Key Of Valor

Chapter Eleven

He had to work at being calm, to strap himself down so he didn't march into Zoe's house and start spewing orders. That, Brad knew, was his father's way.

And it was damned effective.

Still, as much as he loved and admired his father, he didn't want to be his father.

All he really wanted at that moment was to assure himself that Zoe was all right. Then to make sure she stayed that way.

And there was Simon to think of, Brad reminded himself as he pulled up in front of Zoe's house. He couldn't go shoving his way in, spouting off about how reckless she'd been in running off on her own, putting herself in the crosshairs, with the boy around. He wasn't going to frighten a child while venting his own fears and frustrations.

He would just wait until Simon was in bed, then vent.

An instant before he knocked, barking exploded inside the house. One thing you could say for Moe, nobody snuck up on you when he was around. He could hear the boy's shouts, his laughter, then the door swung open.

"You should ask who it is first," Brad told him.

Simon rolled his eyes even as Moe leaped up to greet Brad. "I looked out the window and saw your car. I know all that stuff. I'm playing baseball, bottom of the seventh." He grabbed Brad's hand and pulled him toward the living room. "You can take over the other team. You're only two runs down."

"Sure, bring me in when I'm two down. Listen, I need to talk to your mom."

"She's up in her room, sewing something. Come on, I've only got a few minutes before she calls the game and sends me to the showers."

The kid was a gem, Brad reflected, with eyes that made you want to give him the world. "I really have to talk to your mother, so why don't we schedule a game for later in the week? Head to head, pal, and I will rock your world."

"As if." He might have thought about arguing, but gauged his ground. If Brad kept his mother talking, she might forget when his hour was up. "A whole nine innings? You promise?"

"Absolutely."

His smile went sly. "Can we play at your house, on the big TV?"

"I'll see what I can do."

With the crowd in the video bleachers cheering again, Brad started toward Zoe's room. He heard the music before he reached the doorway. She had it on low, and he could just catch her voice as she murmured more than sang along with Sarah McLachlan. Then the voices were drowned out by the hammering hum he recognized as a sewing machine.

She was working with a portable set up on a table in front of the side window. The framed photographs and painted chest he remembered she kept on it were moved to her dresser now to make room for the machine and what looked like miles of fabric.

It was an essentially female room—very Zoe-esque. Not fussy, not fancy, but very feminine in its little touches. Bowls filled with potpourri, pillows edged with lace, the old iron bed given a luster with pewter paint and a colorful quilt.

She'd framed old magazine ads for face powder, perfume, hair products, and fashion and had them grouped on the wall in a kind of quirky, nostalgic gallery.

She sewed, he noted, like someone who knew what she was doing, in a steady, competent rhythm while her foot— clad in a thick gray sock, tapped to the music that jingled out of the clock radio by the bed.

He waited until she'd stopped the machine and begun to rearrange the material.

"Zoe?"

"Hmm?" She shifted in the chair and gave him the blank look of a woman whose mind was considerably occupied. "Oh. Bradley, I didn't know you were here. I didn't hear you…" She glanced at the clock. "I was trying to get these slipcovers finished before it's time to get Simon ready for bed. I guess I'm not going to make it."

"Slipcovers?" His train of thought took a detour. "You're making slipcovers?"

"People do." Irritation sizzled under the tone as she tugged the material. "I'm covering a sofa for the salon. I wanted something friendly and fun, and I think these big hydrangeas do the trick. Color works, too. And there's nothing wrong with homemade."

"That's not what I meant. I'm just amazed that I know somebody who would have a clue how to sew something like this."

Her back went up. She knew it was stupid, but it went up anyway. "I imagine most of the women you know have seamstresses, so they don't have to know one side of a sewing machine from another."

He walked over to lift a length of the fabric, and studied her speculatively. "If you're going to be determined to misinterpret everything I say, we're going to fight about something entirely different from what I came over to fight about."

"I don't have time to fight with you about anything. I need to get this done while I have the chance."

"You'll have to make time. I've got—" He broke off, scowled over at the clock radio as the alarm went off.

"I can't make what I don't have," she shot back and rose to turn off the alarm. "That's set so I know when it's time to get Simon up here for his bath. That process takes the best part of half an hour, if he cooperates. And it's Monday, and we read together for half an hour before bed on Mondays. After that, I've got at least another hour of sewing, then—"

"I get the picture." Just, he thought as he put his hands in his pockets, as he knew when a woman was determined to brush him off. "I'll handle Simon's bath and the reading."

