by Helen Conrad
She started to reach for him, but he turned and began to stride off before she made contact.
“Grant?” she called after him. “Is there anything I can—“
“I’ll be in the study,” he said curtly, not looking around.
She heard the door to the study close sharply, and then the inevitable music began to play. “Stormy Weather.”
She spent the next few hours pacing around the house, trying to find things to do. She couldn’t stand to see the pain in his eyes. Even more, she hated it when he closed her out this way.
The music went on and on, until she wanted to take an ax to the stereo system. Instead she went into a small storage room off the kitchen where she knew Grant kept his racing gear. Opening boxes and sifting through drawers, for the first time she examined the relics of his race-car driving career.
There were trophies, cups and commendations, newspaper clippings and photographs. His helmet was tossed into a locker, its windscreen raised in an echo of the cocky arrogance she knew Grant must have worn it with. Gauntlet gloves lay beside it. And then she found his fireproof coveralls. Bright yellow, they were covered with patches denoting the various sponsors for which his team had raced. And over the right-hand pocket, just across from where his heart would be, were the words, in heavy black letters, grant Carrington, a rh pos.
His blood type. Suddenly Carrie began to shake. She’d always assumed race-car driving was dangerous, but she’d never come quite so close to realizing it until now. All those times he could have been killed . . . She gave a prayer of thanks that he’d been warned with only a near fatal accident to get out of the game while the getting was good.
Putting back Grant’s souvenirs, she closed the door to the storage room and went back across the house to the study. She opened the door with no hesitation.
“Grant?”
He was sitting in the desk chair, his eyes bleary and unfocused. He looked up at the sound of his name but didn’t say a thing. It was dusk and he hadn’t turned on a light. She came across the room and switched off the stereo, then turned to him.
Wordlessly she held out her arms. He stared at her for a long moment before he moved to her, but when he did, he took her in his arms and held her as if he would never let go.
He flew to France for the funeral, but Carrie stayed in California. She spent her lonely evenings at Mickey’s so she could be with people and not spend all her time worrying whether Grant would actually come back.
It was such a cheerful café and the mix of people was always interesting, but mostly she spent her time talking to her cousin. The two of them had become closer than ever.
One thing was beginning to make her wonder. A man named Robert Harding, who some said was a rich banker, was around a lot. And he seemed to dote on Mickey.
But what did she feel about him? It was hard to tell, and somehow, she didn’t get the same vibes she felt when Mickey talked about Tag.
One evening, when the crowd had thinned out, she decided to push the walls in a little and try to get to the heart of things with her cousin.
“So tell me about Tag,” she said, pretending merely casual interest. “What’s the deal with him?”
Mickey looked at her with a slight frown, then her shoulders relaxed and she seemed to accept that the question was merely a friendly one.
“I guess you’ve noticed that Tag isn’t much like the other Carringtons. He doesn’t seem to be driven to compete or to make money or to climb to the top of anything. And you wonder why.”
Carrie shrugged. “Okay. Are you going to tell me why?”
Mickey grinned. “Hush now. I thought that was what I was doing.”
“Okay.” Carrie hunkered down and pretended to zip her lips.
“Tag had kind of a funny situation growing up, for a Carrington,” Mickey began. “His dad had a cocaine problem for awhile, and his mom, who was already considered sort of a hippie girl, grabbed the kids, Tag and his little sister, Missy, and took off. For years I guess she just flitted around the country, working in clubs and leaving Tag to take care of Missy while she didn’t come back for days at a time. He doesn’t talk much about it, but I know he felt like he was constantly being abandoned by her. And that he didn’t take care of Missy very well.” She sighed, shaking her head. “He was just too young, and he feels guilty about it to this day. I don’t know what exactly happened, but he feels like the way she was for awhile—that it was just his fault.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Mickey hesitated. “Nothing, really. At times she just seems to withdraw into herself and live in her own little dream world. And Tag loves her so much and feels so responsible.”
“So when did they come back to Destiny Bay?”
“Their dad finally got clean and he went after them and brought them back. Tag was about fifteen by that time. Missy was twelve. And no one knows whatever happened to their mother.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met Missy.”
“Probably not. She stays at home.” Mickey sighed. “I think Tag was really damaged by the way his mother treated him.” She looked at Carrie, her eyes tragic. “He just doesn’t trust people. He’d rather be out on his boat all by himself and not have to deal with people.”
It was pretty obvious Mickey cared a lot more about Tag than she ever came right out and said. Carrie didn’t dare get into that, but she did reach out and take her hand.
“How about you? Who’s in your life?” she asked her cousin.
“Me?” Mickey half laughed. “I don’t need anybody. I had my chance. I had my marriage. I chose badly and it all went to hell, but I still came out with the golden ring. I’ve got Meggie. That’s good enough for me.”
“No it isn’t,” Carrie whispered to herself as Mickey got up and went to a back booth to see what a customer wanted. She’d seen the haunted look in her cousin’s eyes. And she’d seen how she looked at Tag.
And how did he feel about her? That was a mystery. And one Tag didn’t seem to want anyone to unravel.
