Beloved

by Diana Palmer

  Unaware of Simon’s hostile thoughts, Tira went to her silver Jaguar and climbed in behind the wheel. She paused there for a few minutes, with her head against the cold steering wheel. When was she ever going to learn that Simon didn’t want her? It was like throwing herself at a stone wall, and it had to stop. Finally she admitted that nothing was going to change their shallow relationship. It was time she made a move to put herself out of Simon’s orbit for good. Tearing her emotions to pieces wasn’t going to help, and every time she saw him, she died a little more. All these years she’d waited and hoped and suffered, just to be around him occasionally. She’d lived too long on crumbs; she had to find some sort of life for herself without Simon, no matter how badly it hurt.

  Her first step was to sell the Montana property. She put it on the market without a qualm, and her manager pooled his resources with a friend to buy it. With the ranch gone, she had no more reason to go to cattle auctions.

  She moved out of her apartment that was only a couple of blocks from Simon’s, too, and bought an elegant house on the outskirts of town on Floresville Road. It was very Spanish, with graceful arches and black wrought-iron scrollwork on the fences that enclosed it. There was a cobblestone patio complete with a fountain and a nearby sitting area with a large goldfish pond and a waterfall cascading into it. The place was sheer magic. She thought she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

  “It’s the sort of house that needs a family,” the real estate agent had remarked.

  Tira hadn’t said a word.

  She remembered the conversation as she looked around the empty living room that had yet to be furnished. There would never be a family now. There would only be Tira, putting one foot in front of the other and living like a zombie in a world that no longer contained Simon, or hope.

  It took her several weeks to have the house decorated and furnished. She chose every fabric, every color, every design herself. And when the house was finished, it echoed her own personality. Her real personality, that was, not the face she showed to the world.

  No one who was acquainted with her would recognize her from the decor. The living room was done in soft white with a pastel blue, patterned wallpaper. The carpet was gray. The furniture was Victorian, rosewood chairs and a velvet-covered sofa. The other rooms were equally antique. The master bedroom boasted a four-poster bed in cherrywood, with huge ball legs and a headboard and footboard resplendant with hand-carved floral motifs. The curtains were Priscillas, the center panels of rose patterns with faint pink and blue coloring. The rest of the house followed the same subdued elegance of style and color. It denoted a person who was introverted, sensitive and old-fashioned. Which, under the flamboyant camouflage, Tira really was.

  If there was a flaw, and it was a small one, it was the mouse who lived in the kitchen. Once the house was finished, and she’d moved in, she noticed him her first night in residence, sitting brazenly on a cabinet clutching a piece of cracker that she’d missed when she was cleaning up.

  She bought traps and set them, hoping that the evil things would do their horrible work correctly and that she wouldn’t be left nursing a wounded mouse. But the wily creature avoided the traps. She tried a cage and bait. That didn’t work, either. Either the mouse was like those in that cartoon she’d loved, altered by some secret lab and made intelligent, or he was a figment of her imagination and she was going mad.

  She laughed almost hysterically at the thought that Simon had finally, after all those years, driven her crazy.

  Despite the mouse, she loved her new home. But even though she led a hectic life, there were still the lonely nights to get through. The walls began to close around her, despite the fact that she involved herself in charity work committees and was a tireless worker for political action fundraisers. She worked long hours, and pushed herself unnecessarily hard. But she had no outside interests and too much money to work a daily job. What she needed was something interesting to do at home, to keep her mind occupied at night, when she was alone. But what?

  It was a rainy Monday morning. She’d gone to the market for fresh vegetables and wasn’t really watching where she was walking when she turned a corner and went right into the path of Corrigan Hart and his new wife, Dorothy.

  “Good Lord,” she gasped, catching her breath. “What are you two doing in San Antonio?”

  Corrigan grinned. “Buying cattle,” he said, drawing a radiant Dorothy closer. “Which reminds me, I didn’t see you at the auction this time. I was standing in for Simon,” he added. “For some reason, he’s gone off sales lately.”

  “So have I, coincidentally,” Tira remarked with a cool smile. It stung to think that Simon had given up those auctions that he loved so much to avoid her, but that was most certainly the reason. “I sold the Montana property.”

  Corrigan scowled. “But you loved the ranch. It was your last link with your father.”

  That was true, and it had made her sad for a time. She twisted the shopping basket in her hands. “I’d gotten into a rut,” she said. “I wanted to change my life.”

  “So I noticed,” Corrigan said quietly. “We went by your apartment to say hello. You weren’t there.”

  “I moved.” She colored a little at his probing glance. “I’ve bought a house across town.”

  Corrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Someplace where you won’t see Simon occasionally,” he said gently.

  The color in her cheeks intensified. “Where I won’t see Simon at all, if you want the truth,” she said bluntly. “I’ve given up all my connections with the past. There won’t be any more accidental meetings with him. I’ve decided that I’m tired of eating my heart out for a man who doesn’t want me. So I’ve stopped.”

  Corrigan looked surprised. Dorie eyed the other woman with quiet sympathy.

