Inheritance Tax

by InitialLuv

McCormick must face his past to make decisions about his future.

30. Chapter 30

Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Thirty (In which Mark and Martina finally tell each other the unvarnished truth, then make out.)

We'll see.

McCormick was hit with a strong sense of déjà-vu, and they'd been in the car for several minutes before the full recollection hit: the night he'd first been introduced to Gulls' Way, nearly five years ago. Five years? Sarah had informed him of his new duties: chores, running to the market, pulling weeds, et cetera. Tired, overwhelmed, and a little intimidated, he'd smarted off to the woman, "I'm not here to weed a garden, y'know." Sarah's calm, knowing response had been a musical, "We'll see."

McCormick looked over at Martina. She was clutching the steering wheel tightly, with a determined look on her face.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know." Martina glanced at him, and Mark saw the determination slip a little. "Someplace we can talk."

"I'm fine talking in the car. Comfortable, even."

Martina's mouth tugged up in a smile. "I don't doubt that. But it'll get too warm in here."

"Just how long do you think we'll be talking?" Mark asked, slightly alarmed.

"As long as we need to." The determination was back.

Mark leaned back in his seat. "Man, I hate being a passenger. No control."

"Do you mean over the driving, or the situation?"

"Both." McCormick grinned. "But if the situation gets really bad, I'll just jump out at the next stop light."

"I don't doubt that, either," Martina scoffed.

"Yeah, I've always been good at running. Not necessarily at getting away, but I sure as hell try." McCormick reached forward and began to play with the radio. Martina took one hand off the steering wheel, placing it on Mark's hand to stop him. He looked at her inquiringly.

"What do you mean, 'try'? Shouldn't it be past-tense?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess."

Martina's frown showed she didn't think much of the lackadaisical response. "What are you trying to run from?"

McCormick shot her an irritated look. "I didn't say I was running from anything. It was a mistake. I meant 'tried'."

Martina didn't answer, instead pursing her lips and focusing solely on the road. Mark sat back in his seat again, the radio forgotten.

Roughly a minute later, Martina pulled into a restaurant parking lot, driving around to the rear. She stopped the car and faced Mark, who was peering out the window curiously. "Um, okay, not what I was expecting – "

"Knock it off." Martina's brusque tone surprised Mark, and he turned to see her focused look. "I want to know what you meant," she continued. "Are you planning on leaving?"

"Where is this coming from?" McCormick queried, his voice rising somewhat.

"Don't answer a question with a question. Just tell me!" Martina looked imploringly at Mark. He shook his head, raising his hands.

"Of course I'm leaving, Marty! I have to go home! I don't live out here. I have school, and my doctor's in L.A., and I just. . . I'm homesick." He sighed, lowering his hands. "I don't know how I'm going to tell her."

"But you're not leaving for good. . ?"

"No! Well, I don't think so, but I really don't know what's going to happen. I have been thinking about it, that maybe I could transfer my credits to a law school out here. I'm sure if I could, Hardcastle would know how. And even if it's not something that's normally done, he'd figure out a way." Even if that means me coming to live out here and leaving him behind.

"So you want to go home, and you want to stay?"

Mark didn't answer, but he tapped his nose, smiling.

"Well, I guess I get that," she said. "I can't expect you to uproot your life without even knowing her. I just don't want you to abandon her. To go back to California and forget about her."

"How can you think that?" McCormick demanded. "Do you even know me at all?" He turned away, a set look to his mouth. "Never mind. Don't answer that. If you knew me you would've told me you were pregnant at the start, instead of lying to me, and then waiting ten years."

"I wasn't the one who lied to you about me being pregnant, Mark. My mother did that. And I didn't know she had, at least not right away."

"Yeah? When did you find out? A couple weeks later, when I was in jail and you were glad that I didn't know? Maybe after Olivia was born? I'm sure it wasn't last week."

"No." Martina ran her hands over the steering wheel idly. "No, she told me after I called the second time, when I found out that you had been arrested. But it was just the timing. She wasn't planning on telling me then, she was going to wait at least until we knew for sure. She thought if things turned out a certain way, she might never have to tell me. Because it wouldn't be necessary to talk to you."

"Marty. You're not making any sense." Mark was disturbed by her vague words. It almost sounded like she had considered abortion, but he just couldn't picture Martina doing that. A small seed of dread began to take root in his stomach.