When Grant got back, he was subdued. Carrie knew he’d seen a lot of old friends and had relived a lot of old memories. It was hard being the outsider and not knowing how to combat the ghosts of his past.
Therapy was going well. She knew how important having his leg back to normal was to him, and to that end she began to think long and hard, researching in areas she’d never tried before, to find some new ideas for his therapy. Some of them seemed to help, and some didn’t seem to make a bit of difference. But he was improving every day. Carrie hid from herself the inevitable question: What happened when he was well?
She pushed aside any difficult problems during this time. For the most part, the two of them were having so much fun together, she’d almost forgotten all about Eleanor Ashland. But one afternoon, when she drove up to Grant’s house, she got a jolting reminder.
Eleanor had come for a visit and was just emerging from the huge front door as Carrie drove up. Carrie took one look, and her heart dropped to the floor. She stopped the car in front of the house, trying to collect herself. When she reached for the keys in the ignition, her hands were shaking badly.
“Come on, Carrie,” she told herself firmly. “The best defense is a good offense.” Swinging out of the car, she waved toward the house, where Grant and Eleanor stood.
“Hi,” she called ahead. “You must be Eleanor Ashland. I’ve heard so much about you over the years. You’re quite a legend in this town.” She stopped before the woman, proud of her own facade of composure. “I’m glad to meet you at last.” Holding out her hand, she managed a tight smile.
Eleanor was slow to respond. She understood exactly what was going on, and she could give as good as she got. She took Carrie’s hand as though it were something the trash collector had left behind dropping it again almost immediately, then looked her right in the eye. Smiling smoothly, she walked around Carrie, looking at her from every angle.
“So this is the little Miss Mary Sunshin
e I’ve been hearing so much about. The girl who’s turned your head. But she’s so young, Grant. That dewy look was never your style.”
“I’m twenty-five.” Carrie’s smile was hard around the edges. “Hardly a child.”
The older woman’s laugh rang out like wind chimes. “Ah, but you are, darling. I don’t mean in chronological age. I mean in experience. I really thought you’d developed a much more sophisticated palate, Grant.” She turned to smile at Grant, and Carrie had to admire the controlled sophistication of her gesture. “I remember that redhead you seduced in Barcelona. . . .”
“Eleanor.” Grant’s voice was low, but there was a hint of warning.
Eleanor heard but ignored his meaning. “Now, she had class. Gowns from Paris. The manners of a cultured woman of the world. Was it really true that she had her fiance shot to leave her free to spend the summer with you?”
“Eleanor!”
The warning was implicit now, but the woman had nerves of steel. “I also heard about the incident with the champagne bottle in the swimming pool. . . .”
Grant moved toward her, and she backed away quickly.
“Oh, all right, darling,” she murmured. “My point is, of course, that one can see why you might throw caution to the wind with a woman like that.” She turned and stared at Carrie. “This, on the other hand . . .” She raised a scornful eyebrow. “Really, Grant. I’m surprised at you. But then, I guess we must all be allowed our foibles.”
She started toward her Jaguar, which was parked near the door. “Au revoir, my sweet,” she called back, blowing a kiss to Grant. “Good luck, Mary Sunshine,” she added. “You’re going to need it.”
Carrie went into the house to avoid waving at the woman. Grant followed her and watched as she took careful, measured steps to the hall table and set her purse down gently, every movement under tight control. Then she turned and met his gaze.
He groaned, wincing. “Don’t look at me like that.”
She was aching inside, but he mustn’t know it. Whatever she did, she couldn’t let him see how much hearing about his other affairs and seeing Eleanor there hurt her. She forced her dark eyes open, wide and innocent. “Like what?”
His scowl darkened the room. “With those accusative daggers in your eyes.”
“Who, me?” She looked surprised. “Why, what would I be daggering? It’s certainly none of my business.”
He came close and took her by the shoulders, frowning down into her upturned face. “Eleanor Ashland is just a friend now.”
She tried to smile. It came out crooked, but it was better than crying. “Of course. I know that.”
He could read the lingering distrust in her eyes. Sighing, he pulled away from her and walked across the room, leaning on the mantel. “Do you remember that first time you saw me with her in the basement at the Maxwells’?”
She sat down on the sofa, carefully crossing her ankles and straightening her skirt. Stay cool, she warned herself. Stay detached. “It wasn’t a scene one could easily forget.”
“You thought you’d interrupted a tete-a-tete, didn’t you? But you were wrong.”
“Bad eyes.” She nodded, pretending to agree but actually hiding the rising hysteria that threatened to reveal just how she felt. “They play tricks on me,” she went on, her voice quavering. “Make me think I see people locked in a torrid embrace when actually they’re playing gin rummy—“
“Carrie, listen to me. Eleanor is a demonstrative woman, and we’ve always liked one another. But we were being discreet, because of her fiance . . .”
“Oh, yes, I know all about that. That was when you locked me in the wine cellar to keep me from blowing your cover. How real that kiss seemed at the time. It certainly changed my life around. And all the time it was only because you were being discreet.”
He swore and came across the room toward her, making her sit back against the cushions. He stopped just short of seizing her, standing above her and glaring down.
