A Marriage To Fight For

by Raina Lynn

  “Seems to me you used to like this.” Shyly, she set a plate in front of him.

  For four years. Garrett had gotten few home-cooked meals, and none compared to Maggie’s. Tonight she’d fixed his favorite: plain, no-frills roast beef, roasted carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy. The aroma had teased him unmercifully while dinner cooked. “It’s perfect, babe.”

  He could have sworn he detected a soft sigh of relief. She sat across from him, the same places at the same table they’d shared for years.

  At RPI he’d become rather adept at getting food to his mouth left-handed, but cutting meat required two functioning hands. He laid the adapted knife across his right palm and strapped it in place with two sets of Velcro strips.

  Conversation was limited to aborted starts, stops and covert glances over the rims of their glasses. What am I doing here? He groped in the darkness of his mind for an answer he could live with, but it remained unchanged, soft and simple, painful in its simplicity. Because, like any wounded animal, you crawled back to your den. You came home.

  After dinner, they loaded the dishwasher together in virtual silence. Maggie scraped plates and handed them to him to put in the rack. My kind of job, he observed acidly. The dishwasher is on my level—the ground

  The tension between them continued to build over the course of the evening. They sat through a movie, he on one side of the room in his wheelchair, she in the corner of the L-shaped sectional couch, feet tucked up beneath her, a glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of her.

  There was a time when we watched movies curled in each other’s arms, feeding each other popcorn, licking the butter and salt from each other’s fingers, he remembered morosely. Occasionally, we even saw the ending before I carried you off to bed. You never complained. He turned back to the TV, not that he had any idea what they were watching.

  The torture ended with the late-night news, and neither moved or looked at each other. It was as if they feared making a fatal misstep. That made him furious. Maybe the nerves in his spine hadn’t been the only ones damaged in the crash.

  “Do you want to watch a video, or are we going to call it a night?” he asked bluntly. He could feel the set cast to his expression, but smiling was more than he could muster.

  She ran her fingers through her rumpled auburn hair, easing it back over her shoulders. Then she turned apprehensive green eyes toward him. “Bed sounds pretty good.”

  Bed. The one word he hadn’t wanted to voice out loud. Hearing it made their problems all the more immediate. Earlier, she’d put his clothes in the master bedroom closet, sparing him the indignity of asking where he was to sleep. Yet, as badly as he wanted her, he knew better. Once he tasted of her again, how could he ever leave again in three weeks? It was enough to make him wish she’d banished him to the couch.

  Maggie still looked at him, waiting for his answer, her own nervousness apparent in the way she needlessly adjusted the couch cushions.

  “I’m tired.” Sure you are. You’re wired enough to swear off sleep for a week.

  Maggie knew it too from the flash of skepticism that crossed her face. “Okay.”

  Sexual awareness charged the room, and a tightness gripped his chest.

  “I’ll get the lights,” she whispered, turning away.

  He nodded without comment and headed down the hall. If they were any more polite, they might rupture something.

  Negotiating the tight, right-angle turn into the master bedroom proved a bit tricky but not impossible. The king-size bed was the same, as was the Oriental spread that covered it. The dresser and bedside tables had a few more nicks and dings than before but were where he remembered them. A quick glance at the far wall told him where their old TV and VCR had gone.

  Then he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored doors of the walk-in closet and sucked in his breath. How many mornings had he stood tall before that mirror, making sure his uniform measured up to department standards before he kissed Maggie and Rick goodbye for the day? Now, he stared at the man he was today, for the first time since the accident able to see the total picture. His eye was brutal as it scoured the gaunt figure glaring back at him. In the soft light, the chrome wheel spokes and chair frame shone with stark brilliance.

  In the living room, Maggie clicked off lamps and pulled the drapes closed. Garrett was home. Yet he seemed farther away than when they had lived a continent apart. Feeling more unsure of herself than on their wedding night, she slipped into the bedroom.