"You'll… what?"

"I can't sew, but I know how to bathe and how to read."

She was so baffled she couldn't make her way around the words and into a sentence. "But it's not—you're not…" She paused, did her best to pull her thoughts together. "You didn't come over here to take care of Simon."

"No, I came over to yell at you—which you already know, which is why you're annoyed. But I can yell later. I imagine Simon's got the bath-and-bed routine down. We'll do fine. Finish your slipcovers," he said as he started out of the room. "We'll fight when we're both done."

"I don't—"

But he was gone, and already calling for her son.

It was pretty tough to stick to an offense with a man who figured her out that neatly. But still. She started to go after him, then stopped herself. Simon was already launching into his "five more minutes" plea.

Her lips quirked in a very smug mother's smile. Why not just let Bradley get a taste of the nighttime ritual of convincing a nine-year-old he needed to wash and go to bed? Odds were the man would throw up his hands in defeat long before it was done. Which meant he would be too frazzled to worry about arguing with her—or lecturing her about going off on her own that morning.

Which she'd had a right to do, she reminded herself. More, she'd had an obligation. But she just didn't have the time or inclination to get into all that tonight.

So, Simon would wear him out, he'd go on home, and she'd have a quiet evening to finish her work and plan her strategy for the next few days.

Plus, she decided as she walked back to the sewing machine, she might just get the slipcovers knocked out.

She listened to their voices, the odd harmony of man and boy, then set up for the next running seam. One of them would shout for her when they hit impasse.

She heard laughter—maniacal on Simon's part, and smirked. Figuring her time was going to be very limited, she concentrated on the task at hand.

She lost track of time, and didn't surface until she realized just how quiet her house had become. No raised voices, no barking dog.

Concerned, she pushed away from the machine and hurried to the bathroom across the hall. It appeared that a very wild, very wet war had been waged. Towels were sopping up some of the water on the floor, and there was a skim of froth in the tub, telling her Simon had opted for bubbles along with the convoy of plastic vehicles and army of plastic men scattered in the tub.

Bradley's suit jacket hung on the hook on the back of the door. Absently, she took it off, smoothing the bump the hook had put in the collar.

Armani, she noted when she glanced at the label. That was surely a first. Italian designs didn't generally hang on her bathroom hook.

Carrying it with her, she walked toward Simon's room. She could hear him reading—his voice taking on that weight it did when he was sleepy.

Careful to be quiet, she peeked in the door. Then simply stood, staring, with the suit jacket clutched to her heart.

Her son was in bed, on the top bunk. He wore his Harry Potter pajamas, and his hair was shiny from its shampooing.

Moe was stretched out on the bottom bunk, his head on the pillow, and already snoring.

And the man whose jacket she held was up in the bunk with her boy, his back braced against the wall, his eyes— like Simon's—on the book.

Simon was nuzzled up against him, his head resting on Brad's shoulder while he read Captain Underpants out loud.

Her heart simply fell. She didn't try to stop it, wasn't capable of launching any sort of defense. In that single moment, she loved both of them with everything she had.

Whatever happened tomorrow, she would always have this picture of them in her mind. And so, she knew, would Simon. For that single moment, she owed Bradley Vane more than she could ever pay.

Not wanting to disturb them, she eased back and slipped quietly down to the kitchen.

She put on coffee, got cookies out of the jar. If he was going to yell at her, they might as well be civilized about it. When they were finished, and she was alone, she would try to think clearly once more. She would try to figure out what loving Bradley meant.

Because she was listening for him, she heard him come down the little hall. She reached for the pot to keep her hands busy, and was pouring the coffee when he came in.

"He give you much trouble?"

"Not especially. You finish the sewing?"

"Close enough." She turned to offer him the mug, and her heart bobbled again. He was barefoot, with the sleeves of his beautiful blue shirt rolled to his elbows. The cuffs of his pants were damp.

"I know you're angry with me, and I guess you think you've got some reasons to be. I was going to be angry back, and say all these things about running my own life and doing what I promised to do."

She ran her hand over the shoulders of the jacket, which she'd draped on the back of a chair. "Since I've been thinking about it for a while, I had some pretty good stuff to say. But I just don't feel like saying it now. So I wish you weren't angry."

"I wish I wasn't either." He glanced at the table. "So, are we going to sit down and argue over coffee and cookies?"

