Mr. Imperfect(32)

Tears streamed down Jordan's cheeks. "I was trying not to hurt you too much."

"Forget your ass," Christian interrupted, "how am I supposed to keep Kezia satisfied after what you did?"

Jordan gave a whoop. "You're going back?"

"Guess so." The thought sobered Christian. He cast a doubtful look at Luke, who shook his head.

"Oh, no, you don't. You're not using my problems as an excuse. Jordan will cover for you another few days."

"Yeah, go ahead." Jordan opened his hand, regretfully watched the  strands of his hair fall. "You've been useless to me this past week  anyway."

"And despite you two clowns doing the musketeer act," Luke warned, "I'll  fight my own battles." Christian exchanged glances with Jordan again  and, sighing, Luke added, "Tomorrow." He pushed away from his car in a  concession of defeat. "Tonight I'm getting drunk with Jordan."

"I'll watch," said Christian.

Jordan snorted. "If I ever let a woman reduce me to his state," he told Luke, "shoot me."

Christian threw an affectionate arm around Jordan, his mood buoyant. "And I'll watch that, too," he promised. "Got any cocoa?"



DAWN WAS CHILL AS CHRISTIAN drove the last twenty kilometers into  Waterview, but he had the top of the sports car down anyway. Happiness  rose in him like cream on new milk.

A cattle truck rumbled past and he laughed out loud. Jordan was right.  He had to be certifiably crazy if even the smell of cow shit added to  his sense of well-being. Who would have thought commitment could feel  this good?

Okay, he and Kez still faced hurdles-he had no intention of baring his  soul. But hell, his heart was no mean gift and he'd bare his body as  often as she liked. Oh, baby, please still be in bed and not up and  about do-gooding. Let's do some do-badding first.

Six on Saturday morning and the main street of Waterview was deserted as  the car purred through. Only the bakery showed signs of life, its open  door shielded by a fly screen. Driving past, Christian breathed deep the  aroma of baking bread. It smelled like home and hope.

On an impulse he did a U-turn, parked outside and bought six warm apple  donuts, fragrant with cinnamon sugar, and a couple of sausage rolls. He  still had a kid's taste for baking and he knew it, but damn, this  represented wealth to him-money to buy what he liked at the Waterview  bakery. At least he'd resisted the gingerbread men with their raisin  eyes. Next time.

The hotel looked just the same, which surprised him. Scaffolding still  framed the southern side of the building, some of the window frames  didn't have even an undercoat. Surely the painting could have been  finished by now? Maybe Kezia was concentrating on the inside  renovations.

Parking the car, he smiled as he made his way to the entrance. It would  be just like her to work from the inside out, saving the best till last.  He would have done it the other way 'round but then, as she'd once told  him, he was all style and no substance. Well that was about to change.

Whistling, Christian used his key to let himself in. The hall was stuffy  with stale air. Nothing had been done here, either. What the hell was  going on?

His footsteps slowed as he approached the stairs and saw yellow tape  printed with Danger! Hair prick-ling on the back of his neck, Christian  lifted his gaze. Close to the top, the banister hung at a crazy angle.  In one place a section was missing.

He jumped the tape, took the stairs two at a time. "Kez!" The shout echoed off the wood paneling. "Kezia!"

Shoving open her bedroom door, he scanned the room. Bed made. Empty.  There was a sound from the guest bedroom; he spun around with relief but  the person who peered out, bleary-eyed from sleep, was Don.

"Well, well," Don said, tying the cord of his dressing gown. "The prodigal returns."                       
       
           



       

"What are you doing here? Where's Kezia?"

After the briefest hesitation, he replied, "There was an accident. Marion injured her cervical vertebra."

"God, no!"

"Kezia's been staying near the spinal unit in Auckland since Sunday with John Jason."

"That's six days ago! Why the hell wasn't I told?"

"You tell me." Don sounded like the lawyer he was. "Kezia got hysterical  at the first mention of it. Something about the banister giving way."

"The banister … " Realization dawned on Christian, as gray and ominous as an impending cyclone.

Watching him, the old man's face softened. "You'd best sit down, son, I haven't told you the worst yet."



THIRTY MINUTES LATER CHRISTIAN walked back to his car. His fault. Not  again. He pressed his palms against the smooth, cool metal of the bonnet  until the sensation of falling receded, then caught sight of the baking  lying forgotten on the passenger seat.

Bile rose at the sight of the luminous grease spots on the brown paper  bag. In one movement he picked it up and hurled it over the fence into  the fields.

In the car he gunned the engine, then sat, hunched over the steering wheel, staring sightlessly.

Marion had loss of function in her hands and legs, which could be  permanent, Don had said. "The banister gave way when she tried to stop  her fall, but she knew it was broken … . One of those things and nobody's  fault … Kezia will come around."

No. She won't.

If Christian knew anything, he knew that. They were finished. The low  rumble of Consolation's engine vibrated into his consciousness. He shot  the car into gear and reversed onto the road.

A horn blasted and an SUV swung past, narrowly missing a side mirror.  The wake-up call sobered him. What the hell was he doing mourning a  future with Kezia while Marion's still hung in the balance?

Selfish, you've always been selfish. His father's words rang clear as  the past blurred with the present. Your mother would have lived months  longer if you'd stayed away from her. I don't care what she said … . Don't  you shirk responsibility for killing her, you little bastard. Don't you  dare!

The guilt brought it all back. The helplessness, the grief and loss. At  the end of Waterview's main street Christian turned north, struggling to  contain his emotions with logic.

A child gave his dying mother influenza and became a scapegoat for a  grieving man. The child accepted the burden unquestioning, until he grew  into reason. He'd been twelve years old, for God's sake. Twelve. His  mother had asked for him, he'd gone. He'd needed to see her, to be  hugged and comforted. He'd known she'd come home to die.

The speedometer crept up; ten kilometers flew by. Except pneumonia  killed her, not cancer. Her death certificate had reiterated the bald,  unpalatable truth ten years ago when he'd received all her things, boxed  up and sent to him on his father's death. The old man had been right  all along. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

Christian's hands were shaking on the steering wheel so badly he had to  pull over. The car skidded in the loose gravel, swung to a stop in front  of the wrought-iron gates of Waterview's cemetery. The perfect place to  abandon hope. The song of a skylark rose and quivered in the morning  air.

Why hadn't he repaired the damn stairs? Why had he pawned safety to  score points against Kezia? What kind of loser kept hurting people he  cared about?

The same loser rushing back to help where he wasn't wanted, that's who.  If he really loved Kezia, wouldn't he respect her wishes and stay away?  Or would that be ducking the judgment he so richly deserved?

And what about his responsibility to Marion and John Jason? Sending  money felt like a cop-out. Or was he trying to salve his conscience by  forcing a sick woman to acknowledge his culpability?

In his agony he got out of the car and paced the tree-lined avenue that  led through the graveyard. His mother was buried here, among the soft  shady green. Many more graves had joined hers since he was last here,  yet he still knew where to find her-if he had the guts to look. Maybe  confronting an old guilt would help him deal with this new one.

He began walking in the direction of her grave and the years fell away  with every step until his grief was so raw and new he ached with it. A  nameless terror stopped Christian in his tracks, turned him blindly back  toward his car, a sinner desperate to leave hallowed ground. He knew  now why he cried at funerals … because he wished he'd cried at hers.

He sat in the Ferrari for a long time before coming to a decision. He  could never make amends with the dead but he had to try with the living.  The engine roared into life as he pulled out onto the empty road. With  nothing to gain and less to lose Christian headed north.