  She watched Garrett study his reflection, his deep-set sapphire eyes taking in every detail, his chiseled features rigid with harsh appraisal. Even in a wheelchair, he radiated a power and authority few men could hope to attain. His ordeal had taxed his strength to its limits, yet he’d survived. The pain had aged him, frosting his temples with a light touch of gray, but the overall effect doubled the impact this darkly handsome man had on her senses.

  But what do you see, my love? she wondered, wishing—not for the first time—that she had his uncanny ability to read people.

  Abruptly, he turned away, his face ravaged with hatred and self-doubt.

  Maggie sucked in her breath. “Let it go, Garrett.” Her voice came out no more than a choked whisper. “The past is where it belongs. Today and tomorrow are all that matter.”

  He jumped but made no reply. Apparently, he had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed her presence, something that was no longer a rare occurrence, but one that emphasized the changes in him.

  The bed loomed monstrously in the room. Garrett wasn’t home because he wanted her. He was home because she’d taken advantage of him in a weak moment. Should she have asked before she’d put his clothes in the closet they’d once shared? On the other hand, this was the only downstairs bedroom.

  Was he feeling trapped? Did he feel he had to perform? The spontaneity of their raging hormones in the pool and therapy room at RPI was far different from calmly, deliberately climbing between the sheets. Besides, if she pushed too hard too fast, he’d realize he’d been had and she’d never get him to stay.

  Maybe it would be best to give him an out. Unable to voice it while looking at him, her gaze drifted to the ceiling. “Would you...uhmmm...prefer if I slept in the spare bedroom? You might rest better without me tossing and turning next to you all night.”

  Her rejection sliced deep, taking Garrett’s breath away. So the truth comes out at last. He laughed bitterly at the irony of the situation. “Here I’ve been worried about whether or not we should make love at all, and you’re not even interested in sharing bed space.”

  “That’s not true!” she snapped back. “I just thought—”

  “Sorry. I assumed we’d be sleeping together. After thirteen years, sleeping chastely in separate beds seemed rather foolish to me. I guess it doesn’t to you.”

  She gasped.

  “I’m only here temporarily, and I should have asked about the sleeping arrangements rather than assuming.”

  She felt her face heat in embarrassed fury. Her breath rushed out, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “The first day home is often rough, and we’re not communicating very—”

  “When you suggested I stay here, I thought you might be trying to pull something. What you said didn’t quite fit. But I was wrong about that, too. You don’t need to rub my nose in it.”

  Maggie sputtered incoherently, then clamped her jaws shut. After a long brittle silence, she put her hands on her hips. “Garrett, I’m not going to get into a shouting match with you.” She bit out each syllable. “Good night.”

  She snatched her lavender pajamas from the hook in the bathroom and stormed to the door, her back ramrod straight. An annoying sense of responsibility stopped her. Despite all, it was his first night out of the hospital. “Before I go, is there anything you need?”

  “No,” he drawled. “Thanks to you and your devoted minions, I can get in and out of the damn chair alone, get dressed alone, I can even go the bathroom alone just like a b
ig boy.”

  She grimaced at the biting sarcasm and left.

  Furious with Maggie, with himself and with the world at large, Garrett whipped back the blankets, took one look at the sheets and groaned. They had faded a little after years of laundering, but he remembered them well. More to the point, he remembered Maggie’s creamy skin a sensuous contrast against the royal blue satin.

  Shaking off the tormenting memories, he snapped off the light and attempted to get himself from the chair to the bed. The edge of the mattress—softer than he remembered—sagged, dumping him on the floor. He landed hard between the bed and wheelchair. Unhurt but livid, his frustration and rage poured out in a string of obscenities wholly inadequate to the occasion.

  Blitzing through the living room, Maggie heard the crash and froze. Too furious to go back in there without good reason, she called out, “Are you hurt?”

  There was more swearing. “I’m just fine.”