  “In the long run, that’s probably the best thing you could have done,” Dorie said quietly. “You’re still young and very pretty,” she added with a smile. “And the world is full of men.”

  “Of course it is,” Tira replied. She returned Dorie’s smile. “I’m glad things worked out for you two, and I’m very sorry I almost split you up,” she added sincerely. “Believe me, it was unintentional.”

  “Tira, I know that,” Dorie replied, remembering how a chance remark of Tira’s in a local boutique had sent Dorie running scared from Corrigan. That was all in the past, now. “Corrigan explained everything to me. I was uncertain of him then, that’s all it really was. I’m not anymore.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about you and Simon.”

  Tira’s face tautened. “You can’t make people love you,” she said with a poignant sadness in her eyes. She shrugged fatalistically. “He has a life that suits him. I’m trying to find one for myself.”

  “Why don’t you do a collection of sculptures and have a show?” Corrigan suggested.

  She chuckled. “I haven’t done sculpture in three years. Anyway, I’m not good enough for that.”

  “You certainly are, and you’ve got an art degree. Use it.”

  She considered that. After a minute, she smiled. “Well, I do enjoy sculpting. I used to sell some of it occasionally.”

  “See?” Corrigan said. “An idea presents itself.” He paused. “Of course, there’s always a course in biscuit-making…?”

  Knowing his other three brothers’ absolute mania for that particular bread, she held up both hands. “You can tell Leo and Cag and Rey that I have no plans to become a biscuit chef.”

  “I’ll pass the message along. But Dorie’s dying for a replacement,” he added with a grin at his wife. “They’d chain her to the stove if I didn’t intervene.” He eyed Tira. “They like you.”

  “God forbid,” she said with a mock shudder. “For years, people will be talking about how they arranged your marriage.”

  “They meant well,” Dorie defended them.

  “Baloney,” Tira returned. “They had to have their biscuits. Fatal error, Dorie, telling them you could bake.”

  “It wor
ked out well, though, don’t you think?” she asked with a radiant smile at her husband.

  “It did, indeed.”

  Tira fielded a few more comments about her withdrawal from the social scene, and then they were on their way to the checkout stand. She deliberately held back until they left, to avoid any more conversation. They were a lovely couple, and she was fond of Corrigan, but he reminded her too much of Simon.

  In the following weeks, she signed up for a refresher sculpting course at her local community college, a course for no credit since she already had a degree. In no time, she was sculpting recognizable busts.

  “You’ve got a gift for this,” her instructor murmured as he walked around a fired head of her favorite movie star. “There’s money in this sort of thing, you know. Big money.”

  She almost groaned aloud. How could she tell this dear man that she had too much money already? She only smiled and thanked him for the compliment.

  But he put her sculpture in a showing of his students’ work. It was seen by a local art gallery owner, who tracked Tira down and offered her an exclusive showing. She tried to dissuade him, but the offer was all too flattering to turn down. She agreed, with the proviso that the proceeds would go to an outreach program from the local hospital that worked in indigent neighborhoods.

  After that, there was no stopping her. She spent hours at the task, building the strength in her hands and attuning her focus to more detailed pieces.

  It wasn’t until she finished one of Simon that she even realized she’d been sculpting him. She stared at it with contained fury and was just about to bring both fists down on top of it when the doorbell rang.

  Irritated at the interruption, she tossed a cloth over the work in progress and went to answer it, wiping the clay from her hands on the way. Her hair was in a neat bun, to keep it from becoming clotted with clay, but her pink smock was liberally smeared with it. She looked a total mess, without makeup, even without shoes, wearing faded jeans and a knit top.

  She opened the door without questioning who her visitor might be, and froze in place when Simon came into view on the porch. She noticed that he was wearing the prosthesis he hated so much, and she noted with interest that the hand at the end of it looked amazingly real.

  She lifted her eyes to his, but her face wasn’t welcoming. She didn’t open the door to admit him. She didn’t even smile.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He scowled. That was new. He’d visited Tira’s apartment infrequently in the past, and he’d always been greeted with warmth and even delight. This was a cold reception indeed.

  “I came to see how you were,” he replied quietly. “You’ve been conspicuous by your absence around town lately.”

  “I sold the ranch,” she said flatly.

  He nodded. “Corrigan told me.” He looked around at the front yard and the porch of the house. “This is nice. Did you really need a whole house?”

  She ignored the question. “What do you want?” she asked again.

  He noted her clay-smeared hands, and the smock she was wearing. “Laying bricks, are you?” he mused.

  She didn’t smile, as she might have once. “I’m sculpting.”

  “Yes, I remember that you took courses in college. You were quite good.”

  “I’m also quite busy,” she said pointedly.

  His eyebrow arched. “No invitation to have coffee?”

  She hardened her resolve, despite the frantic beat of her heart. “I don’t have time to entertain. I’m getting ready for an exhibit.”

