Rose-Coloured Love

by Amanda Carpenter

  He looked immediately and suitably chastened. Devan swivelled on her heel and exited to the library room which held her stereo. To discourage any company, she pushed the door shut behind her. Then, moving carefully and slowly about the room, she picked a few instrumental albums from her collection and settled them on the turntable, then switched the power on. After starting the record player, she eased herself into her deep, cushioned armchair. With the lights off, the room was in deep blue shadow, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  Music pulsed in the room, low-key, soothing. If she had thought she could have stood it, she would have turned the light on to read, but her head was still too tender. As Ryan had predicted, it probably would be for the next day, maybe two. She tried to get herself lost in the classical guitar music being strummed consolingly over the speakers, but she found she couldn’t, found that her world had been too upset, found that, now she had the time and composure to brood, her mind was going back to things she had tried so hard to forget.

  With Ryan’s arrival, he had brought to the surface memories that still held for her a ragged pain, memories that showed the major flaw in her. Memories of how Lee had left her on a bright spring day, with chirping good will manifested all about her: in the sparrows which never seemed to leave New York, in the dustman who had waved at her with a grin that morning as she had leaned out of her brownstone apartment window to catch sight of the morning sky. And there hadn’t been any warning; Lee had just pulled out his suitcases and packed. When she had gone back to their bedroom in search of him, she had found him in the act of shutting them and pulling them off the bed.

  And she had been disbelieving, stunned, incredulous. Even as she’d asked him why, even as she’d sat on their bed and listened to his quick, half-angry words of reason, she hadn’t believed it. Nor had she believed it all that week, or the week after, or that entire month. She had expected him to come back, expected to hear his key turn in the lock, expected him to call, or write, or contact her in some way. Hurting, but expecting, and willing to believe again, to have faith and goodness shine upon her again, to have sanity reign in the barrenness of his passing, but none of it had come.

  Then, finally, she had had to accept the truth of what he had told her.

  Sudden light flooded the room, making her start and blink, making hasty hands rise to her face to wipe uselessly at the tears which had made paths of wetness down her throat. Her eyes flew to the door in disconcertment, but if she had thought she was startled, it was nothing to the naked expression of shock she saw on Ryan’s face as he stared at her, utterly immobile. His light, blue-grey eyes raked over her, and then he strode to her side and knelt by her chair, the movement a rush. Her blurred eyes noted fleetingly that Helen and the children had left the dining room. She had the frightening sensation of being overwhelmed, and then his hands were gripping at her forearms.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, the query throbbing.

  “Don’t pry at me,” she gritted, trying to draw back, but she was too trembly and he was able to hold her with an almost contemptuous effortlessness.

  “This last day I’ve seen you in varying moods of hostility, resentment and anger. I’ve even seen despair, but you never cried,” he said, low and intense, his hard face too close. “Not even when you told me you had no hope, no faith. Why are you crying now? What is it? Discouragement? Are you sick? Dammit, this is important, can’t you see that? If you would let it out, maybe you could heal and become the Devan you used to be, the one I’ve known and admired! Is it fear, are you afraid?”

  “Stop prying at me!” she cried hoarsely, her throat raw and working. And then something else he had never seen from her showed briefly in her eyes, showing wild, and it was blind panic.

  He backed away immediately, his hands falling to his sides as he stood and went to the open doorway. He hesitated with his back to her, the muscles in his neck and shoulders visibly taut. He then said, with difficulty, “I’m very sorry. I pushed too hard. It was wrong of me. You’re too weak.”

  His head went down and then he walked away as though he were very tired. She stared at the open doorway and, curiously enough, when she came to herself with a start, all the clamouring voices from the past were peacefully silent.

  After a time, she rose and walked carefully out of the room. The kitchen light was on, so she went to the back of the house and found Ryan serving a simple, yet well-cooked supper on to a plate. He was unaware of her presence in that open doorway, and she stood and contemplated him thoughtfully. There was impatience and anger in his movements as he worked, and while she couldn’t guess at what had prompted the emotions in him, she could see how characteristically he expressed them. This man would be patient, she felt, with few things.