Martina took a deep breath, taking her hands off the steering wheel and dropping them into her lap. She looked straight out the windshield.

"The night of your uncle's wake, when we spent the night in your motel room . . . I was in a relationship. I had been for almost two years. And we'd just gotten engaged."

"You. . ." McCormick felt the dread sprout into an ache of panic. "You were with – you didn't know, when you got pregnant, you – " He found the pain in his stomach was making it hard to breathe, and he couldn't form coherent words. He gasped, feeling like he might hyperventilate. "Olivia. She's – is she – "

"Mark, Olivia's your daughter!" Martina reached over to take Mark's shoulder, giving him a brisk shake. "Of course she is. I knew that even before the PKD. Mark, my God, you must know that."

Mark shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden pain of fear and loss that had overtaken him. "Don't do that to me, Marty. Don't take something away from me that I just realized I can't live without."

Martina smiled faintly. "That's not exactly the part I thought you'd take away from me telling you this."

McCormick didn't seem to immediately hear Martina's comment, or to process her earlier statement. He was still breathing shallowly as he tried to calm himself down. I guess I know now what I'll pick if it comes between a life with Olivia, or a life without her.

And then everything hit him all at once.

"You were in a relationship – you were engaged?! And you slept with me?!"

Martina stared back at Mark, stared into the deep blue eyes that were filled with shock and betrayal.

"Yes. And I was engaged, but mainly because it was the next step, it was 'expected.' I wasn't in love."

"Oh, that makes it so much better!" Mark laughed derisively. "So what was I, a reason to break up with him? An easy out? Shit, Marty!" McCormick wrenched open the car door and lurched out, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. Again. This was happening to him again, just like with Kiki and Tina Grey and too many others. Used by a pretty face. I must have "chump" branded on my forehead.

Once out of the car, he turned in a circle, unsure what to do next. No church to claim sanctuary in. The restaurant, a supper club, wasn't yet open. The other nearby establishments included a retail store and a strip mall. Both were on the other side of the main road. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

And why do you have to run? What did you do wrong? She was the one cheating on her fiancé, and you didn't even know he existed!

Mark eventually made his way to the strip of grass that divided the restaurant parking lot from the road. He sat down on the curb and lowered his head into his hands. It was turning out to be a lovely day.

He was mildly aware of Martina sitting next to him. He didn't look at her, but he also didn't tell her off like he wanted to. He didn't think he had the energy to really tell her how he felt.

"Mark – "

He lifted his head. "Why, Marty. Why would you do that? Why?"

She shook her head with a sigh. "Mark, I didn't consciously come to the visitation with the thought of going to bed with you." McCormick grimaced, remembering how he had told the judge almost the exact same thing. "It just happened."

"You used me."

"Mark, it wasn't – " Martina let out another sigh. "With me being here and you being in Florida, I didn't know if we were ever going to see each other again. Even when you came back up here, to race at – where was it, Lancaster?" McCormick nodded dully. "I didn't even know you were in New York. I would have come to see you then, but by the time I saw your name in the sports section, you were gone. So when I finally saw you at the funeral home . . . Okay, maybe things didn't just 'happen.' But I was not going to let you leave, again, without – without being with you." She studied him carefully. "I had thought you felt the same way."

"You still should've told me."

"If you had known I was engaged, would you have slept with me?"

"No!" After a beat, Mark repeated, "No. It wouldn't have been right." He dropped his head again, looking at the ground. "I would have told you to leave, go back home. Or I wouldn't have suggested going back to my motel in the first place." He lifted his head and stared at Martina with a sudden realization. "I don't remember seeing a ring."

Martina cocked her head to the side with a slight eye-roll. "It was too big. It was being re-sized."

"That was convenient." Mark copied the eye-roll, then winced at a sudden pain behind his eyes. Apparently it wasn't just the California sun that gave him headaches. Getting up from the curb, he moved to sit under the shade of a nearby tree. After a moment, Martina joined him. She watched with concern as he rubbed his temples.

"Are you all right?"

Mark nodded. "Sun headache."

"Olivia gets those. If she's outside for more than a half hour on a sunny day, I try to make sure she has sunglasses or a hat – " Martina broke off as she saw Mark's body tense. "Mark? What is it?"

"You didn't know. When you found out you were pregnant. Right? You didn't know if it was mine or . . . his."

"Ellis."

