Rose-Coloured Love

by Amanda Carpenter

  Paris was sleeping, stretched across the doorway to the hall, and Devan reached down to ruffle at his head roughly, making him wake with a caterwauling start. It was time to give him supper. And though he might squirm with the restless desire to prowl his outside domain, this battered king, she would keep him caged along with her tonight, for she did not wish to be alone.

  She turned and started a new tin of cat food whirring through the tin opener, and now, fully awake, Paris rubbed against her legs with an excess of affection. She set his dish down, and he went for it like a starving thing.

  Light footsteps racing along the hall, and then Devan was overwhelmed by both Gary and Janie who hurled against her for an exuberant good night hug. She ruffled Gary’s head, and pressed a quick kiss against Janie’s carrot head, for Gary wouldn’t let anyone kiss him except for Helen, and her only occasionally. Helen stood at the doorway smiling, but as Devan’s head raised again, she saw her sister dart a quick glance at the full, waiting pot of coffee.

  “OK, that’s it, kids,” said Helen, with a clap of her hands when the two appeared disposed to linger. “Now, upstairs with the both of you—go on, scat! I’ll be up in a few minutes to tuck you both in and kiss you good night. Pick up your feet, Gary; don’t scuffle like that.”

  And so, with a great and obvious reluctance to end their day, as they were reluctant to end all their days, the two trudged upstairs again, with many a long-suffering, soulful look cast behind them. The looks fell off their mother’s shoulders like rain, and Devan had to smile.

  But Helen wasn’t as she asked diffidently, “Late night again?”

  Devan’s smile disappeared, and she turned to fiddle with a cupboard door, bringing down a coffee cup and setting it carefully beside the coffee pot. “I’m not very sleepy,” she said quietly.

  And just as quietly, Helen said, “You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you don’t go anywhere—”

  “Don’t—” Devan grated, raising a hand as she whirled around to face Helen, who stopped. She continued, more calmly, “Don’t push, all right? Besides, look who’s talking. You don’t go anywhere or do anything, either.”

  She watched her sister smile, a little sadly, and she suddenly wondered who the sadness was for, herself or Helen. “To you, it seems I never go anywhere,” returned her sister. “I go out when I wish. But the difference, my dear, is that I have two somethings to keep me home.” Devan looked away. Then, in an entirely different tone of voice, Helen said, “Oh, good! I see you’ve fed Paris. Well, then, I guess I’m on my way to a long, leisurely soak in the bath, and then bed.”

  “So early?” Devan found herself asking, dully. The dullness was a plea, and it stopped Helen in her tracks.

  The reply was gentle. “The children are up early. You don’t have to stay up all—”

  Devan’s smile came, quick and flashing. “Well,” she said brightly, cutting her sister off in midsentence, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Helen just stopped and smiled. “OK,” she said quietly, and then she paused before leaving. “Oh, yes, don’t forget the book you left on the picnic table this morning.”

  “I’ll go and get it now,” Devan promised, and then Helen was gone.

  She sighed, and glanced at the cat to make sure he was still busy with his food, and then she went out of the back door. The screen banged behind her, yellow rectangle in warm scented evening, and as she approached the picnic bench, which was battered and peeling from years of outside weathering and use, she nearly leaped from the confines of her skin when a strange masculine voice said quietly, “Lady, you are one hell of a person to get in touch with.”

  Somewhat surprised to find herself still intact after that shock, Devan took a few more steps forward, which brought her to the shadows of the large maple, under which the picnic bench sat. On it was the dark form of a man, and her mind took that just-heard voice and clicked it smoothly with her image of the afternoon’s visitor. How tenacious can you get? she thought, mildly. She could see her book, a hardback, lying not quite as she’d left it. He must have riffled through it. “Perhaps,” she said drily, reaching over and picking it up, “that’s because I don’t wish to be reached.”

  She turned back to her bright yellow rectangle. His voice came, still quietly. “Why did you lie earlier?”

  No anger in him. She let her feet shuffle to stillness as his question hung in the air for her to answer. If he had done to her what she had done to him, she’d be furious. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and turned her head to the side to hear if he moved. “I don’t know,” she said, and started to leave again.

