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tipping her chin up, her face to the sun.
Before I moved here, before I met Matt, I had Anne. I wasn t married. I didn t care. It
happened, and I had the baby. I never would have not had the baby, but once Anne was born I
was ... I wasn t the same. I was a mom, she said with a sad smile. It makes a difference.
Caleb was silent. The weight became an ache, taking his breath away.
She died ... away from me. Beyond my care. The young man who fathered her one day
decided he wanted to share custody. I hadn t looked for anything from him, but he decided to
grow up, I guess, to take responsibility, financially and physically. While she was with him, his
car was struck by another that had run a red light. They were both killed.
He watched as a fall of tears washed down her cheeks. Lifting her bodily from the chair,
he sat in her stead, settling her onto his lap and pulling her head down against his chest. Beneath
their combined weight the wood of the chair creaked in protest. The breeze from the window ran
across the hair on his arms and through the locks beneath his stroking hand.
I m so sorry, he said. He felt her loss so keenly that he wondered if he might have
children of his own, children he couldn t remember, children who might be missing their father.
He buried his jaw, the curve of his cheek, into her hair, breathing deeply of its recently washed
fragrance.
I m sometimes certain that s why he left me, she said softly. Not the sea, not the
myriad other small things I recognized and he recognized, but the dark grief I carried around
with me and the fact that I wouldn t ... wouldn t give him a child. I didn t mean to hold that
back from him. I was just too scared, too afraid of the possibility of that loss again. You can t
keep a child protected all the time, I know that you can t, but I don t know what to do with that
fear.
He felt her swallow beneath the light grasp of his fingers along her throat, holding her
close. When did he leave?
Three years ago, she said. I came home to a house devoid of all but those few clothes
of Matt s that had been waiting to be washed and which you ve been wearing, she said with a
small, bitter laugh. All of his personal belongings were gone. The funds in our checking
account, too. The cash I kept hidden away for a rainy day was all I had left. There was a hastily
scrawled note on the kitchen table with an address to send anything else I might come across, but
without explanation.
None? He never said it had to do with your not wanting children?
I had to leave you was all the note said.
I had to leave you.
A small chill crept from the middle of his spine to the nape of his neck. I had to leave
you. Those words were eerily familiar, haunting, making him cringe.
Meg went on. Even now, I remember Matt s voice repeating that phrase a long time
later as clearly as if he were speaking in my head this minute. It was the last time I spoke to him.
The very last time. Why didn t I ask him the reason? Why didn t I make him put it into words?
Why didn t I just tell him I was sorry? For that, at least. Only for that.
Caleb held her tighter. He propped his chin on her head, turning to stare out the window.
A glint of sun drew his gaze toward the deep shadow beneath the stand of ravaged pines. A car
was parked there. He could just make out the sheen of the windshield, the curve of headlights.
DARK TIDES Celia Ashley 49
Looking at it, he felt a frown form on his lips, felt a surge of unexplained displeasure, and then
he pivoted away. Lifting his head, he pressed his mouth to Meg s crown.
It ll be alright, he said. You re strong, you ve been strong.
She nodded against him. And you re good for me, Caleb Hunter, no matter who or what
the heck you are.
He felt her laugh, a warm, silent burst of amusement. The crisis had passed. She was
back in the light again. He could not help thinking briefly of the painting of the sea, of the dark
tides in violet-hued depiction. Covered now by a cloth, that painting had nothing to do with her
lost child. Nothing. She exorcized those demons regularly with light and lovely portrayals of
her daughter in the guise of fictional characters. The threatening sea on canvas was another
matter entirely.
Come on, he said, stroking the lingering dampness from her cheeks, clean up in here
and I ll make us some breakfast.
You will?
Sure. Nothing wrong with my short-term memory. You showed me how, remember?
I ll even do the dishes.
She laughed out loud then and he smiled, his heart hurting in his chest. He needed this
from her. Needed her laughter, her joy, her trust, her ... forgiveness.
For what? He didn t understand.
DARK TIDES Celia Ashley 50
Chapter Eleven
For the love of God, I m fine! Get a doctor in here to sign me out, will you?
The nurse eyed him over the frame of her glasses as she made a notation in his chart. I
think not. Just keep your pants on. The doctor will be back to see you as soon as he s
available.
Considering I m not wearing any pants, that s a pretty useless suggestion, Dan Stauffer
muttered, throwing himself back on the emergency room bed. Folding his arms across his chest,
he glowered at the nurse, but failed to intimidate her. Once she had completed her task she
exited around the hanging curtain, and not one second sooner.
Glancing about, he spotted the fellow in the next cubicle grinning at him through the
Plexiglas divider, his hand lifted in the thumbs up sign. Scowling, Dan laid his head back and
closed his eyes.
Truth was, he wasn t fine, not for the love of God or anyone else. But he wasn t about to
let anyone know it. All the tests run had been negative, proving there wasn t anything physically
wrong. He had known that. Unfortunately, when he d first managed to call for an ambulance,
specifying no sirens and no lights and he was grateful they d abided by that, recognized the
authority behind the request, because he sure as hell hadn t wanted Meg to be attracted to the
little scene he d been pretty sure he was about to die. It had taken a good two hours for him to
realize not only that he wasn t going to die, but that what had happened to him was not
something he could ever explain to anyone who might conceivably develop the notion of
committing him for a mental health evaluation.
No, he wasn t fine at all, but there wasn t a doctor in this hospital capable of assisting
him. He could imagine the result once skepticism gave way to a certainty that he d suffered a
breakdown. Couldn t have that blot on his record. And he hadn t suffered any breakdown, nor
hallucinated, nor fabricated in a moment of stress the whole incident. It had happened. He knew
it had happened, and for the first time in his life he gave real credence to the tales one
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