Anna Adams - The Man from Her Past

“I’m okay. It’s like ours. I knew how.”

“Hope, I’ve asked you…”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Do you like to help cook, Hope?” Van started removing paper cartons from his sack. The poisonous resentment in his voice had faded.

He was so very friendly.

“We were gonna have those instant grits.” She pointed at the counter.

He made a face at the box. “I’ve saved you from an ugly fate.”

“Mommy likes ’em.” She slid out of her chair and went to his elbow.

“You’re not such a big fan?”

He still hadn’t looked into her innocent face.

“I don’t mind ’em.” Lying, Hope smiled at Cassie, offering her loyalty.

“Maybe you’ll like this stuff instead.” Setting the last carton on the table, he looked at Hope and a smile spread across his face. A real smile. Wide, warm. Real.

Hope laughed out loud. “I was kinda scared to come here, but you’re nice, Mr. Van. I like your face.”

He laughed, too. Slowly, his hand curved around the back of Hope’s head.

For a split second, before he pulled back and whisked the bag off the table.

VAN FOLDED the Posh bag as deliberately as any bit of paper anywhere had ever been folded, and then he stared at the recycling bin, stunned by Cassie’s look of relief.

She must love her daughter more than he’d imagined if she thought he could forget the past so easily.

“Mr. Van, are you saving that bag?”

He pushed it into the bin and got himself under control. Ridiculous that a little girl could do this to him. But it was what she stood for—those hellish images he had never escaped.

“No.” He choked as his throat tightened. “I’m not saving it.”

He turned. Cassie was waiting, still watchful.

“What did you bring?” Cassie asked with a hand toward the cartons.

“Antipasto, spaghetti, tiramisu for Hope and me and crème brûlée for you.”

“I smell the spaghetts.” Hope’s nose quivered like a kitten’s. “And look at the salad, Mommy.” She prodded the one see-through package. “Can I have your cootons?”

“Croutons.” Her voice was absent. “Spaghetts are Hope’s favorites.”

There was more in her tone. An extra warning. She looked at her daughter with her heart literally in her eyes and more love than Van suspected she’d ever felt for him. Hope owned that much of her. Cassie would fight with her last breath to keep her little girl safe.

Even from him. As if he’d hurt a baby.

She took down plates and salad dishes from the cabinet. Then she helped Hope open the plastic container. “What else did you want to talk about?” Her briskness suggested he make it fast and beat it.

“I didn’t come back just to talk about your father.”

She found serving utensils and scooped salad onto Hope’s dish without looking up. “He’s all that’s left. Face it, Van.”

“No.” With Hope hanging on every nuance, he couldn’t elaborate.

Cassie just looked at him. Then she popped the tops off the other cartons and started to add food to her daughter’s plate.

“Wait.” Van reached for her hand, but she backed up. Message taken. “I need to warm up the pasta.”

Cassie shrugged. “Okay. I’d better call the hospital, but you can start now with your salad, baby.”

“Goodie.”

“Will you talk to Mr. Van while I’m gone?”

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