"Ellis?" Mark repeated, with obvious disgust. "Preppy name."

Martina smiled faintly. "Maybe. He did graduate from the Teachers College at Columbia."

"Engaged to an Ivy Leaguer," McCormick muttered. "But you didn't answer my question. Did you not know? Is that what you meant about maybe not needing to talk to me? Because it could have been his kid?"

"Yes. The timing really made me think the baby was yours, but I wasn't positive."

"But you still tried to call me. Even though it might've been the Ivy Leaguer's kid. Why?"

"Because I wanted it to be yours. I wanted you. And I thought if I called you, and told you I was pregnant, you'd come back. You would have, too, right?"

Mark sighed. "If you wanted me here that badly, why didn't you just tell me that night? Instead of letting me go back to Florida?"

"You had a life there. A career. I knew how important that was to you. I didn't think I could ask you to stay. And I knew you wouldn't ask me to leave. Then I found out I was pregnant –"

"And you thought 'Hey, an opportunity!' You could pick whichever guy worked for you. Only when you decided to pick me, you found out I was a poor choice."

"You were the only choice, Mark. I wanted you to be my baby's father, and I wanted you to be with me. If Olivia had been Ellis's he would have been there for her, but we wouldn't have stayed together. I broke our engagement and gave him his ring back when I was about five months pregnant. I told him I was probably eighty percent sure you were the father," she looked seriously at Mark, "but he didn't want to believe me. He had already gotten emotionally involved, 'connected' to my pregnancy. Even after we broke up he did his best to stay in touch. My mom made sure of that."

"I'll bet," Mark scoffed. "I can imagine her decision-making process there. Who would she rather be her grandchild's father? The guy with the life-risking career, the guy who'd recently been in jail and had been in and out of trouble for half his life? Or the guy you were engaged to, the guy who went to Columbia? Yeah, I'm sure that was a hard choice."

"Well, it ended up being neither of you. I went from having two possible fathers for Olivia to none." Martina was rubbing her hands together repeatedly, as if she were cold. She was gazing across the parking lot, but didn't seem to be studying anything other than her memories. "He came to the hospital after I had Olivia, but he stayed maybe ten minutes. I haven't really seen him since. We cross paths occasionally, and other than a quick hello, we don't talk anymore."

"Ten minutes?" McCormick asked doubtfully. "I've seen Olivia's baby pictures. It's not like you could definitely tell she was mine when she was a newborn. I mean, her hair didn't even start to curl until . . . when?"

"About eight months."

"So why didn't he stick around?" Mark pressed. "What changed his mind about claiming Olivia was his kid?"

Martina smiled. "Mark, Ellis is black."

"Oh." Mark thought for a moment, then repeated, "Oh." Then he began to chuckle.

"It's not funny," Martina defended, annoyed.

McCormick heaved in a breath. "Yes, it is." He barely got the words out before he was laughing again.

Martina quirked a grin, and then began to giggle as well. The two replaced their stress with almost overwhelming laughter, to the point that McCormick's stomach cramped, and Martina's eyes began to water.

"Oh, God." Mark held a hand against his stomach, breathing deep. "I needed that. Things were getting a little too tense."

Martina wiped her eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. But I couldn't keep the truth from you any longer. If you're going to be a part of our family, I don't think we should have any more secrets."

Mark took another stilling breath. "What? Part of your family? What does that mean?"

"If you're going to be in Olivia's life, either here or from California, then you're part of our family." Martina shrugged, as if the logic was irrefutable.

"Huh." Mark smiled. "I guess I could handle that."

"But it works on both sides, Mark. I know you're keeping things from me," Martina said. "I just shared something I'd rather have never told you. It's your turn."

McCormick stared at her. "I don't know if I can do that, Marty."

"I'm not talking about prison," she clarified. "I understand you can't tell me what . . . happened there."

"You don't need to know."

I respect that."

"That's big of you," Mark muttered.

"But you need to talk to me," Martina stressed. "Olivia noticed how you get distant and upset when you talk about your past, and she's worried about you. I am, too."

Mark shook his head. "How is talking about stuff that happened in my past going to help? It's not like I can change anything."

"It'll help me – us understand. After you talked to my mom, didn't you finally understand her a little? Realize why she treated you the way she did?"

