by Fiona Barnes
Cate's heart sank. His actions always gave his feelings away, and his fearful entry told her so much. "I'm on the phone..." Gesturing, her hand fell to her side, lost.
Tom only nodded.
Cate turned, walking back the way she'd come, Tom following slowly. In the living room, she picked up the phone, a robot. "Cindy, I have to go. I love you."
Cate listened intently for a minute, said a few more quiet words, then gently replaced the phone in its cradle. Turning to Tom, she tried for casual and fell short. "How are you?"
Tom's face said the question was too personal but he tried to smile. "I'm okay." Here he paused, stuck. Finally, he asked, "You?"
"I'm fine, Tom." His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hair was graying and slightly longer than he normally wore it.
Awkward and clumsy suddenly, Cate moved toward the kitchen.
"Would you like something?"
"No."
Stung at his cold tone, Cate reached for a tall glass and filled it with water and ice. Merry, underfoot, bumped her leg. Cate's hand touched Merry's velvety head, grateful for the strength of the dog.
"You're back then?" All her questions sounded like inquisitions to her.
"I am."
"Did you have a nice trip?" Forced formality had set in, somewhere around their divorce and his diagnosis. Her husband had checked out a long time ago. In front of her stood his shell, broken and lost.
"I had to get away," Tom said, as if that explained everything.
There was silence. Then, "Is there anything you need?" Cate spoke kindly. She ignored the urge to pepper Tom with questions, knowing from experience he'd close off even more.
Tom shook his head. Tears briefly formed in his expressive eyes before he looked away. Cate waited.
She turned to the shiny refrigerator, treating the visit as if Tom were an old friend. She poured a tall glass of sweet iced tea, turning and placing it on the island in front of her. Washing her hands with delicious, foamy soap,
she added a chunk of fresh lemon. Next, Cate rinsed strawberries, placing them on a plate and adding a hunk of good cheese for herself.
Tom watched her every move, his eyes sad. Cate searched her frightened brain for words, any words, to make him feel at ease.
"Do you want to sit?" she asked him, without looking up from her work. She was thinking about melting rich milk chocolate and dripping it over the strawberries. When she heard Tom fall into a chair, she began to casually talk.
"I just worked up a whole slew of Halloween shows."
"That's good."
She paused, in case he added words. When he didn't, Cate continued, "Al and Nic are great. I just spoke to them this afternoon."
"Yeah."
"I was just in LA−" Hearing herself touch on that fateful trip, Cate's throat closed, but Tom only acknowledged that she'd spoken. He didn't seem to register the words she'd used. "It was lovely weather."
Her eyes swept the room as she talked, taking everything in quickly.
Tom's shoulders relaxed a little at the safe topic. He sat facing a fireplace full of charred wood and ash from Cate's last fire. Embarrassed, Cate realized she'd forgotten to tidy it. Usually, she would've added tea lights, candles and a sconce with arms like beautiful branches to hold them all. When did Tom become such a privileged guest, causing her to look at her own home through such sordid eyes?
"Your house has been fine," Cate forced a laugh. "I couldn't figure out−I've been working on the back deck and Merry has been staring due north all weekend. Finally, it hit me, she was staring at your house. Weren't you? Good girl," she bumped the big dog with her leg gently. The pup stared up at Cate with devoted eyes. Long jewels of drool rolled out either side of her mouth, inviting more strawberries. "Good girl."
Tom's laugh echoed Cate's as he rose, full of stilted joviality. His eyes didn't match the feeling as they searched hers out. His heart wasn't in it. He moved toward Cate, his blue eyes now on the pretty plate of strawberries.
Cate nudged the dish closer to him and Tom stopped before the island. He shook his head no even as he watched the shiny wet berries.
"I'm thinking about adding chocolate." This time Cate's laugh was more sincere. For a moment, their eyes met−connected−two people who'd shared a lifetime and knew one another.
Then Tom looked away. "I'm in trouble, Cate."