  His voice stopped her a second time. “Why are you lying now?”

  That finally brought her around, and she tried to pick out his features in the dark. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  He was replying almost before she’d finished, with a quickening of tone that finally revealed his frustration. “Isn’t it about time you asked that, instead of running blindly away again?”

  A moment of silence. She stared at the shadow where he sat, and had, apparently, been sitting all day. Then she said, rather slowly, as she looked down at the book she held, “I was just wishing I hadn’t. We heard you leave.”

  “To change into dry clothes,” he said, his voice wry. “I was waiting here when your sister and her son came back. She told me that if you didn’t want to see me, I’d have a long wait.” Devan didn’t know why she was shocked by that, but she was. She suddenly realised that Helen had sent her outside purposely, on the off-chance this stranger was still waiting for her.

  “She was right,” she retorted, backing a step.

  “I’m Ryan Forrester,” said the man simply. Third shock of the night, only this was by far the worst; this was nightmarish, this was a confrontation she couldn’t face. Then he said, almost gently, “Devan, surely you didn’t believe that I wouldn’t come?”

  Him! She knew him. She knew his signature, his caustic wit, his keen observations, his crystal-clear thinking. She knew his dispassionate support, his criticisms, his distant interest. She knew him but had never met him in person, never before this, and this was too late. Without warning, she turned and raced hard back for the house. She had the advantage of surprise, she could do it, she’d reach the inside of the kitchen, slam and lock the door on him, and she wouldn’t see him again. Ever.

  Not if she had anything to say about it. But though he had been on the other side of the picnic bench and seated, though she was fast and in fair physical shape, though by her calculations she should have made it, she didn’t, for a sudden whirlwind rush came up behind her, and his hands shot out, grabbing her arms, whirling her none too gently around.

  She dropped her book and listened to it slap on to the grassy ground. She stared up at him, her mouth a distorted ugly line of bitterness, upheaval and defeat crashing in on her in waves, her straight, shoulder-length hair blown about and wild. The light from the kitchen fell on him fully, and it was the first clear look she’d ever had of him. His determined, forceful features, those grey-blue eyes looking pinpointed with black, that deep, puzzled frown between his level brows—he stood out from the blackness behind him in sharp relief, everything down to the column of his throat and the open-necked shirt he wore so casually.

  Her wild and erratic heartbeat must be palpable to him, he held her so tightly. He looked shocked, half angry too. “Why,” he breathed, nearly crushing her between his big hands without even realising it, “why did you run at the sound of my name? We’ve been corresponding for three years! I thought we’d established something, a sort of trust. Haven’t I been a fair editor to you? Haven’t I—”

  Confusion teemed in Devan at this onslaught of near accusation. She bent her head and thrust her hands into her hair, mouth opening, breathing deep for a moment. She felt a surge of heat rush through her, leaving her cold and shaken. “Hold on a minute,” she grated, and then pulled free of his warm, strong hands. Better now; he wasn’t touching her, and she wa
s unfettered, could think clearer. “I never said any of this was you. In fact, I never said anything at all. Just drop this, go away, and leave me alone, all right?”

  She had sounded really good, and was quite proud of herself, until the very end when her voice had begun to tremble in a horribly revealing manner. He was standing right where she’d left him, his arms hanging at his sides, the hands still. “No,” he said incredulously. “No, I won’t go away. This is our first meeting in three years of working together and you slam your door in my face and tell me to get lost? This isn’t like you! This isn’t the dynamic, open person that’s written so many letters to me! No, it’s not all right!” Half turned away from him yet unable to walk away, she watched as he dug his right hand into his pocket and dragged out something white, holding it in his fist like a weapon. “I want to know what the hell this last letter you wrote to me meant! I’ve spent practically six months tracking you down to some godforsaken backwood—”

  He wasn’t supposed to take it this way; he wasn’t supposed to be like this—puzzled, angry, so damned concerned she could sense it vibrating from him tangibly; he wasn’t supposed to be so vital. She had the sensation that she was drowning, overwhelmed, for this was too much to take. Devan silently bowed her head and put one of her hands over her eyes, as harshly exposed in the bright light and deep darkness as he had been. At thirty, she was a thin woman, now too thin, and her arm and hand showed like a stark stick, barely able to support the weary, eloquent defeat of her bent head.