"I don't think I can argue with you, Bradley, not after you put my boy to bed that way." Emotion swamped her. "But I'll listen while you yell at me."

"You sure know how to punch the stuffing out of a good fight." He sat, waited for her to sit across from him. "Let me see your arms."

Saying nothing, she pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt to reveal the cuts and scratches. When the silence dragged out, she tugged them down again.

"It was just briars, that's all," she said quickly. "I've had worse from gardening in my own yard."

She stopped, struck to silence by the cold glint in his eyes when they shifted to her face. "It could have been worse. A hell of a lot worse. You were alone, for Christ's sake. What possessed you to go driving off to West Virginia and tromping around the woods by yourself?"

"I grew up there, Bradley. I grew up in those woods. It's not wilderness once you cross the Pennsylvania border." To give herself something to do, she lit the three-wick candle she'd made for the kitchen table, one that smelled of blueberries. "My mother lives there in the trailer court beside those woods. Simon was very likely conceived in those woods."

"You want to go visit your mother or your childhood stomping grounds, that's fine. But these are not normal circumstances. You didn't say a thing to me about going there this morning."

"I know I didn't. If I had, you'd have wanted to go with me, and I didn't want you to. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I wanted to go on my own. I needed to."

He swallowed the resentment, though it scorched his throat. "You didn't let Dana or Malory know where you would be either. You took off without telling anyone, and you were attacked."

"It didn't occur to me to tell anyone. That makes you mad," she said with a nod. "You'll just have to be mad, then. I made an agreement. I gave my word, and I'm trying to do what I promised to do, and you can't sit there and tell me you wouldn't do the same. Going back there this morning was part of that. I think I was supposed to go. I think I needed to."

"Alone?"

"Yes. I've got some pride and some shame along with the rest of it. I'm entitled to what I feel, Bradley. Do you think I wanted to take you along, in your Armani suit, to that broken-down trailer?"

"That's not fair, Zoe."

"No, it's not fair, but it's the truth. My mama already thinks I've got airs or something. If I'd gone in there with you… Well, just look at you."

She waved a hand and nearly laughed at the exasperation on his face. "You got rich boy all over you, Bradley, in or out of that Italian jacket."

"For Christ's sake," was all he could think to say.

"You can't help it, and why should you? Besides, it suits you. It wouldn't have suited her, and I needed to see her, to talk to her. There were things I needed to say that I couldn't have said with you there. Or with Malory or Dana either. I needed to go back there for myself, and for the key. It was for me to do."

"What if you hadn't gotten out again?"

“1 did. I'm not going to say I wasn't scared when it all started to happen. I've never been so scared." Instinctively, she rubbed her arms as if chilled. "It was like an ambush, the way everything changed, the way he came at me. It was almost like a storybook, and that's what made it so frightening."

She looked past him now, back to where she'd been. "Lost in the woods, and being hunted by something… not human. But I fought back. That's what I was supposed to do. In the end, I hurt him more than he hurt me."

"You beat him with a stick."

"It was bigger than a stick." Her mouth curved a little as she saw the temper was easing on his face. "It was a good, sturdy branch about this thick." She demonstrated by holding her hands apart. "And between being scared and spitting mad, I whaled the hell out of him. Of course I don't know how it would've turned out if the buck hadn't waded in. But I don't have to, because he was there, and Kane was there. That tells me I did something right by being there."

"Don't go back alone, Zoe. I'm asking you. I walked in here tonight fully intending to tell you. But I'm asking."

She picked up a cookie, broke it in two, then offered him half. "I was thinking I'd drive into Morgantown tomorrow, go by the place where I lived, where I worked, where Simon was born. Just see if that's the next turn. If I could get going first thing in the morning, I could get back by around two, three at the latest, then squeak out a little time at the salon. Maybe you could go with me."

He simply pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number. "Dina, it's Brad. Sorry to call you at home. I need you to clear my schedule for tomorrow." He waited a beat. "Yeah, I know. Reschedule it, will you? I have some personal business to take care of, and it's going to take most of the day. I should be able to swing in after three. Good. Thanks. 'Bye."

He clicked the phone off, tucked it away. "What time do you want to leave?"

Oh, you are a very special man. "About quarter to eight? As soon as Simon goes to school."

"All right." He bit into the cookie. "I guess you need to go back up, finish the sewing."