  Her head was aching worse than ever, so she went to the bathroom and took only two aspirins this time. When she then made her way back to the kitchen, she pretended to no secrecy and sat quietly at the table while she watched him finish.

  All appearance of impatience and anger were wiped away as if they’d never been. He turned and smiled at her, warily, yet friendly enough. She noted the wariness with some dryness; she’d certainly given him cause to tread rather carefully around her. She had the sudden suspicion that he was treating her with velvet gloves, and she began to wonder why.

  “French toast sandwiches tonight,” he said conversationally, turning back to the worktop again. “I got fresh bread at the bakery earlier, when you were asleep. They’re good.”

  “They sound good,” she said, her tone bringing his head quickly around again. She had spoken mildly, even with friendliness.

  He then asked, slowly, “Will you at least try to eat some of this?”

  One corner of her lips rose, ever so slightly. “Yes,” she said.

  His expression lightened, almost imperceptibly. “Good,” he replied.

  He sat with her while she ate. The meal was silent, though not necessarily in a negative way. She knew his eyes were on her with approval as she managed to eat fully half of her sandwich, along with her entire portion of vegetables, and part of a fresh peach. She was sipping at a glass of milk when he finally said, “You haven’t done badly at all. How are you feeling—do you think you can keep it down?”

  “I think so,” she said lightly, and then she downed the rest of her milk. “I feel much steadier. This must be the most I’ve eaten in two days.”

  She thought he winced. “No wonder you’re thin,” he said, caustically. He then surveyed her plate. “Are you going to be able to manage the rest of that?”

  She looked down, doubtfully. “N-no. I think I’m wary of pushing it.”

  “Wise child. It’d be best if you can keep down what you’ve eaten, rather than risk losing the whole meal. Well, then, hand it over,” he told her.

  “What?” she asked, both looking and sounding startled.

  His brows rose slightly, his eyes smiling. “You surely don’t expect to throw all that good food away, do you?” he returned, reaching over with his long arm and plucking the plate from under her gaze. “It might be a sadly over-used cliché, but there do happen to be starving people in the world, and I abhor wanton waste.”

  She smiled. It was the first real, open, genuine, un-bitter smile she’d given him, and his eyes widened on her face for a moment before a pleasant mask came over his features and he bent his head to finish her meal. “I suppose there was logic in that statement,” she remarked, doubtfully, and a positively surreptitious look of delight crept over his face as he realised she was actually teasing him.

  She sat with him while he finished, and then stood to help stack the pots and her set of crockery. He wouldn’t let her help wash up, though she tried to insist, and finally he took her by the elbows and steered her over to a chair. Then he went to the kitchen drawers to pull out a tea towel. He threw it into her lap with a neat flick of his wrist.

  “There,” he said, implacably. “Now don’t argue with me on this one, all right
? Hell’s bells, you’re an impossible creature! You may be feeling steadier than you were, but that’s not such a big improvement, when you consider this afternoon! Tomorrow, or the day after, you can cook for everybody and wash up, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Not necessarily,” she replied drily. “If you want to do it so badly, why, go right ahead!”

  She wasn’t sure how she had meant that, but she found herself pleased when he laughed in response. He ran the dishwater, plunged his arms into masses of white suds, and proceeded very quickly to wash everything that had been dirtied, rinsing and then handing the things to her almost faster than she could dry them. When they were done, everything put away and the worktop again neatly bare, he turned to dry his hands and look at her with a smile. That steady, blue-grey gaze brought her to the sudden realisation that they had just spent a very enjoyable, tension-free hour together. She grew so flustered, she actually, obviously blushed, and his smile widened. But all he said was, “Now that that’s done, let’s go and watch television.” She sat immobile, full of an odd emotion, but he didn’t give her time to start an argument. He just plucked her from the seat as firmly as he had deposited her, and steered her to the front of the house. “I wonder if there’s a good movie on.”

