by Janet Dailey
“A toast to the fourth anniversary of our divorce.” He handed Vanessa one of the glasses and lifted the other in salute.
It wasn’t an occasion that she wanted to drink to, so she simply held her glass. Her fingers tightened around the cool glass stem, their pressure nearly snapping it, as Race tossed his wine down in one gulp and reached for the champagne bottle to fill it again. He took another swallow before he noticed she hadn’t touched hers.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you drinking to our divorce? It’s what you wanted.”
“I’m well aware of what I wanted,” she snapped at his cutting reminder. “I don’t need you to tell me.” She shoved the wineglass onto the sink counter and stepped angrily toward him. “Right now, what I want is for you to get out of my bathroom.”
Vanessa laid the flat of her hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him backward. Race didn’t have the balance to resist. With a glass of champagne in one hand and the bottle in the other, he couldn’t stop her from pushing him out of the bathroom and slamming the door in his face. This time, Vanessa locked it and stood trembling for a moment.
Bitter tears filled her eyes, blinding her so she couldn’t see. She pressed a fist to her mouth to smother the sobs while she hugged the towel tightly around her ribs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
VANESSA HAD no idea how long she lay in the tub letting the bathwater soak away the hurt. The water was cool when she finally climbed out of it and toweled herself dry. She slipped the caftan over her head and took a deep, calming breath before she walked out of the bathroom, bracing herself for another meeting with Race.
The apartment seemed strangely quiet. She paused in the bedroom, tipping her head at a listening angle. A shiver of alarm prickled her skin as it suddenly occurred to her that Race might have left. The thought of him staggering drunkenly down some narrow street roused a concern for his safety that overrode the angry bitterness.
“Race?” Vanessa called his name as she hurried into the living room.
There was no answer, but her running steps were halted when she saw him sprawled across the sofa and coffee table. An empty wineglass dangled loosely from his fingers, hanging upside down. The champagne bottle had fallen and was lodged between two cushions. Some of the sparkling wine had been spilled, absorbed by the carpet. Seething with a mixture of frustration and angry concern, Vanessa realized that Race had drunk most of the bottle before he had passed out.
Crossing to the sofa, she took the glass from his hand and rescued the champagne bottle from the cushions. His dark head was drooping to one side at an awkward angle. After she set the bottle and glass on an end table, Vanessa studied him for an irritated moment, her foot unconsciously tapping the carpeted floor. For a spiteful moment she was tempted to leave him like that, knowing full well that he’d wind up with a stiff neck and a sore back.
As she studied his strong male features, an overwhelming tenderness surged through her. There was nothing about him that remotely resembled a little boy, yet there was a need to comfort and take care of him.
It wasn’t too difficult to swing his legs off the coffee table where they had been propped, but it was like trying to lift a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound deadweight when Vanessa attempted to maneuver him into a horizontal position on the couch. After a couple of unsuccessful tries that left her breathing hard, she accomplished her mission.
Race was too long for the sofa, his feet extending over the end, but Vanessa knew she didn’t have a hope of getting him into the bedroom. Plumping a yarnfringed throw pillow, she tucked it under his head. She took off his shoes, removed his tie, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Race groaned once but never stirred.
Taking a spare blanket from the closet, Vanessa spread it over him, then sat for a minute on a narrow edge of the sofa cushion. Her fingers lightly smoothed the rumpled mass of dark hair that fell onto his forehead.
It seemed strange to discover that tonight was the first time Vanessa felt Race had needed her. He had always seemed so irritatingly self-sufficient, so damned proud and self-confident. Not once had he ever leaned on her, not even when his company had been on the verge of bankruptcy and they’d lost all personal property of any value.
When she walked out on him and filed for divorce, Race had bitterly accused her of leaving him when he needed her the most. But Vanessa had never believed that he really meant it. A stillness came over her now as she suddenly realized the possible significance of that. Had she left Race because he hadn’t shown that he needed her? And if he didn’t need her, didn’t it equate that he didn’t love her either? Or was it just another reason to add to the string she’d already listed?
With a confused sigh, she straightened from the sofa. What was the use of conducting a postmortem? It wouldn’t change anything. After four years, it was foolish to think there was any chance they might get back together. Maybe Race had the right idea after all. Maybe she should drink until she passed out, too.
Vanessa went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, but she didn’t touch the bottle of wine. She took out the leftover chicken casserole from the night before and put it in the oven to warm.
After eating a light meal and washing up the dishes, she curled up in the armchair in the living room and turned on the reading lamp, making sure the light was turned away from Race. She picked up a book and opened to the chapter she’d been reading, but she spent more time watching Race than she did reading. He was dead to the world. It seemed unlikely he would waken until morning.
By ten o’clock, Vanessa was yawning. Setting the book aside, she switched off the lamp and made her way to the bedroom in the dark. A few minutes later, she had changed into her short nightie and was sliding under the covers. She fell asleep almost instantly.