  Sure you are. Fine explains why you’re such a crabby, potty mouth. “I take it you fell. Do you need any help?”

  The momentary silence sounded more obscene than his vocabulary. “Good night, Maggie Jean.”

  Maggie crept down the hallway just far enough to hear the sounds of him painstakingly getting from the floor to the bed. Then she stormed upstairs. “Why do I love that man? Why! Why! Why!” She swallowed hard and sniffed back threatening tears.

  Patience, Hughes. He’s not himself, came a softer, more rational voice. He still needs months more—if not years—to adjust. You’re lucky the pressure hasn’t sent him exploding off on a tangent over something really crazy. Her anger melted into sadness.

  “It’s not fair,” she moaned. “We’ve been through so much. Why can’t we make it the rest of the way?”

  She flipped on the light and stopped dead. On the far wall hung their wedding portrait. After the divorce, she hadn’t been able to stand it in the living room, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it either. So she’d compromised, putting it in a room she rarely entered, knowing it was there, but not having to look at it every day.

  A mournful laugh whispered from her throat. She and Garrett had been so young—her nineteen to his twenty-five. Studying the confident set to his square features, she smiled at the bittersweet memories. Back then, she’d believed he could do wrong, no task too great. All that and more showed so clearly in the way she had adoringly gazed up at him, the photographer capturing their love forever.

  With a slow shake of her head, she changed into pajamas she hadn’t thought she’d be needing tonight and turned toward the lonely twin bed. Pulling back the covers, she stared for a moment at the floral print percale. She’d put the royal blue satin sheets on downstairs, believing Garrett would be beside her in their bed. Did the old sheets mean anything to him? Or were such memories a woman thing?

  Looking distastefully at the bed again, she scowled in hurt and frustration and flipped out the light.

  The mattress was comfortable, the sheets crisp and clean. She knew she should fall asleep instantly, but she lay staring at the ceiling, her mind torturing her with what she and Garrett once had, and all they’d lost.

  The master bedroom and its big bed were directly below her. Did Garrett also lie staring at the ceiling? Did he wonder if she was awake? The endless loop of tormenting possibilities raced faster and faster, until she thought she’d go crazy.

  “Stop it, Hughes,” she groused, struggling for a little professional detachment. “Our first day was a disaster. Keep it in perspective. You got him here. That’s a big first step. Tomorrow will be better.” Sure. And pigs fly.

  Time snailed by, and she fidgeted until she found herself tangled in the blankets. The front door squeaked open and shut. Then she heard the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs. Bolting out of bed, she met Rick in the hallway as he turned toward his room in the dark.

  “Richard Patrick Hughes, where have you been?”

  With a wordless shriek, Rick whirled around. “Mom, you scared me to death!”

  “Where have you been?” Her hands dropped to her hips. A distant part of her mind told her to back off, that the missed curfew was only an excuse to explode.

  “What are you doing up here?” he asked, still breathless.

  “Rick, this was your father’s first day home. The least you could have done was come straight—”

  “Dad’s here? He didn’t change his mind?” Green eyes sparkled in a hungry hope.

  “You got off work almost four hours ago. There’s no excuse for your behavior this time.”

  He took a defensive step backward and raised his hands placatingly. “Mom, my car broke down.”

  A thread of sanity breached the storm. “It what?”

  “It wouldn’t start after work, so my friend John called his dad, and we towed it to their place. We’ve been working on it for hours. As soon as we got it going, I came straight home.” His expression became sheepish. “I guess I should have called anyway, huh?”

  Only then did Maggie notice the grease smears on his hands, forearms and one cheek. She groaned. “I’m sorry, honey. I just assumed.”

  Rick didn’t answer at first, then gave his trademark shrug. “I guess you figured you had a right to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Maggie nearly whimpered out loud with remorse. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “Is Dad really here?” The light shining in his eyes was one she had never thought to see again. Garrett had been right. There was progress.

  “Yes, he really is.” Her smile came easily.