Chapter Forty Five
Cate took a slow quiet deep breath and tried to sound calm. "You're alright?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay." Tom's ideas were often maximized by the disease. What seemed insurmountable to him was almost always something Cate felt they could deal with together, easily. Catastrophic in his mind, from the build-up of worry alone, and yet he endeavored to put her at ease, as much as possible. "I need money."
PTSD sometimes caused him to feel lacking, Cate remembered. "Tom?"
"I−" Words began to pour out of the man, stressed, angry thoughts that had obviously been stored up. As he talked, he gestured and paced. His eyes filled and tears spilled down his cheeks until Cate could take it no longer. Placing the knife down on the cutting board, she moved around the island and reached out, not thinking.
"No!" Tom took a step back, saving himself.
Hurt, Cate pulled her arms back and stared at the floor. Finally, after a long beat, she retreated to the strawberries. Merry stood waiting, unaffected, hopeful.
"I'm sorry. I just don't like to be touched."
"It's okay." Her voice was soft.
"I'm sorry." Broken, Tom felt himself caught. He didn't want to hurt Cate but he couldn't accept any higher anxiety than what he was already feeling.
Cate took a deep breath and looked the frustrated man in the eye. "It's okay," she told him gently. "I understand."
Tom's sob was the only sound for a moment. Carrie Underwood sang about being changed, her voice filling the space. Merry padded over to him, her claws clicking on the floor. Birds chirped in the feeder in the window behind Cate. The refrigerator hummed. As each sound slowly registered, Cate realized she'd been holding her breath.
"Tom," Cate said calmly, steady again, wanting only to reassure. "We'll fix this."
Chapter Forty Six
Cate listened to Tom talk for an hour. He listed everything that was bothering him, each a true concern. Her nature was to fix, so Cate concentrated on that aspect, offering money as well as her help.
This kept her awake later, long after Tom had left the house.
She was happy he'd confided in her and trusted her, after so many long months of distance and suspicion. He had been treating her like he could tolerate her (that was the PTSD winning). In real life, before the diagnosis, Tom had loved her. Desperately and preciously. Only her. And he'd needed her. They'd been a team.
Like so many things, Cate felt she could see clearly now. She lay in her tall bed, watching the sun rise. It was a glorious orange hue that slowly lit the horizon with a warmth that surprised her this early in the day. The blue of the sky deepened the higher it went and the few leafless branches marked the sky like graffiti. She couldn't look away, she'd miss something. Such a sight was a gift, Cate's heart felt.
In her mind, however, she processed, without even realizing it. Snuggled under a thick, soft comforter of pure white, only Cate's eyes and the top of her head peeked out. She peered out the large bank of windows to her right, watching the colors change and ebb then brighten again. She faded into her thoughts for a minute, only to be drawn back out by the shifting of the color. The sky lit for a moment, adding soft yellow above the orange band. The blues deepened.
The large room was backlit by the pretty scene. Cate could only make out the shapes of the few pieces of furniture and the fireplace. Gradually, light filled the room gently, bringing each corner into her view. Still she watched. She was almost peaceful now.
She'd offered Tom money. Cate didn't like the guilt she felt. She hadn't listened fully, like a true friend might. She'd tossed money at the problem, her deep
need to assist him at the forefront of her mind, fear ruling her actions. True, Tom's pain had seemed honest and certainly deep−he'd acted stressed and in pain and the depth of it hurt Cate to her core. In truth, it had frightened her desperately. She hadn't ever seen him like that in all the years she'd known him.
She thought nothing of the fact that Tom had unburdened himself to her. Only of her mistakes and failures (of which she found many). There was nothing she could do to fix it now, Cate decided. Tom wouldn't recognize an apology−he wasn't...there. There would be no realistic conversations, with Cate saying how she felt and Tom reacting appropriately or even hearing her. It had been years and years since that had happened, if it even ever had. She couldn't remember. The line between who Tom had been and who he was now blurred more every day.
All she could do was hope. And know Tom might appreciate her ear, her sincere offer to help ease his stress. She'd done the best she could, with the most honest of intentions. Frowning slightly, Cate thought: it didn't always feel that way. Such was the dance of PTSD: up, down, over and back. Changing partners on a whim, turning around and front again.