IN THE middle of the night, Vanessa was awakened by a loud crash followed by the muffled curses of a man. The first thing that flashed through her mind was that a burglar was in her apartment. She reached for the telephone on the bedstand to call the police. Shocked into full alertness by fear, Vanessa suddenly recognized Race’s voice, and her hand came away from the stand before it had reached its objective.
The matching robe to her nightie was lying on the antique sea trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed. Swinging out of bed, Vanessa snatched it up as she hurried toward the living room. When she reached the door, a lamp was switched on, and she saw Race setting it upright after obviously knocking it over.
“Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously.
His hand was in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the glare of the light. “Just dandy,” he growled. “Would you tell me where the hell the bathroom is in this place?”
Vanessa guessed that he felt like death warmed over, and had to hide a smile. “It’s this way,” she murmured, certain he wouldn’t appreciate her humor at this moment.
Holding his head as if it weighed a ton, Race walked gingerly in her direction. She had a glimpse of his haggard and drawn features as he passed her, heading straight for the bathroom door. He looked terrible—and probably felt worse, she guessed.
“Is there anything I can do—?” The bathroom door was shut before she could complete her offer of assistance.
There was a slight drooping of her shoulders as she stared at the closed door. Race wasn’t drunk now. He didn’t need her help. Her lips thinned tightly together in a straight line. With more than a trace of anger, she took off her robe and tossed it on the trunk before climbing back into bed and turning her back to the bathroom door.
Several minutes went by before Race came out. She could hear him moving about in the bedroom, but she wasn’t about to ask if she could help him find whatever it was he was looking for. She lay rigidly in bed, hating him in that crazy way her emotion toward him kept flip-flopping.
Almost simultaneously, the bedcovers were pulled off her shoulder as the mattress sank under the sudden addition of Race’s weight. Vanessa started to roll onto her
back, only to feel his hand push at her.
“Move over,” Race commanded with open irritation.
Vanessa didn’t have much choice as his muscular body forcibly pushed her to the far side of the bed. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, propping herself up on her elbows to glare at him in the semidarkness.
He was already settling into a comfortable position. “If that sofa was the best you could do, you should have at least covered my feet.” He grumbled the complaint with ill-humor. “They’re freezing.”
“I did cover your feet,” Vanessa retorted. “It isn’t my fault if you kicked the blanket off.”
“Shut up and go to sleep.” Race burrowed his face into the pillow, letting it muffle some of the harshness in his voice. “If you’re too damned prudish to share the bed with me, then you go sleep on the sofa.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” she flared indignantly.
“Maybe you’d better,” he snarled. “I just might rape you in the middle of the night.”
His tone of voice derided the possibility, stinging her with its undisguised contempt. She let her elbows slide out from under her to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling. A stubbornness set in that would not let her abandon her own bed for the dubious comfort of the sofa. But she found it nearly impossible to go back to sleep.
Race didn’t have the same difficulty. Within minutes she could tell by his even, shallow breathing that he was asleep. When he shifted in the bed, Vanessa felt the familiar abrasion of his bare, hair-roughened legs against hers. She had suspected he was wearing only his Jockey shorts, as had been his habit when they were married. The contact with his hard flesh confirmed it.
Gradually the familiarity of having him in bed returned and her body began to relax. Then Vanessa was drifting off to sleep.
THE ALARM shrilled its wake-up call through the room, shattering Vanessa’s peaceful sleep. Race had his arm flung across her waist, weighting her down. He stirred when she pushed it off to roll to the edge of the bed and reach for the alarm clock.
“For Crissake, shut that damned thing off,” Race said in a half-muttered moan of protest.
Vanessa pushed in the little knob to silence it, then lay on her stomach, propped up with her elbows while she tried to orient herself to the early-morning light spilling through the window. She blinked her eyes several times to free them of their sticky sleepiness. A huge yawn claimed her as she lifted the covers to climb out of bed.
“Do you have to bounce on the bed like that?” Race complained, his voice muffled.
With a confused frown, Vanessa turned to look at him. She had dragged herself out of bed. How could he accuse her of bouncing? His face was half-buried under the pillow, and the covers were halfway up his back. All she could see of him was the back of his head where his dark, nearly black hair grew shaggily down his neck, and the sinewed contours of his sun-bronzed shoulders with his ridged spine running down the center.
It took her a second to realize he was undoubtedly hung-over after all the alcohol he’d consumed last night. All sound and motion became magnified to him. Vanessa reacted with a callous disregard for his problem, deciding it served him right.
She disappeared into the bathroom, coming out a few minutes later with her face washed and her teeth brushed. Race appeared to be once more sleeping soundly as she walked to the closet to select what she was going to wear that day. After sifting through the hanging clothes, she finally decided on the straightforward simplicity of a sunny yellow dress with capped sleeves and buttoned front, trimmed with white piping.
As an accessory, Vanessa took a white neck scarf with yellow polka dots from a dresser drawer. Clean underclothes were in another drawer. She removed a set, and a half-slip, then pushed the drawer closed with her hip.
“Do you have to make so much noise,” Race growled from the bed.
“I’m not.” Vanessa finally responded to his unwarranted grumbling.
“You don’t have to shout, either,” he muttered, not moving from his position in the bed, as though any motion was to be avoided at all costs. “Would you pull the window blind?”