McCormick made a face, then nodded in reluctant agreement. "I think I might even understand why she lied to me when I called from Florida, why she didn't say the real reason you'd called. If she thought you were pregnant with the preppy's baby, or if she was hoping you might still get married, she didn't want me in the mix. I had thought it was just because she hated me, and I didn't know why, what I had done, you know? It makes more sense now."

"See?" Martina was smiling. "You and my mom can be civil, now. Friendly, even."

"Don't push it, Marty," Mark warned, even though he had been leaning toward that conclusion himself

The woman laughed lightly. "Okay, you guys take it slow." She became serious again. "I need you to talk to me," she repeated. "I need to know what you meant when you said that thing about your aunt. About her not being able to stop you from hurting yourself."

Mark stood suddenly, steadying himself with an arm braced against the tree. "Why is that so important? I just threw out a comment, I wasn't even thinking. It's not that big a deal." But what "secret" do you think you can reveal? What happened that night almost nineteen years ago, or what happened that day just over three years ago?

Suicide attempt versus killing someone.

Martina rose as well, facing him. "It's obviously a big deal if you're having such a hard time telling me."

They stood staring quietly at each other, McCormick bristling under Martina's steady expression. His headache pulsed, and the tinnitus suddenly increased. He inhaled sharply with a wince. Martina reached out in concern. "Mark – "

"I'm all right!" He changed his position, leaning against the tree with his arms crossed protectively in front of him. He dropped his head, speaking low.

"The night of my uncle's visitation, if you had shown up maybe five minutes later, you would've missed me."

Martina tipped her head. "Well, I would have waited for you to come back. I didn't really come to mourn your uncle. I came to see you."

"I wasn't going to come back. I wasn't even going to stay for the funeral. I was planning on checking out of the motel and heading back to Florida."

"Back to – " Martina made a sound of disbelief. "You drove up from Florida, got a motel room, only to stay at the visitation for an hour – "

"More like forty-five minutes."

"– and then drive right back?"

"Well, I had planned to stay a few days," McCormick said. "Wake, funeral. Go to my aunt's place, maybe catch up with Annie. Drive over to my old neighborhood, check things out. But I didn't realize the wake would be so – hard. Especially with how my aunt was acting. . . Just too many bad memories. I had to get out of there."

Martina nodded slowly. "Memories of your mother's funeral. Same funeral home, same cemetery. Still too fresh?"

Mark laughed humorlessly. "You would think. But I don't remember my mother's funeral. Definitely before, and then what happened after, but not the funeral itself."

Martina's eyes widened slightly. "What, not at all?"

"Um, images. Feelings," Mark said. "But no, not really."

"Do you think you blocked it out?" Martina wondered.

"No. I think I was drugged."

McCormick left the parking lot island, crossing back to the car. The passenger door was still ajar. He sat in the seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He left the door open.

By the time Martina joined Mark in the car, he was sitting up, with his hands pressed against his ears. "This is never gonna go away," he whispered to himself.

"Mark."

He lowered his hands, but didn't respond.

"You can't just say that and leave it. What are you talking about, drugged?" She paused, waiting to see if he would explain. When there was still no answer, she reached over and touched his arm. "Mark."

He turned to look at her with an expression of weary resignation. "You – you said I was kind of a mess when I came to your place after my mother died."

"Well, yes. But that was understandable."

He shook his head. "I guess it wasn't understandable enough to get away with decking the social worker. I was thinking, after I talked to your mom, that if she hadn't shown up with the cop that night, I probably would've run. I mean, when I saw the social worker. I didn't want anything to do with him."

"Is that why you hit him?"

"Honestly, Marty, I didn't even know it was him. I just had to get out of the hospital, and he was in the way." Mark smiled ruefully. "But at the time I didn't regret it. I remember feeling like everyone was against me. Paranoid, I guess. I hadn't been sleeping much, in between work and the hospital and school – when I went. I don't think you were there to see me like that. It was when we were both back in school, and we didn't really see each other much. Except for the couple weekends before my mom died."

Martina inhaled shakily. "I remember. I remember seeing you in your mom's room, and you looked like you were the one that belonged in a bed. Your mom was sleeping – my mom had told me it was pretty much all she was doing at that point – and you were dozing in the chair. You heard me and you woke up, and then you looked okay again. Maybe a little pale, but you looked like you enough that I thought maybe I had imagined how bad you looked. Or maybe I just didn't want to know." She lowered her head. "When I went back to school and I was back with my friends, it was. . . normal. I felt happy and carefree. And then on the weekends I would come to work at the hospital, and spend time with you, and everything was so different. Tense, sad. You were angry and closed-off. In a way I felt like it was my fault, for not being there for you. At the same time I almost resented you, for making me feel that I was wrong to be happy. I think I started to pull away from you then."