  “At Bob Henderson’s gallery,” he said knowledgeably. “Yes, I know. I have part ownership in it.” He held up his hand when she started to speak angrily. “I had no idea that he’d seen any of your work. I didn’t suggest the showing. But I’d like to see what you’ve done. I do have a vested interest.”

  That put a new complexion on things. But she still didn’t want him in her house. She’d never rid herself of the memory of him in it. Her reluctant expression told him that whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t pleasure.

  He sighed. “Tira, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  She stared at the cloth in her hands instead of at him. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”

  “Are you kidding?” He drew in a heavy breath and wondered why he should suddenly feel guilty. “You’ve sold the ranch, moved house and given up any committees that would bring you into contact with me….”

  She looked up in carefully arranged surprise. “Oh, heavens, it wasn’t because of you,” she lied convincingly. “I was in a rut, that’s all. I decided that I needed to turn my life around. And I have.”

  His eyes glittered down at her. “Did turning it around include keeping me out of it?”

  Her expression was unreadable. “I suppose it did. I was never able to get past my marriage. The memories were killing me, and you were a constant reminder.”

  His heavy eyebrows lifted. “Why should the memories bother you?” he asked with visible sarcasm. “You didn’t give a damn about John. You divorced him a month after the wedding and never seemed to care if you saw him again or not. Barely a week later, you were keeping company with Charles Percy.”

  The bitterness in his voice opened her eyes to something she’d never seen. Why, he blamed her for John’s death. She didn’t seem to breathe as she looked up into those narrow, cold, accusing eyes. It had been three years since John’s death and she’d never known that Simon felt this way.

  Her hands on the cloth stilled. It was the last straw. She’d loved this big, formidable man since the first time she’d seen him. There had never been anyone else in her heart, despite the fact that she’d let him push her into marrying John. And now, years too late, she discovered the reason that Simon had never let her come close to him. It was the last reason she’d ever have guessed.

  She let out a harsh breath. “Well,” she said with forced lightness, “the things we learn about people we thought we knew!” She tucked the smeared cloth into a front pocket of her equally smeared smock. “So I killed John. Is that what you think, Simon?”

  The frontal assault was unexpected. His guard was down and he didn’t think before he spoke. “You played at marriage,” he accused quietly. “He loved you, but you had nothing to give him. A month of marriage and you were having divorce papers served to him. You let him go without a word when he decided to work on oil rigs, despite the danger of it. You didn’t even try to stop him. Funny, but I never realized what a shallow, cold woman you were until then. Everything you are is on the outside,” he continued, blind to her white, drawn face. “Glorious hair, a pretty face, sparkling eyes, pretty figure…and nothing under it all. Not even a spark of compassion or love for anyone except yourself.”

  She wasn’t breathing normally. Dear God, she thought, don’t let me faint at his feet! She swallowed once, then twice, trying to absorb the horror of what he was saying to her.

  “You never said a word,” she said in a haunted tone. “In all these years.”

  “I didn’t think it needed saying,” he said simply. “We’ve been friends, of a sort. I hope we still are.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “As long as you realize that you’ll never be allowed within striking distance of my heart. I’m not a masochist, even if John was.”

  Later, when she was alone, she was going to die. She knew it. But right now, pride spared her any further hurt.

  She went past him, very calmly, and opened the front door, letting in a scent of dead leaves and cool October breeze. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. She just stood there.

  He walked past her, hesitating on the doorstep. His narrow eyes scanned what he could see of her face, and its whiteness shocked him. He wondered why she looked so torn up, when he was only speaking the truth.

  Before he could say a thing, she closed the door, threw the dead bolt and put on the chain latch. She walked back toward her studio, vaguely aware that he was trying to call her back.

 
The next morning, the housekeeper she’d hired, Mrs. Lester, found her sprawled across her bed with a loaded pistol in her hands and an empty whiskey bottle lying on its side on the stained gray carpet. Mrs. Lester quickly looked in the bathroom and found an empty bottle that had contained tranquilizers. She jerked up the telephone and dialed the emergency services number with trembling hands. When the ambulance came screaming up to the front of the house, Tira still hadn’t moved at all.

  Chapter Two

  It took all of that day for Tira to come out of the stupor and discover where she was. It was a very nice hospital room, but she didn’t remember how she’d gotten there. She was foggy and disoriented and very sick to her stomach.

  Dr. Ron Gaines, an old family friend, came in the door ahead of a nurse in neat white slacks and a multi-colored blouse with many pockets.

  “Get her vitals,” the doctor directed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  While her temperature and blood pressure and pulse rate were taken, Dr. Gaines leaned against the wall quietly making notations on her chart. The nurse reported her findings, he charted them and he motioned her out of the room.

  He moved to the bed and sat down in the chair beside Tira. “If anyone had asked me two weeks ago, I’d have said that you were the most levelheaded woman I knew. You’ve worked tirelessly for charities here, you’ve spear-headed fund drives… Good God, what’s the matter with you?”

  “I had a bad blow,” she confessed in a subdued tone. “It was unexpected and I did something stupid. I got drunk.”

  “Don’t hand me that! Your housekeeper found a loaded pistol in your hand.”