"Not just yet. I thought I'd take a break. Do you want to sit on the couch and neck while we pretend to watch TV?"

He caressed her cheek. "I definitely do." Zoe walked into Indulgence the next afternoon carting an enormous box. She dumped it inside the door and looked around.

Malory and Dana had been busy in her absence. There were paintings on the walls, and what she recognized as a batik. The table she'd refinished stood along the short wall on the left of the door and held one of her candles, a tall teardrop-shaped paperweight of icy blown glass, and a trio of books tucked between bookends in the shape of more books.

Someone had installed the new ceiling light and laid a pretty rug, dancing with poppies.

Delight and guilt tangled inside her. She pushed up her sleeves, preparing to dive into work as she searched out her friends.

She didn't find them in Malory's section, but her jaw dropped as she wandered through. It had been two days since she'd taken a look at the main level, but it didn't seem possible so much could have been done in that time.

Paintings, pencil sketches, sculptures, and framed prints decorated the walls. A tall, narrow case held a collection of glass art, a low, long one displayed colorful pottery. Rather than a counter for transactions, Malory had chosen an antique desk for the first showroom. She'd kept the counter in the second, where she would offer gift-wrapping services.

There were shipping cartons yet to be opened, but it was clear that Malory's vision was focused. Zoe smiled when she saw there was already a slim Christmas tree, with handcrafted ornaments hanging on the boughs.

She circled around, moving through the kitchen and into Dana's store.

Books lined more than half the shelves. An old break-front held teacups, coffee mugs, tins.

All this, and she hadn't been there to share in the fun or help with the work.

Hearing the floor creak overhead, she dashed for the stairs and up them.

"Where is everybody? I can't believe what y'all got done while I…"

She trailed off, stunned speechless when she saw her salon.

"We couldn't wait." Dana swiped a hand over her cheek, then patted the chair she and Malory had just assembled. "We thought we'd have them all done before you got back. Just about made it."

Slowly, Zoe crossed the room, ran a hand over the cushy leather of one of her four styling chairs.

"And they work. Look." As Malory pumped her foot on the circle of chrome at the base of the chair, it rose. "It's fun."

"Hey." Dana dropped into the chair, spun it. " This is fun."

"They came," was all Zoe could say.

"Not only that, but look over there." Malory pointed to the three glossy shampoo sinks. "They installed them this morning." She dragged a dazed Zoe over, and turned on the water. "See? They work, too. It's a beauty parlor."

"I can't believe it." Zoe sat on the floor, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

"Oh, honey." Instantly, Malory untied the kerchief from her head and offered it as a hankie.

"I have shampoo sinks. And chairs," Zoe sobbed into the colorful square of cotton. "And—and you have paintings and statues and carved wooden boxes. Dana has books. Three months ago I had a lousy job working for a woman who didn't even like me. Now I have chairs. You put them together for me."

"You refinished the table," Malory countered.

"And found the baker's rack for the kitchen. Worked out all the track lighting, regrouted the bathrooms." Dana bent down to pat Zoe's head. "We're in this together, Zoe."

"I know, I know, that's just it." She mopped her face. "It's beautiful. All of it. I love it. I love you. I'm okay."

She sniffled, then let out a long breath. "God, I want to shampoo somebody." Laughing now, she sprang up. "Who wants to go first?" At the shout from downstairs, she shook her head. "Shit. Forgot. That's the boy from the flea market with my sofa. I paid him twenty dollars to haul it over here. I have to help him bring it up."

When she ran out, Malory turned to Dana. "She's got a lot building inside there."

"Yeah, she does. I wonder if any of us considered the pressure there'd be on the one who went last. Then you add in how close we are to finishing this." She held out her arms to encompass the salon. "She's got to be ready to pop."

"Let's make sure we're there when she does."

They went down to lend a hand with the sofa. When it was in place, Malory stepped back, cocked her head.

"Well… it's nice and long. And…" She searched for something else positive to say about the dull brown object. "It has a nice high back."

" 'Ugly as homemade sin' is the term you're after," Zoe supplied. "But just you wait." She started to open the box she'd brought up with her, then stopped. "Go on downstairs till I'm done."

"Done what?" Dana kicked the couch lightly. "Burning it?"

"Go on. Give me ten minutes."

"I think it's going to take longer," Malory warned.

The minute she was alone Zoe set to work. If there was one thing she knew, she told herself, it was how to go about making silk purses out of sows' ears.