The flurry of a bird in the windowsill feeder caught her attention. The sky was mellowing; soft bands of yellow lit the horizon, the blue above it shifting to violet. Cate could imagine rubbing her thumb firmly but gently over the colors, blending and merging them. A thin line of pink touched the tops of the trees like a ribbon and Cate's eyelashes fluttered, her heart finally easing, her soul relaxing, as the birds nibbled seed and the sky danced with colors.
Chapter Forty Seven
Tom was in front of her. Cate had walked rapidly off-set after the taping, knowing he sat in the audience, thrown. He'd always been kind to her in their marriage, but to know he sat there now−was it support? Coincidence? Was he interested in the money she'd offered? Waiting for a check?
A dozen paranoid thoughts raced through her brain, none making sense, as Cate tried to think. She'd walked quickly down the carpeted hallway, straight to her office. She'd only just seated herself when the knock sounded.
"Come in," she called.
Tom's face appeared, hesitant. His hand was cupped over the side of the door casually, but Cate knew there was strength there.
"Hey," he said softly, an old friend.
Buckets of water rushed under the bridge at a speed Cate couldn't quite keep up with.
Chapter Forty Eight
Cate wasn't sure how he did it. She wasn't sure how much was her fault. But as she stared at his familiar face, the candlelight waving and bobbing over it, she was peaceful.
He caught her eye and sat, looking at her.
If there was one thing Tom could do, and do well, it was kindness. He could be tender, loving, gentle−better than anyone she knew.
She looked back at him, briefly wondering what her face gave away. She wasn't sure what she felt−gratitude? Comfort? Love? Tom's strong chin had a shadow of darkness across it. His hair was freshly cut, the gray looked handsome. As she always did when she thought of him, she felt strength. He was a man. He was damaged, human. He was capable of great hurt−but weren't we all?
She silently cursed her heart. She was better than this.
"You're okay?" he asked her now. His voice was low, just for her.
Cate nodded.
"Dessert?" Tom let her decide. His voice hummed through her when he spoke.
She nodded again.
Tom signaled the waitress. When she appeared, smiling, he said, "Something with chocolate and two coffees."
When the waitress moved away, Tom turned to Cate. They were sitting next to one another, tucked into an alcove, against a wall, deep in the restaurant. "I know you've been through a lot," he said gently.
Cate sat, her eyes caught in his.
Chapter Forty Nine
The next few weeks were a blur. Tom was always in her peripheral. He'd be on his porch in time for coffee each morning, grinning and returning a wave from Cate. He'd knock at her door politely, respecting boundaries he seemed to know he'd have to earn his way past. He was always fresh: shaved, dressed neatly and smelling good. Cate could smell the clean, masculine scent as he passed, or when he leaned closer to hear something she'd said.
They'd had dinner several times, and sat in front of her fire until late one night, just talking. It was familiar and yet−intriguing, a little bit nerve-racking. Tom asked Cate about her day, listened when she talked, remembered what she said. He supported her, and complimented her. He lifted her up.
It was the last few that really got to her. They reminded her of why she'd fallen in love with the kind, confident man. A man who'd shown her respect, acknowledged her fierce independence, treated her with gentle tenderness and earned her trust over time. Once he had, she had allowed him to take care of her, so many years ago.
She was dating her husband. And he appeared to be dating her.
It was Tuesday, two weeks before Halloween, when Cate arrived home late. She parked the Jeep in her spacious garage, then entered the house through the kitchen. Cate stowed her bags in her office after sorting them neatly, ready for the next day. She'd gone through her mail, piling correspondence she wanted to reply to on the corner of her desk.
Kicking her shoes off, as she always did, she walked to the kitchen, Merry at her side.
As was her habit, Cate spoke to the older dog as if she was understood. "What should we have, girl?" The woman poked through the refrigerator, sleepy, as Merry cocked her head, hopeful.
