She’d made the trip to John’s this past week on the pretense of delivering the dozens of cookies that she’d made when she couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t even been able to stay to watch his kids eat a single cookie, simply shoving the plastic container into John’s arms and running from the raw pity in his eyes. He’d seen the CNN newscast too, but she hadn’t been able to talk to him about it.
She couldn’t make cookies in someone else’s apartment, especially while they were sleeping, so she was punting to the next nervous-energy-burning activity in her repertoire.
I could have paced upstairs, Mercy thought, rolling her eyes at herself as she descended the last step into Rafe’s foyer. Farrah wouldn’t have woken up. Sasha claimed to also sleep like the dead, so it wasn’t like Mercy’s footsteps would have woken her, either.
Or you could just admit the truth, to yourself if no one else. Because she now stood in the little foyer of Rafe’s house, staring at his apartment door. She wanted to knock. She wanted to sit next to him, to breathe in his scent, to feel his arms around her. She wanted to sleep, and he made her feel safe enough to do so. That hour she’d slept in his arms had been more precious than gold.
She’d actually lifted her fist to knock when she realized what she was doing. He was asleep. Waking him up so that she could sleep would be wrong and selfish, and she’d been both of those things enough tonight. Lowering her fist, she surveyed the square footage of the landing, determining it large enough for her needs.
She needed to do more than pace. One of the most valuable takeaways from years of therapy was that pacing burned off energy, but meditation could actually silence the voices. Which, at the moment, were legion.
Ephraim at the airport. Hello, wife.
DJ from her nightmare. Watch, Mercy. Right before he shot her mother in the head.
Her mother, pleading. Find Gideon. There’s something you need to know about Gideon.
They all talked and talked until she wanted to rip her hair out, so she assumed the starting position for the tai chi routine that was her favorite. It aided in meditation, calming her mind when it was going full throttle, giving her the focus to shove the voices into the box and nail down the lid.
She sank into the movements, one flowing into the next, timing becoming irrelevant. When she finished her routine, she did it again. And again. Until her body began to relax and her churning mind was suspended.
Lowering her arms to her sides, she filled her lungs with air, expelling it on a quiet rush. And in the quiet, she could finally think past the panic that had kept her frozen in its grip since she’d stepped onto that airplane in New Orleans.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she whispered, then became aware of someone breathing behind her. She spun, pressing her palm to her racing heart when she saw Rafe leaning in his doorway, dressed only in sweats, his chest bare.
‘It’ll be okay,’ he repeated quietly.
‘How—’ Clearing her throat, she tried to project calm. ‘How long were you standing there?’
‘Long enough to watch you go through your routine a few times,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re very pretty when you do that.’
‘Do what? Tai chi?’
He nodded. ‘Elegant and graceful.’
‘It’s my meditation,’ she said, flustered at the compliment. ‘One of the ways, anyway.’
‘Does it help?’
She nodded. ‘Except when the life gets scared out of me afterward.’
He chuckled. ‘Sorry. I was afraid to say anything. I didn’t want to scare you. I should have gone back inside, but . . .’ His smile turned a little bashful and it was an endearing sight. ‘I didn’t want to stop watching you.’
She felt her cheeks heat in pleasure at the compliment. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I should be sacked out solid, but I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Me either,’ she admitted. ‘Farrah falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. I envy her that skill.’
‘My brain was racing.’
‘Mine too.’ She wanted to say more but had no idea what she should say. Instead, she gestured lamely to the stairs. ‘I should let you try to sleep.’
‘Or you could come in for a cup of tea,’ he said, and her heart began to race again, but not in fear.
It was anticipation and it was more than a little heady. ‘If you really don’t mind.’
Gripping his cane, he stepped backward into his apartment, beckoning her in. ‘I don’t mind at all.’
She looked around as he closed the door behind them, partly out of curiosity and partly to avoid staring at the chest he was making no move to cover up. ‘You didn’t change anything from when Daisy lived here.’ The walls were still covered in vibrant, colorful murals, the open closet door revealed a jumble of sports equipment, and the corners were still stacked high with fabric of every imaginable color. It was like a hobby shop had exploded. Mercy had loved it at first sight.
‘It’s only temporary,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Daisy’ll want her place back eventually. Once my PT is done and I can take the stairs again. If she’s not married to Gideon and raising their five children by then.’
The PT was not going well, then. Mercy was glad she hadn’t asked. Not sure how to respond, she pointed to the whiteboard against the living-room wall. ‘That’s new.’
It was a free-standing model, the kind that flipped to reveal another board on the other side. The whiteboard was filled with his PT schedule. He went three times a week and he was clearly discouraged by his lack of progress, real or perceived.
She could identify with that. Her own mental health therapy had been a similar struggle. Two steps forward, one step back. It still was.
‘Ah, my board,’ Rafe said, walking into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘It helps me keep my schedule straight.’
This surprised her, because the schedule hadn’t looked complicated. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, same time, same place.
‘What kind of tea?’ he asked. ‘I have a whole drawerful. Well, Daisy does. Come take a look.’
Mercy picked a packet of chamomile from the drawer. ‘It helps me wind down.’
He nodded once. ‘Have a seat on the sofa. I’ll bring it to you.’
She cast a doubtful gaze from the two cups on the counter to the cane in his hand, but made no protest. He was a grown man. He knew what he was capable of doing.
She’d settled on the sofa when she spied the edge of a canvas leaning against the far wall, behind several other paintings. It was a painting she’d recognized when she’d been here six weeks before, a painting that had shattered her heart at first sight. She was on her feet and pulling the painting free before realizing that she’d even planned to move. Placing it in front of the others, she stood and stared at the crudely painted field of daisies, a young girl sitting in their midst. A smiling young girl with black hair and green eyes.