McCormick nodded, his face grim. "Yeah. It's okay, Marty. I was a wreck, and you said it before – you were sixteen. Maybe I didn't understand it then, but I do now. Things got so my aunt and uncle couldn't handle me, so I doubt you would have been able to.

"That's what happened, pretty much. Those few days after my mom died, and before the funeral, I kinda lost it. I was out of control, fighting with my uncle, yelling at my aunt. . . The day of the funeral, I flipped out. I told them I wasn't going. Then my uncle said if I wasn't going to go, he sure as hell wasn't going. I went after him. My aunt tried to get in between us, and I shoved her, and then my uncle let me have it." He gave a short laugh, but his eyes were hard, his face pale with fury. "Oh, it was perfectly fine for him to beat my aunt, but I give her a shove and all of a sudden he has to 'defend' her, practically break my ribs to put me in my place. Bastard."

Martina reached out again, but then drew her hand back. Mark was wound up like a spring, and she was afraid her touch would set him off.

"So I'm refusing to go to the funeral, and my uncle's refusing to go, and there was no way my aunt was going to go by herself and leave the two of us home alone together. She knew she had to calm me down. So she gave me one of her Valium. And it worked. They got me to the funeral. I just don't remember it, is all."

Martina's eyes took on a hard expression similar to Mark's. "She gave a fifteen-year-old her prescription medication?"

McCormick shrugged. "One pill. A blue one."

"Mark – you could have had some kind of reaction, a side effect! That was incredibly irresponsible of her!"

"I don't really blame her, Marty. She probably wasn't thinking too clearly herself, you know?" he pointed out. "I don't know how often she took the pills, but I know she had half-empty bottles squirreled around the house."

"That's something an addict does, Mark – hiding pill bottles around the house."

Mark shrugged again. "Maybe. I don't know if she was hiding them, or just making sure she had a few extra doses for a rainy day." He knew his uncle had had a similar habit, only his scattered bottles had contained booze. Whiskey in the basement, vodka in the attic, beer in the garage.

Martina was shaking her head angrily. "If you couldn't have handled the funeral, they shouldn't have forced you to go. You could have mourned your mother in your own way."

"Yeah, I don't think my aunt and uncle were that progressive." Mark scoffed. "My aunt was just trying to help. And then later, she felt like what happened was her fault. I don't think it was. I don't know." He breathed out a long sigh, shuddering slightly.

"What was her fault? What happened, Mark?" Martina's voice was soft, but persistent.

McCormick shifted uneasily in his seat. It was getting warm in the car, like Martina had predicted, but he wasn't quite sure if it was the heat of the day, or his growing unease.

"I've never really told anyone what happened, Marty. At least, not anyone who'd care. When I was in the group home, I got sent to these. . . well, 'group' counseling sessions. And I had to talk about it then, because if I didn't 'contribute' and cooperate, I would have been stuck there until I was eighteen. And there was no way I was spending a full year in there. I thought the kids in juvie were nuts, but that place was like one step up from an asylum."

"How did you end up there?"

Mark looked up, startled – and relieved – at the change of topic. "Uh, your mom knew. Didn't you?"

Martina tilted her hand in a see-saw gesture. "Vaguely. We didn't talk about you a lot, but occasionally she'd mention you'd had a 'challenge' in a foster home, or that you were back in detention. She acted like she was making a point: that she had made the right decision in keeping you away from me. But I think it was more to convince herself that you were too difficult, too troubled, to help. I think a lot of her animosity toward you is an act, Mark, or a bad habit. It's her way of making herself feel better, for leaving you in the lurch like she did."

"Especially after –" McCormick broke off, not sure if he could share the story of what Sandra had promised his mother. Instead he answered Martina's earlier question. "I ended up in the group home after my second stretch in juvie, and that happened after I got kicked out of my second foster home."

"Why did you get kicked out?"