  His flow of words stopped in mid-sentence. He stared and he stared, and she knew it because she had lifted her head at his silence and saw. He was standing very still, as if trying to absorb something that was totally unexpected, totally shocking. “My God!” he said then, sounding tired. “What’s happened to you?”

  Chapter Two

  Devan’s hand dropped to her side. She lifted her face and felt the faintest stirring of breezes touch at her skin as though in benediction. Then she turned and bent to pick up her book, moving carefully, moving like an old woman. “Now that you’ve come all this way,” she said flatly, accepting at last that this was a meeting she could no longer avoid, “You might as well come in and have a cup of coffee.”

  Ryan Forrester sighed, the sound rising in a gentle swell over the distant sound of summer breeze, and then, as she started slowly back to the house, he silently followed. At the screen door, she glanced to the floor and saw the tomcat stretched, from front paws to back paws, right across the doorway like a mat. It was his favourite position after a meal, and he would lie, eyes slitted, ears lazily laid back, as he listened to the sounds from outdoors wafting through the fine metal mesh of the screen. She opened the door and carefully avoided him, and then threw over her shoulder, “Don’t step on Paris.”

  “What?” asked Ryan Forrester blankly, just behind her.

  She turned her head. Their eyes met briefly. “The cat. Don’t step on him.”

  For the first time he looked down, and then his expression changed, turned wry. “OK,” he said, and carefully stepped over the immobile cat.

  Devan walked calmly over to the cupboard and dragged down another cup. She went to the coffee maker, a battered, much used model, and poured hot liquid into the cups and then she turned. Ryan was standing quietly by the kitchen table, his quick, observant eyes running over the light green curtains, the print tiled floor, the scarred worktops. Her eyebrows went up in polite enquiry, and he looked at her when she asked, “Do you take anything in yours?”

  His grey-blue eyes searched her features quickly, trying to learn to read her expression. A strange face with a familiar personality. He was trying, she realised, to understand her as quickly as possible, and her mouth turned in a self-mocking twist. He said quietly, “Nothing, thank you.”

  She handed him his coffee, and then went to sit in a kitchen chair opposite him, sipping at her cup with a blank face and eyes. The sooner he could understand her, the sooner he could rectify the situation he thought she was in, and things could get back to normal. Anger shuddered through her in a storm. Such unknowing arrogance. “How did you track me down?” she asked conversationally.

  She watched as a faint, wry smile touched at his well-cut lips and then faded, and he reached out a big corded hand to draw out a nearby chair and sink into it. He bent his head, blond hairs lighting in his light brown hair, and he drank at the strong, undiluted coffee and then visibly shuddered. He set the cup down very carefully, looked at her black coffee as though it were poison, and asked as if he couldn’t help himself, “You actually enjoy drinking that?”

  “I’m an addict,” she said, deadpan calm. She raised her cup deliberately and drank more.

  Something briefly dark flickered in those light eyes. Then he leaned his arms on the table in front of him and said evenly, “First I checked all the leads I possibly could, from your past letters, your former address, your neighbours. Then, in desperation, I went to your bank and told the manager our firm had made a mistake in royalty payments by depositing far too much in your account. When he checked your account file, I stole a peek at it and saw this address.”

  Her lips unwillingly tugged into a quick, amused smile. “That’s very illegal,” she told him.

  Paris twitched, and rolled on to his back, his paws dangling in the air. Ryan said quietly, his eyes holding hers, “By then I didn’t care.”

  Inside, the light was more gentle on her features and her body lines. She sat at her ease, leaning her elbow on the table while resting her chin in her hand, the fingers carelessly curled halfway over her mouth. Her dark hair was still tousled and untidy, and she felt and showed a supreme indifference to the fact, which somehow made the blown hair very attractive. It was glossy, framing a finely featured face, with delicately shaped lips and nose, and a strong brow over utterly weary eyes. The eyes were what Ryan looked at, those brown, patient, calm, studying eyes of hers, for at the back of their expression was a blackness.