  Chapter Five

  Devan couldn’t have been more aware of the heavy hand he laid on her shoulder if it had burned a hole through her clothes. Because of it, she contented herself with shrugging uninterestedly at his idle comment, and in this way they passed to the living room. Helen and the children were watching a comedy. The lights were off, so silver reflections sparkled in their eyes. Helen was seated in a large, sagging armchair and Janie was just in front of her, between her legs, while her mother brushed her carrot-coloured, gleaming hair. Gary was sprawled on the couch and kicking at one arm.

  Devan scooped up her nephew so that she and Ryan had a place to sit without resorting to the floor, and she was much surprised to find that, as she settled on to the cushions, Gary seemed disposed to settle right along with her. Typically, he ignored her even as he wriggled his thin body close, so, with a dry smile, she put her arm around him and then calmly turned her attention to the screen. The couch sagged as Ryan sat down then, too, and for half an hour quiet reigned peacefully over the group.

  Even as Devan marvelled at the enjoyable silence, it disappeared. As the credits for the show flashed on the screen, Helen stirred herself and said firmly, “OK, that’s it, kids. Time for bed.”

  A chorus of protest resounded then. In the end, Devan had to get out of her seat and half drag, half carry a limp Gary up the stairs for her sister, while Janie volubly complained every step of the way. Thankfully, Devan deposited her load with a none too gentle thump on the floor of the bathroom, and then she backed out to make her escape back down the stairs.

  She fell into her seat again with such eloquence that Ryan laughed and shook his head. She turned to look at him with a twisted grin, and then she asked, “Do you remember ever acting like that when you were a kid?”

  A hard white smile creased his face as he thought of that. “No, I can’t say I do,” he said. He had one arm draped over the back of the couch, and one leg hooked nonchalantly up on the cushions. In casual jeans and a light green shirt, he appeared quite relaxed. “As I recall, the adults were the unreasonable ones, not I.”

  “Did you have any brothers or sisters to play with?” Devan reached to a nearby table for the TV guide Helen always bought and began to flip through the listings. There weren’t any movies on, but a rather interesting musical special was, so she rose to change the channels while he replied,

  “I had two younger brothers. We always found something to get into, it seems. Then somewhere along the line, something changed. They’re settled in New Jersey, close to my parents, while I got a sort of urban wanderlust. I moved to Boston and then to Philadelphia, before coming to New York, and as for my family, we—keep in touch.”

  “Birthday and Christmas cards,” she commented. Helen appeared in the archway, made for her chair, and sank into it with a gesture startlingly reminiscent of Devan’s.

  “That’s about the extent of it,” he admitted, and then sent a smiling glance over to Helen. “I’m certainly nowhere as close to my family as you two seem to be.”

  Devan’s face closed over as she thought of their childhood, but Helen merely lightly replied, “We’re only able to manage that because we’re as different as night and day.” A long series of commercials was drawing to an end, and the opening of the music special reeled by. Then Devan’s sister spoke, absently, “Oh, yes, Ryan, I’ve put sheets on your bed. It’s the first door on your left at the top of the stairs.”

  “You didn’t need to go to the trouble. I could have done it.”

  Devan was silent, wrapped in her thoughts.

  “Nonsense,” said Helen, firmly. Then, “What’s this?”

  “A Sara Bertelli special,” said Devan, absently. Reflected colours showed in the brown of her eyes and in the darkened room the thinness of her facial features and body structure was hidden, making her appear much softer. She felt very strange for a moment; the three of them seemed so ordinary and prosaic, as though watching television together and chatting happened all the time.

  “I’m a great fan of hers,” said Ryan as he stretched, long legs going out, his ribcage expanding. Then he settled again, his hands laced at the back of his head.

  Devan tried to shake off her mood, and said rather wryly, “Most people are.”