"Technically? For fighting." Mark took a deep breath before continuing. "Things were actually okay there, until my foster parents took in two other kids. One of them decided it was fun to torment me. If he wasn't beating on me he was threatening to. He was bigger than me, and if I did try to fight back he'd give it to me even worse. I was scared all the time, thinking he was going to jump me when I wasn't expecting it. I couldn't sleep. It was like being back with my uncle. Finally after a few weeks of this, I snapped. We were coming home from school and he was taunting me and pushing me, slapping me around like he usually did. We were just outside the house when he made some comment about my mom. I turned around and swung my backpack into his face. Broke his nose. Then I just started hitting him. And I kept hitting him, even when he stopped fighting back. The next-door neighbor had to pull me off, and then I started swinging on him." He'd run off, then, once he'd shaken off the neighbor who'd tried to corral him. Not wanting to have anything to do with the foster home and the punishment (and possible retribution) he would most definitely face, he'd spent that night and the next on the street. The first night he'd curled up in the entryway of a derelict apartment building, scarcely sleeping and shaking in fear at each movement and sound. The second night he'd found a small church with a loose window, and he'd slipped inside, with only slight misgivings – he'd figured if anyone would forgive him for breaking and entering, it would be God. He'd actually slept that night, and when he'd awakened, stiff, hungry, and apologetic, he had known it was time to go back, if only to let someone know he was all right. He'd felt he owed his foster parents that much. And they had been worried about him – but then they'd washed their hands of him. "I was back in juvie within the week. And after I got out that time, I got sent to a group home. Social services figured I was too screwed-up for a typical foster home."

"Mark. . . " Martina ran a hand down his arm, taking his hand. "You weren't. You just had some really bad breaks."

"Yeah, well, they didn't have a home for that." McCormick smiled wanly. "And I was, kind of. Screwed-up. With everything that happened after my mom died – the whole crap with her funeral, my uncle using me as a his personal punching bag, two stints in juvie – I wasn't exactly the picture of mental health. I mean, I wasn't the cheerful, optimistic guy sitting here next to you." He tried a real grin, and got close.

An intermittent parade of cars was arriving at the supper club, parking near the entrance. Waitstaff, or maybe early diners. . . Mark checked his watch, seeing it was quarter to five. When did that happen? He suddenly realized he was hungry.

Martina saw Mark glance at his watch, and she reached with her free hand to turn his right wrist, so she could see the timepiece. "We have a little time," she assured him. "Once we finish talking, we can be home in ten minutes. Fifteen if there's traffic."

"Traffic. In this little town?" McCormick let out a short laugh. "You were in L.A. That's traffic."

"Don't try to change the subject," Martina chided him.

"Would I do that?" He stared at her in wide-eyed innocence. "Anyway, I thought we were done talking. I think I told you enough." He pulled his door shut, and gestured at the keys that Martina had left in the ignition. "Why don't you fire that thing up and get some air in here, and then we can head back."

"Do not tell me what to do, Mark McCormick." Martina released Mark's hand, reaching for the keys and taking them out of the ignition. She clenched them tightly in her hand. "Watch it, or I'll drop these down a sewer grate."

McCormick now achieved a true, wide grin. "That would be kind of a hollow gesture. I don't need keys, Marty."

She sighed noisily. "That's not the point." Martina set the keys into the ash tray, then slanted a look at Mark. "You could really hot-wire my car?"

He nodded. "It's a couple years old. The newer ones are getting to be a challenge. Not that I do it anymore," he added quickly. "At least, not regularly."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ugh. Don't do that. You sound like your mom." Mark scowled at Martina. She laughed softly.

A moment of quiet fell, as both looked out the windshield, lost in their respective thoughts. Martina was the one who broke the silence, turning to look at Mark.

"Mark, did you – did you try to hurt yourself? After your mother died?"

Mark stayed quiet. He continued to look out the windshield, not returning Martina's stare. With a growing dismay, she realized what his lack of a quick denial meant. "Oh, no," she whispered.

He turned to her, instantly hostile. "What? What's the problem, huh? You have some issue with that, with some idiotic, impulsive thing I did when I wasn't thinking straight? Apparently I wasn't determined enough, though – otherwise I wouldn't be here. I'm fine!" His voice softened somewhat. "I was fine."

Mark returned his gaze to the windshield. He was breathing hard, and he found he was absentmindedly grinding his teeth. He forced himself to stop, closing his eyes as he attempted to compose himself.

