Marriage, Interrupted. Karen Templeton

memory slashed through his heart, catching him off guard. He didn’t let on. “I thought Shaun said the funeral was at eleven?”

      “It is.”

      “But you’re not dressed yet.”

      Tropical blue eyes lifted to his, more weary than sad, he thought. Hoped. “I didn’t expect company this early on the day of my husband’s funeral.”

      Point to her.

      Cass cocked her head at him, her hand wandering over her swollen middle, instinctively massaging the child within. Another man’s child.

      Another slash. Irrational and petty as it was.

      “You didn’t have to come down,” she said.

      “I got the feeling Shaun was asking me to.”

      She nodded, then looked away, letting a silence slip between them so profound it was practically visible.

      For a second he scrutinized her. She’d lightened her hair a little, he thought, the shag cut softly framing those high cheekbones, her long neck, in wispy strands of shimmering red-gold. Her smooth skin, pulled taut across model-worthy cheekbones, a square-edged jaw, was nevertheless etched with a tracery of worry lines, around her mouth, her eyes, between her brows. She seemed thinner, too, despite the pregnancy. That, he didn’t like. Her eating habits had always been atrocious; when she’d been pregnant with Shaun, they’d nearly come to blows over her diet. Olives for breakfast, he remembered. And French fries. But only Burger King’s, no one else’s. The one time he’d tried to sneak a package of McDonald’s fries past her…

      Blake forced his attention elsewhere, again fighting the insane urge to hold her, to comfort her. As the friend he’d once been, if nothing else.

      “Did you drive down?” The question echoed in the vast room.

      “Yes. Figured I’d rather have my own car.”

      She nodded again, slipped back into the silence.

      She reminded him so much of the overwhelmed college freshman who’d tripped up his heart seventeen—no, eighteen—years ago. He’d been a senior, working part-time in UNM’s bookstore, when she’d come in, all huge eyes and tremulous smile, and he’d fallen so fast he didn’t even feel the bruises from landing for weeks afterward. A soft ache accompanied the memory of how hard she’d fought not to let him, or anyone else, know how petrified she was that first day. She wore exactly that expression now, overlaid with an edgy exhaustion that brought out a keen protective streak—for himself almost more than for her.

      Hands in pockets, Blake’s eyes flicked again over the living room he’d never seen before today. Hadn’t been able to face. Shaun had flown up to Denver a few times since Cass’s marriage, but Blake hadn’t once returned to Albuquerque. His business had provided a convenient excuse.

      Oh, yeah. She’d done well. The house, set high in the Foothills on the east side of the city, screamed money. Fairly new money, Blake thought, tempered by good taste. Sleek, contemporary furniture in blacks and grays, richly patterned Navajo rugs, gallery-quality artwork. Impressive. And not a trace of the Cass he’d known—or thought he’d known—anywhere.

      “Nice place,” he managed.

      A slight wince preceded her shifting as she tried to find the mythological, more comfortable position. She had narrow hips; the final months of pregnancy weren’t easy for her. Irrationally—again—Blake hated this guy, for being her husband, for making her pregnant. Even for dying on her. For leaving her with that frightened-little-girl look in her eyes. Hell, not even Blake had done that.

      Or had he?

      “Thank you,” she replied at last. “The view at night—” he followed her gaze to the expanse of glass that led out to an upper level deck “—is really something. You can see the whole city from up here—”

      Her voice caught. He was intruding, he knew. But leaving wasn’t an option. Not until…

      Until what?

      Cass was watching him, he realized with a start. “What?” he asked.

      “Is it me, or is this incredibly awkward?”

      His lips cracked a little when he tried to smile for her. “Probably not all that unusual, though. With so many step-families nowadays…” His heart rate kicked up as her brows hitched underneath her bangs. “I’m still our son’s father. That didn’t change because you remarried.”

      Heeling one hand on the end of the table, she pushed herself out of the chair. “The limo’s coming for us at ten-thirty,” she said, her words clipped. “Now I do need to get dressed.” She seemed to hesitate, worrying her knock-your-socks-off solitaire with the fingers of her right hand. He found himself wondering what she’d done with the plain gold band he’d given her. “Do you…you could ride with us, if you want.”

      “Thanks, but no.” He smiled, a little. “That would be awkward.”

      That got a quietly assessing look for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so.” She started out of the room, then turned back. “I didn’t thank you for coming.”

      “Please, forget it. You’re a little preoccupied, I’m sure.”

      Understandably, there was no joy in her smile. “I hope I don’t reach the point where I ever forget my manners, Blake. No matter what the circumstances. Besides, I know how busy you are, with your business and all—”

      “This is still family, Cass. That always takes precedence.”

      Accusation flared in her eyes, reminding him of his less-than-sterling reputation in that particular area, before she finally left the room. It struck him, as it had so often since the divorce, how badly he’d failed her.

      “Dad?”

      And that he’d failed his son even more.

      Like tangled barbed wire, guilt lodged in Blake’s chest as he glanced over at the unwitting victim of his own pain and disappointment, standing on the opposite side of the room.

      The boy’s grin seemed shy. “You look really weird in that suit.”

      As in, Shaun had rarely seen Blake in anything other than jeans. With a grin that was in all likelihood equally timorous, Blake reciprocated. “Not nearly as weird as you do.”

      “Dork-city, right?”

      “Hardly. Just different. Good different, though.”

      In the mildly uncomfortable silence that followed, Blake thought again how much he’d missed his child every day they were separated—far too many days for his comfort. But stuff got in the way, didn’t it? If only…

      A sharp gasp of realization caught in his throat, as even the blood chugging through his veins came to a screeching halt. Blake wasn’t a religious man in the traditional sense, but he liked to think he knew an epiphanous moment when one smacked him upside the head. And this one was a pip:

      He wanted his family back.

      And if that didn’t earn him a deluxe, all-expenses-paid trip to the booby hatch, he didn’t know what did. As if…what? He could somehow pick up the widely scattered pieces from the last dozen years and glue them back together, good as new? As if Shaun—as if Cass—would let him?

      Well, you could scratch that epiphany right off the list, boy, ’cause this one had No Way in Hell written all over it.

      “So, anyway,” Shaun tried again, as if Blake had been the one to let the conversation die, “Towanda wants to know, you wanna cup of coffee?”

      His brain buzzing, Blake covered the distance between them, drawing his son into a quick, one-handed hug around shoulders at nearly the same level as his. “Coffee sounds great.” If there was ever a Maxwell House moment, this was it. “But who’s Towanda?”

      Catching