When the transformation was complete, she stepped back, hands on hips.

And by God, she'd done it again. She went to the top of the stairs to call down.

"Come on up. Tell me what you think and be honest."

"The burning idea wasn't honest enough for you?" Dana asked. "Mal and I can do it for you if you're running short of time. Don't you have to get home for Simon?"

"No. I'll tell you about that after." She grabbed Dana's hand, then Malory's, and pulled them back into the salon.

"My God, Zoe. My God, it's beautiful." Astonished, Malory walked over to study the sofa. The dull brown lump was now a charming seat blooming with deep pink hydrangeas on a soft blue background. The cushions were plumped, and cheerful bows encircled the arms.

"It's more of a miracle," was Dana's take.

"I want to make a couple of footstools, use the same fabric, or maybe one of the accent colors. Then I'm going to get some padded folding chairs and make covers for them—just a drape thing, like you see at weddings, with a bow on the back."

"Maybe you could knit me a new car while you're at it," Dana suggested.

"It looks great, Zoe. Now are you going to sit down on it and tell us what happened today?"

"I can't sit yet. You sit. I want to see how somebody looks on it."

She wandered, studying the sofa from different angles. "It's just the way I wanted it to look. Sometimes I get a little spooked, because everything's going so right for me. And I start worrying that because it is, I'll mess up with the key. I know how stupid that sounds."

"Not really," Dana told her as she snuggled into the couch. "I tend to worry about what's going to mess up when things are at their best."

"I thought—I hoped—that I might feel something by going back to Morgantown. I, well, we went by my old apartment, and the salon where I worked. The tattoo parlor. Even went into HomeMakers. But it wasn't like yesterday. There wasn't this sense of urgency or understanding."

She walked back to sit on the floor in front of the sofa. "It was good to see some of it again, to remember. But it didn't grab at me. I lived there nearly six years, but it was—I realized it was like a transition. I never meant to stay. I worked there and I lived there, but my mind was always looking ahead.

"To here, I guess," she said quietly. "Where we were going to go, as soon as I could make it happen. Simon was born there, and that was the biggest thing in my life. But nothing else I did there, nothing else that happened to me there, was all that important. It was just… a gathering place."

"Then that's what you found out," Malory said. "The key isn't there for you. If you hadn't gone, spent the time looking, you wouldn't know that."

"But I still don't know where it is." Frustrated, she tapped a fist on her knee. "There's this sense inside me that I should be able to see, that I've got my head turned, just a little, in the wrong direction, and I'm worried that I'll be going along, doing what I have to do just every day, and miss it because I don't just turn my head and look in the right place."

"We all got discouraged, Zoe," Dana reminded her. "We all looked in the wrong direction."

"You're right. It's just that so much is happening on this side, it makes what's happening on the other seem so little. This place, and how I feel about it—how I feel about you. It's so big. Then I think how am I supposed to pull this key out of the air—then the next minute I know I can. I know I can if I only look the right way."

"You've been back to where you started," Malory reminded her. "And you've looked at where you waited, isn't that a way to describe your time before coming here?"

"I guess it is."

"Maybe you should look where you ended up. Where you are now."

"Here, you mean? Do you think it could be here, in this house?"

"Maybe, or somewhere else important to you. Someplace you had, or will have, that moment of truth. That decision."

"All right." Thoughtfully, Zoe nodded. "I'll try to focus on that for a while. I'll work here while Simon's with Brad."

"Brad has Simon?" Dana echoed. "That's the other thing." She shot Dana a baffled look. "We're coming back and I said something about picking him up from school, bringing him back here with me—trying to work out how I was going to manage this and that, and Brad says he'll pick him up. Saying no, that's all right, doesn't make a damn bit of difference. He'll pick him up at school, take him to HomeMakers for a bit, then over to his place, as it appears they've made some arrangement to play video baseball anyway. And why don't I just do whatever I have to do, and he'll drop Simon home about eight. Oh, and don't worry about dinner," she added with an airy wave of her hand. "They'll order pizza."

"Is that a problem?" Malory asked.

"Not a problem so much. It sure won't be for Simon, and I could use the time. But I just don't want to start depending on somebody. It's just another way to get into trouble. I don't want to start depending on him. I don't want to be in love with him. I don't want that, and I can't seem to help it."

With a sigh, she rested her head on Malory's knee. "What am I going to do?"

Malory stroked her hair. "Whatever comes next."