Martina watched him, gauging his reactions. When she felt he was somewhat calm, she posed her next question.

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Why does this matter, Marty?"

"Because I care about you. This is a part of you, a part of what makes you who you are."

"Yeah, an insanely stupid part."

"Okay," Marty conceded, "whatever you did, it was crazy and stupid. But at some point you must not have thought that. At some point you. . . " She trailed off. "What did you do, Mark?"

"It wasn't anything planned. I didn't even think about it. If I had. . . " Mark sighed deeply. "I'm just glad I didn't think about it."

He continued to stare out the windshield. "The night after my mom's funeral, I woke up in the middle of the night. I wasn't sleeping great then; I think maybe the only reason I fell asleep was the Valium my aunt gave me. Anyway, I woke up because I needed some aspirin. Earlier, when my uncle – Well, I just needed some aspirin." He huffed out a harsh breath.

"I was digging around in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and I found one of my aunt's bottles of Valium. I think it was one she'd forgotten about. It was almost empty, only six pills. Maybe a couple day's worth for her, I don't know.

"I took them all."

Martina reached over to put her hand on Mark's shoulder. He shrugged it off, leaning away.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me, or to get you upset. It happened. And even though it was really nothing, it wasn't enough to hurt me, I wish it hadn't happened." McCormick shook his head rapidly. "It made me doubt who I was. And I didn't need that. I didn't have anyone but myself to count on back then, for a long time, and the fact that I was that desperate to try something like that . . . I hated myself for a while."

"What happened after you took the pills?"

Mark gave a slight shrug. "Passed out, fell asleep. I guess they hit me pretty hard, since I hadn't been eating or sleeping much, plus I was still a little groggy from the one I took earlier. My aunt found me on the bathroom floor a while later. A couple hours, I don't know. She thought I was dead." He lowered his head. "She was hysterical. She was hitting me and shaking me, trying to wake me up. I could feel it, and hear her screaming for my uncle, but it took me a while to completely come around. But I finally did."

Martina was also now staring ahead, recognizing that Mark found it easier to talk when she wasn't looking at him. "My mother would've known if you'd been brought into the ER – they must have taken you to a different hospital," she mused.

"Hospital?" McCormick turned, and as Martina faced him, she saw a bemused look on his face. "What for? I woke up, threw up a couple times, that was it. I told you, I was fine."

Martina threw her hands up, suddenly fuming. "Mark, you weren't 'fine'! You tried to kill yourself! Even if you didn't need to go the hospital, you should have at least seen a therapist or a psychologist! Oh, but let me guess – your aunt and uncle weren't that 'progressive.'" She turned away, crossing her arms. The anger gradually subsided, yet Martina grumbled quietly to herself, shaking her head. McCormick watched her, a wry smile replacing the confusion on his face.

"Well, my aunt did hide the knives away."

Martina whipped her head around to look at Mark in horror. He held his hands up quickly. "No, Marty, no! There wasn't any reason to, I wasn't – No! She just got a little over-cautious. She went through the house and found all of her random prescription bottles, and she watched me like a hawk for a while. At least until my uncle decided she was coddling me, and then things went back to normal." He scoffed. "After a week or so of that, I had to get out of there. That's when I took his car."

"I wish you would have told me this, Mark, that night." Martina's expression had softened from horror to regret.

Mark snorted. "Yeah, you already didn't want to go anywhere with me. Like telling you I had attempted suicide would've made me a better prospect?"

"Well, no, I still wouldn't have gone with you, but my God, Mark, I would've made you stay. Gotten my mom involved – "

McCormick laughed. "Marty, I didn't want anything to do with your mom. As far as I was concerned, she was the main reason why everything bad happened in the first place. She was the one who turned me in, got me sent to my uncle's. Hell, if she knew I had taken his car, she probably would have personally called the cops on me and held me in a citizen's arrest."

"Mark. . ." Martina said, in a tone she usually reserved for Olivia.

He nodded, recognizing the sharpness in just the one word. "I know, I know. She wouldn't have done that. But that's how I felt back then. Kinda hard to shake it. What did you say, bad habit?" He smiled wearily. "Either way, I had no intention of staying in Jersey. I didn't know where I was headed, but it was going to be as far away as possible." He leaned back against his seat. "Man, I'm beat. And starving." It seemed like it had been hours since he'd eaten (left-over summer squash casserole), after they'd cleaned up the broken plate. He turned his head in the direction of the restaurant. "Whatever they're making in there smells great." He sniffed appreciatively. "Smells like French fries."

