn’t repeating. When I’m free of my family, I can’t wait for them to meet the real Kaleb. I just hope they understand why I took precautions against including too many people in the scheme.
Rising from my seat, I dump my empty ice cream carton in the trash. “I’ll go make sure he’s okay…maybe see if I can change his mind about dinner.”
Adelhilde grunts, so I exit, heading toward the stairs. Once I reach the top, Kaleb’s low, gentle voice drifts toward me, “Easy…”
“P-please, sir,” Charlotte squeaks. “You can’t—”
“Upsy-daisy,” Kaleb murmurs as I turn the corner and find Charlotte in his arms.
My mouth drops open.
“M-M-Mrs. Nightingale.” Charlotte’s eyes water. “It’s not what it looks like!”
It’s not what it looks like? What does shemeanit’s not what it looks like!
“Charlotte, you’re bleeding,” I blurt, zeroing in on a gash slicing down the full length of her foot’s arch.
“Crimson, stay where you are,” Kaleb commands, tone immovable.
I clench my fist around the banister but adhere. “What happened?”
“I’m so sorry.” Charlotte whimpers, covering her face asKaleb turns, picking his way gingerly toward me. “I was changing a dead light bulb, and it slipped, and I didn’t see how it broke, and I stepped right on it.”
“Oh, Char,” I murmur.
“I’ll get blood everywhere. Please…”