“Is the light hurting your eyes?” she asked sweetly, but walked to the window to pull the shade.
“What the hell do you think?” Race replied more forcefully than his other complaints had been issued. There was an immediate groan of regret at the disturbance it caused within.
A smile played with her lips. Vanessa felt a malicious glee at his discomfort after the way he’d treated her last night with such scornful disinterest. She wanted him to feel as rotten and abused as she had last night.
After she had dressed and put on her makeup, she went into the kitchen and fixed a full pot of coffee instead of her usual half. She breakfasted on orange juice, toast, and coffee. When she had finished her third cup, it was time to leave for the shop.
Before leaving the apartment, Vanessa stopped in the bedroom doorway. Race was still sleeping, his position unchanged. She hesitated, almost turning away, then changed her mind.
“Race.” Her voice was very matter-of-fact. “I’m leaving now.” There was no movement, no indication he heard her, but Vanessa continued just the same. “The coffee is hot and there’s tomato juice and orange juice in the refrigerator.”
Her only reply was a grunted acknowledgment. With a flicker of irritation, Vanessa studied his sleeping male form a second longer, wondering why she didn’t roll him out of bed and show him the door instead of letting him stay in her apartment while she was gone. Of course, she didn’t do it, and locked the apartment door behind her as she left.
THE FIRST two hours in the morning, Vanessa always spent catching up on the paperwork and making out the billings for Carla to type. She was checking a supplier’s invoice and verifying she’d been given the proper discount when she was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in.” For a split second she thought it might be Race, coming by to apologize for his inebriated condition yesterday—and perhaps even thank her for the hospitality she hadn’t been obligated to extend to him.
But the door was opened by her assistant decorator, Peter Benoit. A charming smile was pinned on his handsome Gallic features. With his typical flair for the dramatic, he was dressed in jet-black slacks that hugged his slim length and a coral silk shirt with a matching black-and-coral ascot around his neck. He gave the appearance of a dandy, but Vanessa had seen him slopping wallpaper paste side by side with fabric hangers with total disregard for his created image of never dirtying his hands with “work.”
“Do you have a few minutes, Vanessa?” Despite the polite question, he was walking right into her office, taking it for granted that she had the time to spare to speak to him.
“Have a seat.” She had a smile and motioned to the velvet chair in front of her desk.
“I tried to catch you last night, but Carla said you left early yesterday.” He lowered himself gracefully into the chair and crossed a leg over his knee. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in this morning.”
“Why not?” Vanessa arched a delicate brow in mild surprise.
“Carla mentioned that you’d left with a man.” He didn’t try to hide the curious speculation in his expression. “I understand there was talk of an anniversary. Have you been keeping something from us?”
Carla wouldn’t have dreamed of prying into Vanessa’s private life, no matter how eaten up with curiosity she was, but Peter had no such compunction.
“The man you’re referring to happened to be my ex.” Vanessa didn’t see any point in dodging the question. “And yesterday was the anniversary of our divorce.”
“So you went out to celebrate,” Peter concluded. “Tell me, were the old flames still burning?”
“No, I didn’t celebrate, and no, I didn’t discover any old fires still burning last night,” she could answer truthfully as she folded her hands together and rested them on her desktop. “Is this what you came in to talk to me about?”
He chuckled softly. “Y
ou have a very tactful way of pushing people’s noses out of your personal life. Mine has been properly snubbed,” he assured her, unoffended. “I found out yesterday that a love seat I ordered for Mrs. Steinhope is no longer being manufactured. I’ve managed to track down another that’s almost identical, but it’s very cheaply made. I know substituting inferior-quality items goes against your policy, but Mrs. Steinhope has her heart set on this particular piece. I’ve explained to her that it will probably fall apart in a couple of years, but she insists she wants it anyway. I wanted to clear it with you first.”
Vanessa firmly shook her head to veto the idea. “When it falls apart in two years, I can guarantee that Mrs. Steinhope will forget she said any such thing.” She flipped through her Rolodex and jotted down a man’s name and phone number, giving it to Peter. “This man rebuilds and restores period furniture. He does excellent work. Perhaps you could contract with him to build a love seat in the style and specifications that she wants.”
“You’re always capable to cope with a situation, regardless of what it is,” Peter marveled wryly. “You take everything in stride.”
There was nothing to be gained by contradicting him, but Vanessa knew he was wrong. She hadn’t known how to cope with married life, and it had ended up in shambles. But his remark seemed to point again to the possibility that money problems and the absence of security had not been the main causes for her divorce. Perhaps she had been closer to the truth last night when she discovered Race had never really needed her before.
With Peter’s departure, Vanessa turned back to her paperwork. The day settled into its usual routine. Yet, all day long there was a persistent expectancy that Race would stop by or at least call. His truck was parked somewhere in the vicinity, so he wouldn’t have to go out of his way to see her.
After another long session with Mrs. Perez, Vanessa stayed later than usual to catch up with the backlog of work that had accumulated. It was after seven o’clock when she arrived at her apartment.