Cate was chopping garlic to sauté in a buttery sauce she'd dreamed up on the spot when Tom knocked on the French doors.
Cate padded across the room to let him in, then crossed back to wash her hands and return to her work. She took large cooked shrimp from the freezer and ran them under cool water in a colander, to be added to the cooktop mixture. She washed and chopped greens, brightly-colored pepper, onion, chives, cucumber and a carrot. Mixing a spicy vinaigrette, she poured, then drizzled two spoonfuls of crumbled bleu cheese over the salad.
Satisfied, Cate turned her attention back to her sauté, grating Parmesan, grinding pepper, and mincing fresh parsley. At the last minute, she mixed in chunked onion, stirring it while lowering the heat to soften the pieces. Tom watched all of this quietly, understanding Cate's exhaustion. It was nine o'clock at night. He knew she probably wanted nothing more than a full belly, a warm bed and nine uninterrupted hours of peace. He also knew she'd be grateful to hit snooze after seven.
And to get there, she'd need to relax.
He swiped a piece of cucumber and tossed it to Merry. The grateful dog snapped up the food, never leaving Cate's side.
"Unheard of," Tom grinned.
Cate looked up, the wooden spoon she stirred with slowly stopping. Her eyes went from the cutting board, to Tom, to the big dog, taking in the situation and searching for understanding.
"She never left your side, even for food," he told her.
"I'm her alpha," Cate went back to her prep. She poured herself a tall glass of whole milk, and tipped her face up to Tom. "Iced tea? Lemonade?"
"Lemonade."
Nodding, she filled a second glass, adding two clean strawberries and a few ice cubes. She placed the glass neatly in front of him and he caught her hand.
For a minute, they held one another's gaze. Her eyes were weary on his. Tom stood, rounding the island, and moved to her. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her. Her face fell to his shoulder naturally. Turning her cheek to it, she settled.
Chapter Fifty
"Mom, be careful."
Cate was driving home from the train, the short distance marred by fog. She traded her precious music for her precious girl. Al's voice spoke to her over the wireless set-up.
"I am."
She hadn't wanted to tell the children about Tom just yet. She wasn't sure how she, herself, felt. Ordinarily, she would've kept her distance. Tom, however, was pushing (gently, patiently) for what he wanted: her. And she was a sucker for his kindness.
Kindness was her currency. The milk of it, the sudden shock, the absolute innocence of people who did for others with no thought to their own needs. It stopped Cate; it soothed her heart.
She was unsure whether or not Tom was using her love of sweetness and mercy to get closer to her, and if he was, why. It had been too long since they'd been married, since he'd appeared to care for her, since he'd any more than tolerated her presence. It was also a shock to her senses when he'd gone from tolerance to hatred and beyond to−care, she supposed. Her heart hurt from the whiplash. It was a constant ache that confused her.
It wasn't so much about worth; Cate knew she was worthy. She also knew PTSD was a harsh mistress, a bully. This wasn't about her merit; it was about a disease. One that would cruelly strip her of her self-respect, over and over.
If it wasn't about her merit, then, was it even about her? Was Tom seemingly interested in her because she was familiar? The mother of their children? He was lonely? He felt better, so now he'd like to return their lives to normal?
How could she go back? How could she ever go back?
"Mom−"
Cate snapped out of her reverie, trying to focus on what Alex was saying while watching the road. The high-profile Jeep swayed in the wind as she crossed the tall bridge, the fog lifting for a minute then settling around her like an evil blanket fort. She stayed close to the far side of the structure, her exit rapidly approaching, her lights cutting only a swatch into the endless black highway ahead of her.
"Honey−" Cate answered, smiling. She loved listening to Al talk. Her sweet voice lilted and fell like a fairy singing in the early morning. Every time Cate heard her daughter's voice it reminded her of when Alex was younger.
"I want you to be careful."
"I am. I'm almost home."
"Mom? I mean about Dad."
Tom had told both Al and Nic he was spending time with Cate. He'd done it not to be obnoxious but to encourage support. Hope.