Martina put the keys back in the ignition. "If it's fried and salty, you probably shouldn't be eating it. My mom is making home-made pizza tonight. Trust me, you'll love it."

"Let me guess – no meat?"

"No, there's meat," Martina reassured him. "But she does use low-fat cheese, and makes it on a whole-wheat crust."

"Low-fat cheese," McCormick groused, shooting another longing look at the restaurant. Martina started the car, but just as she was about to put it in gear, Mark's hand shot out to halt her.

"Marty, what I just told you – everything I told you – that's just between you and me, right? God forbid Olivia hear any of that. Hardcastle doesn't even know . . . and I'd kind of like to keep it that way." McCormick felt a little guilty about that, but the fact was, he didn't want the judge to hear the details Martina now knew. "I don't want you telling your mother, either," he continued. "It's bad enough that you – I just don't want her thinking any less of me than she already does, all right?"

Martina turned the car off, then faced Mark. "Is that what you think? That now that I know a little more about you, I think less of you?"

Mark didn't answer, but his mild expression confirmed her words.

Martina shook her head. "And what I told you, about being engaged when I slept with you – do you think less of me?"

McCormick took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I . . . feel like I don't know you as well as I thought I did."

Martina surprised him by laughing. "Of course you don't, Mark. It's been ten years. That's the whole reason we're doing this, right? We need to get to know each other again. And no, I won't share anything that you told me today." She reached over to touch Mark's face, caressing his cheek. "But I'm glad that we were finally able to talk to each other. And I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to learning even more about you."

He caught her hand, drawing it away, but held it tightly. "I'm not no Ivy Leaguer, Marty." In his unease, he lapsed back into callow slang.

"Why do you do that?" she demanded. "Put yourself down like that? You're in law school, for God's sake, act like it! And to hear Milt tell it, you're doing well!"

"Well I haven't gotten my grades from my finals, yet," McCormick mumbled. Then his head jerked up, and he appeared startled. "Actually, they might be sitting in the mailbox back home. Or on the neighbor's counter, if Hardcase asked her to take in our mail. Damn."

"Mark." Martina pulled their joined hands up, turning her wrist slightly so she could press Mark's hand against her lips. "Nothing that you've told me has changed my opinion of you. Or scared me away. I know we haven't had that much time, but any worries that I had, about if you were still 'you' – I don't have them anymore. I think the moment I saw you at our front door, and realized you had followed me out here – I knew."

Mark looked down, not wanting to meet Martina's eyes. "I didn't really come out here for you, Marty. Being here with you is . . . great, but I came out here for Olivia."

"I know." Martina smiled softly. "That's what I meant. You're a good person. A good man. Even after everything that happened, with my mother and I either lying to you or withholding the truth from you, you didn't hold it against Olivia. You're amazing with her. And you're going to be a wonderful father."

As Martina was talking, she had taken her free hand, and was rubbing Mark's arm. As she drew his hand up to kiss it again, he pulled it from her grasp, but continued the upward motion. He ran the back of his hand down her face to her chin, and brushed her lips with his thumb.

This time there was no one to interrupt the kiss, nor was there an underage observer. When Mark's hands darted under Martina's shirt, she didn't push them away. Martina had her own hands exploring under the collar of Mark's shirt, pulling the material out of shape. She ran her hands slowly over Mark's shoulders, massaging the bare skin. She twined her fingers around the chain on his neck, pulling him closer.

McCormick's stomach growled.

Martina began to giggle, even with her mouth still covering Mark's. She regretfully broke the kiss, but continued to embrace him, tipping her forehead to meet his. She was still trying to stifle her giggles when she realized that she could feel Mark's body shaking with laughter.

"Oh, God, Marty, I'm sorry. I told you – I'm starving."

ooOoo

Ten minutes later, when they pulled into the driveway, Olivia was on the back stoop before they had barely exited the vehicle. "It's about time!" she complained. "We've been holding supper for you for ages!"

In the next instant the girl whirled around dramatically, letting the screen door slam behind her as she entered the house. Momentarily stunned speechless by the emotional display, Mark turned to Martina for help.

"Welcome to parenthood," she said, laughing at his lost expression. Then taking Mark's hand, she led him into the house.