  He moved suddenly, shifting in his chair, sitting forward, laying his hand down on the table with a slap, his eyes burning. “I didn’t care,” he said, low and hard, “because at first, sure, you’d bothered me with that last letter. But I thought you just needed a break, time to get away and think. And then I didn’t hear from you. For months I waited and I didn’t hear a damned thing from you and I got scared. I came to see if you were all right.”

  His voice had gone flat, and in the silence that followed his words she knew he was waiting, waiting to hear something from her; anything, words of reassurance, words of denial—words. She didn’t have any to give him. She looked down at her cup and brooded almost dispassionately. She didn’t have any to give any more.

  Ryan thrust the last letter she had sent to him under her nose and shook it. It was creased, and half crumpled in his grip. “What does this mean?” he asked urgently, trying to shake her with his voice, yet trying to keep his frustration in control. “For the last three years you’ve been so full of brilliance and fire, and burning ambition! Every letter you’ve ever sent me has practically vibrated off my desk with the power and conviction of your vitality, and then, out of the blue, I get this quiet, subdued letter of farewell. What does it mean?”

  She gave a little laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all, as her eyes met his, and flared briefly to life. “It means that I quit,” she said lightly. “I had thought I’d made myself perfectly clear in it; perhaps I’ve lost that ability, too.”

  “You can’t quit!” he said passionately.

  She thrust away from the table at that, and dragged her cup along with her. Then, with jerky, uncoordinated movements, she went to the coffee maker and poured herself another cup. As an afterthought, she reached below the worktop, pulled out her bottle of Christian Brother’s brandy, and splashed a careless dollop into the cup. She leaned against the worktop, turned to face him, and took a burning gulp. “Why not?” she asked, flippantly, crossing her ankles. “Because I didn’t fulfill my contract? Be assured th
at if I’m not writing for you, I’m certainly not writing for anyone else.”

  Her eyes, hard brown pebbles, stared into his as he drew in a swift, audible breath at that. Then anger darkened his face. He virtually flushed from it, standing up so violently he sent his chair back a few feet. “You can’t quit!” he said again. He was so obtuse, she couldn’t believe it, and she put her back to him so that he could flay her raw with what she knew he was going to say. “You’re meteoric, you’re better than good, you’re only thirty years old and you’ve written four bestsellers—you’re a future Pulitzer candidate, damn it! Devan Richardson, what are you afraid of? Is it success?”

  That sent her to laughing again, lightly, liltingly, and it pealed off into the stunned silence behind her. “Ah, yes,” she said then, bitingly, bitterly. She took her cup and drained the liquid in one go, burning her throat with liquor and hot coffee, feeling the drink explode in her stomach and radiate warmth. “That’s rich, that is! I finish college in three years; I bust my butt as a reporter for the next four while I write at night. I get five rejections on my first manuscript so I rewrite the damned thing and send it to you, and before you’ve given me an answer on it, I send you my second!” She turned to him then, taut, angry; futile and angry. “I worked stints of ten days in a row, twelve hours a day.” Her voice went raw. “You jackass, does that sound like I’m afraid of success?”

  Eyes dilated, he said shortly, “No, it doesn’t. It was a stupid thing to say. But if not that, then what? Why?”

  As suddenly as she had flared up, she calmed down, turning as if at random to survey the kitchen worktop which was neat and bare, except for canisters of flour and sugar, the coffee maker, and now the brandy bottle. She poured herself a third cup, this time fully half brandy, and then turned to hand the bottle to him without a word. He reached for it slowly, his eyes steady on her, and then he poured a substantial dollop into his cup and screwed the lid back on. She swirled the liquid in her cup around, staring at it while she wondered if Helen was in bed asleep or not. She smelled the pungent liquor and, as suddenly as she’d poured it, she set it down with a sharp clatter and left it abandoned on the counter, walking to sit heavily in her chair again.