“It wasn’t like that at all, and you know it. And what you saw with me and Eleanor wasn’t what it looked like. We hadn’t seen each other for years before that day. Eleanor was just . . . giving me a friendly greeting.”
She nodded stiffly. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s not as though we were married.” Oh, Lord! Had she really said that? She cringed, desperately wishing that she could recall the words.
There was a deadly silence before he spoke again. “No, we’re not.” His voice was hard. His face was hard. “And we never will be married. You do understand that, don’t you?”
How she wished she’d never said it!
“Yes. Of course I do.” And she really did, she told herself. He’d made it clear from the start, and she’d never let herself hope for anything else . . . except way down deep inside.
“Then you’d better understand more than that. There are things about me you haven’t faced, things about the kind of life I lived before I knew you.”
Now they were entering a realm she didn’t want to visit. She started to rise, desperately seeking to escape, but he pushed her back down onto the sofa with a hand to her chest.
“You want to know about Eleanor? About my past with her? I’ll tell you. Yes, I’ve slept with her. And I’ve slept with a lot of other women. Hasn’t that gotten through to you yet? Don’t you know what I am?” He sank down on the sofa beside her, his face tortured with the need to bare his soul.
“I’m a user, Carrie. I’ve never cared much about right and wrong—or who I hurt. You name it, I’ve done it. I’m corrupted, and I’ve corrupted others. I don’t deserve to be near you, Carrie. You deserve a hell of a lot better.”
Carrie sat huddled in the corner of the couch, a fog of misery descending around her. She didn’t want to hear these things. She wanted the sunshine of their days to go on. This darkness he was bringing into their lives was ugly and impossible to live with.
But Grant was bent on making her listen to it. “Eleanor and I were a real item about eight years ago,” he said, forcing her to listen. “She was the mistress of the man whose company was sponsoring me and my team at the Troible Grand Prix. He used to take her around on his arm like some sort of trophy he’d won for himself.” He nodded, remembering. “He’d sneer and insult us—and then he’d show us Eleanor, as if she were something special, too good for us.” Grant paused, shaking his head. “I knew I could win the race. The question was, could I win Eleanor away from Mr. Big? He had money and was good-looking besides.”
He paused. “Are you listening, Carrie? That’s what I’ve been like. That sort of challenge excited me.” He shrugged. “And I did it. I took Eleanor away from him, just to see if I could. Slept with her right there in his bed, where he could walk in and catch us at it, just to rub his nose in it.”
He shook his head and looked up at her from under lowered eyelids. “He fired me.”
His face relaxed as he sank deeper into memories. “But I got hired on by his biggest rival, and I won. Both the race and the girl.’’
Carrie felt sick, and she couldn’t hide it. Grant watched her face, reading every confused emotion, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. It was better that she knew. He would have done almost anything at this point to be a different man for her, to hide the ugly truth. But that was only cowardice on his part. She had to know.
Carrie licked her lips, trying to find words. “That’s ... That’s all in the past,” she tried to choke out. “You’re not like that now. ...”
He turned from her explosively, “The hell I’m not! You said it yourself the other night. Remember when Jerry was here? I couldn’t tell you myself how much of that was jealousy and how much just the need to beat Jerry out.”
Now he was lying, going overboard. He frowned. There was no need to do that. In a flash of pure vision he knew the truth. He didn’t give a damn about Jerry, never had. All he cared about was Carrie. But how could he promise himself—or her-—that it would always be like that? His track r
ecord wasn’t encouraging.
Carrie tried to reach for him. She felt as though she were drowning, and she needed rescue badly.
“I love you, Grant,” she said softly. He turned and stared at her, and she raised her chin and said it loudly. “I love you.”
He didn’t move for a long moment, but his eyes grew more and more fierce, their icy blue sparking with piercing intensity.
“Don’t, Carrie,” he rasped out at last. “Do yourself a favor and forget me.”
How could she forget something that was part of her soul? Her lips trembled.
“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” she managed to whisper. “I can’t just turn that off, stop feeling it.”
She wanted him to take her in his arms. Everything would be all right, she thought desperately, if only he would hold me. But she could feel the resistance in him, the hard self-control. He wouldn’t touch her.
“You still haven’t faced what my past was really like, what I’m really like. I’m no good, Carrie,” he told her sadly. “I don’t deserve your love.” He groaned, closing his eyes and turning away from her. “Don’t you get it? I can’t promise you anything. I won’t reform. I am what I am.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “And what I’ve told you only scratched the surface. There’s plenty more. Plenty worse.” He moved restlessly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “The hell of it is,” he muttered, “I don’t even have the guts to tell you most of it.”
She didn’t care. In a sudden, freeing revelation, she realized that was true. She didn’t care. All she wanted was him, no matter what he was. She rose, the light of her love shining in her eyes, and he backed away, holding out a warning hand.
“Stay away from me, Carrie,” he said, backing toward the door. “I want you to think over what I’ve told you before you say anything else. I’m going down to take a walk on the beach. And if you’re not here when I get back, I’ll understand.”
“Grant,” she called, just before he disappeared around the corner of the house. “Do you want me to go?”