  “I take it you’re not?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that,” she replied mildly. “I happen to like her quite a bit, myself. What I meant was that it’s rather hard not to—she seems to have a very endearing personality.” Then she frowned at the screen as the singer came on the studio stage, blazing with vivacity, electricity, dashing style. She was singing a song Devan had never heard before. “Wait—this doesn’t look at all like the one I’ve seen. It must be a new special.”

  Ryan picked up the TV guide and looked at it carelessly. “This says it’s her second. Was her first any good?”

  “Excellent,” she said, and their idle chatting was suspended for a time as all three concentrated on the network special. During the commercials they talked lightly, but not much. Devan found, to her surprise, that she had quite relaxed, and was feeling almost good again, except for the persistent, nagging ache behind her left eye.

  Ryan kicked off his shoes and crossed his ankles, slouching very comfortably as though he had nothing better to do with his time than laze a summer evening away. His hair was casually ruffled, and his light eyes seemed to stand out against his darker face whenever she glanced at him. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up from having washed the dishes, and the top three buttons of his shirt were carelessly undone, as though he couldn’t bear the confines of his collar. With his legs stretched out halfway across the living room floor, the material of his jeans was pulled tight across hips and thigh muscles.

  She watched as he frowned slightly towards the end of the programme. Then he said musingly, “I read something about her, a while ago. Now, what was it?”

  Devan replied absently, curling her legs underneath her neatly, “She was nearly another John Lennon, if that’s what you mean. Some crazy shot her down in the street.”

  His eyes followed the slim, bright figure now saying her goodbye, looking so real, yet thousands of miles away, and unaware of their existence. “That’s right, and her husband was the prosecuting attorney for the case; I remember now. The guy pleaded temporary insanity.”

  Her attention was caught now by him, no longer held by the television, and she waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted, “Yeah, so what happened?”

  He looked mildly startled. “I thought you already knew.”

  “I didn’t follow the story. I’d been—busy at the time.” She had been grieving at the time, waiting for Lee to contact her, isolated in her suspended existence, shut in on he
rself.

  Helen spoke up unexpectedly from her armchair. “As I remember, the fellow who had shot her had tried something of the kind before and got off on a technicality. The jury didn’t buy his plea, and he was put away on maximum sentence, attempted murder.” She shuddered then, delicately.

  Devan glanced at her sister and then she shrugged. “One more nut off the street, I guess.”

  Ryan grunted, watching the last scenes of the singer with fascination. Then he said, “Look at her, doesn’t she look marvellous? This must have been filmed after her recovery—she doesn’t show a bit of it, does she? Vital, and dynamic—even her singing volume seems to be unimpaired. Can you imagine,” he said, musingly, “what she must have gone through in this last year? Pain, shock, fear, near death. And to see her now, she’s going strong.”

  His words were very casual, almost too casual, and Devan turned her head sharply to stare at him. Then her whole expression changed, for she knew what he was saying underneath the light conversation, what he was trying to convey to her in a roundabout way. She stood abruptly, walked over to the television to turn it off, cutting the singer off in mid-chorus.

  “Devan!” protested Helen.

  But she didn’t listen as she pivoted to make for the stairs. “Good try,” she drawled.

  His voice softly reached her. “It was a good try, but the question is, did it work?”

  Her steps faltered, then totally stopped. Images of the singer’s radiant, sleek happiness were played back through her mind, and a sudden, intense wave of anger pulsed through her. “No,” she said bitterly, all her former hostility for him surging back and doing fine.

  “But why not?” he asked quietly, and the couch springs creaked. Then she heard him walking her way. “It seems to me that she’s a great example of fortitude and hope.”

  She exploded, “The situation is not the same; how can you say that?” Then she whirled, to confront him with her anger. “Are you that blind? Her conflict was external, not internal, like mine! She had a whole different set of problems to overcome!” And a supportive, loyal husband who helped her overcome them. “Besides—”