  “Is he...I mean is he staying?”

  “Until Blake says Desi and Ash are okay.”

  “Chicken pox.” He chuckled. She didn’t need Garrett’s gift of reading people to discern her son’s thoughts. A simple childhood disease had brought his father home and, despite himself, he couldn’t be happier about it.

  “He may be asleep already,” she said, “but you can go check if you want.”

  Rick smiled tentatively, then lowered his face to hide his sudden shyness. “I’ll wait till morning.” A moment later, he frowned a question at her. “Mom...uhmm...if he’s down there, what are you doing up here?”

  Maggie, embarrassed that he’d zeroed in on the sleeping arrangements, had a hard time meeting his puzzled gaze. He’s sixteen, Hughes. His whole world revolves around hormones. You should have expected that. “Today was a little stressful and—”

  “You had a fight?!” His expression twisted into a mute accusation of betrayal. “I knew it wouldn’t work. I knew it!”

  He turned away, and Maggie grabbed his arm. “We told you this was temporary. I need your support for the next three weeks, Rick, and so does he! We’re treading water as fast as we can, and I expect you to tread right beside us. Is that clear?”

  “What good will it do?” The wary skepticism that clouded his expression wasn’t much better than the anger, but it was the best she could hope for. “He’s leaving again.”

  His obvious distress cooled her temper. “If you won’t try for yourself or him, then do it for me.”

  He nodded, but she sensed his reservations and fears. Garrett had been right. Rick couldn’t handle anything less than an intact family. The emotional price tag for risking his heart again was higher than he could pay. She understood exactly how he felt. Only she wasn’t an insecure sixteen-year-old, and she had no choice but to find the courage to try.

  “Good morning, son,” Garrett said in a deliberately conversational tone as the boy entered the kitchen.

  Rick stopped in the doorway, scrutinizing him as if he didn’t quite trust his senses. “Hi, Dad.” His voice sounded years younger than it should have.

  He’s nervous! At the realization, Garrett flattened the urge to grin like an ape.

  “I’m...uhmmm...sorry I came in so late last night.”

  “No problem.” I don’t know where you stuffed your hostility, but I’m not complaining. “What happened?”

  Rick reach
ed for the cereal in the cupboard above the refrigerator and explained.

  “Sounds like the carburetor needs rebuilding, too,” Garrett said. “I can’t do the work—” he indicated his right hand “—but I can talk you through it if you’re interested.”

  Rick looked eager, like years ago, before the divorce. Then the eagerness vanished behind a defensive mask. “Thanks, but John’s dad is picking up a rebuild kit. He’s a professional mechanic.”

  If Rick had stabbed a knife into Garrett’s heart it wouldn’t have hurt worse. His son preferred an outsider to help with his car. Garrett took another sip of his coffee, a ploy to give him a moment to recover.

  At least his son hadn’t come down a few minutes earlier to witness his struggles with the simple task of making coffee. Maggie had left a clean mug and the coffee can on the counter. Filling the pot with water from the sink was no problem, but pouring it into the reservoir required a reach and dexterity that had almost proved disastrous.

  This was his first full day out of the hospital, and it hadn’t begun at all well. Maggie woke him just as she was ready to leave for work, effectively blocking out any possibility of conversation other than a terse quarrel about her sending someone to check on him. Now his son threw him some new curves.

  Rick filled a cereal bowl and took it into the dining room. Garrett wanted to follow, but he couldn’t handle the wheelchair and hot coffee at the same time. He took another swallow, set the cup on the counter and went into the dining room.

  “What are your plans for the day?” he asked.

  “Work. The manager is giving me all the extra hours he can until school starts.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but focused on eating instead.

  Garrett pushed on. “Are you playing soccer this year? Seems to me that the team gets back together about now.”

  Rick shot him a look of terrified vulnerability, then walled it off behind a diffident shrug. “Yeah, I still play. First practice is tomorrow.”