She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “We should be drinking to Trisha Vincent. She was the one doing all the hard work today.”
Luke consumed some wine and studied the woman beside him. Her modesty didn’t seem false, yet he saw no reason for it. “It amazes me,” he remarked, “to think you almost didn’t become a lawyer. You really are good at it.”
She snorted.
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as good.”
“I bet you’re a wonderful teacher.”
He considered, then confirmed her guess with a nod. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Tell me about it. Are you tough with the kids? Do they think you’re cool? Do all the girls get crushes on you?”
He laughed. “If they do they don’t mention it to me.”
“Do you wear tweeds and make your students read the great books?”
“God, no. That would be boring.” He ruminated for a moment. “I’m more of a gonzo-style teacher, I guess. Social studies can be dull if you don’t juice it up.”
“How do you juice it up?”
“Well...for example, in the class I teach on Third World studies, we play a game called `Who Gets the Bomb?’ Each of the kids is named the leader of a different Third World country, and each of them has access to a single nuclear warhead. They have to research their countries and decide who their worst enemy is—who gets the bomb.”
“That’s grotesque!” Jenny scolded, although she was laughing.
“They learn a lot—not only about their country’s history and politics but also about the repercussions of their decision. Some of them actually decide to dismantle their bombs, once they’ve come to terms with the devastation they could cause. Last spring I had a real slick kid who decided to sell his bomb to one of the other kids for ten million dollars, which just about doubled his country’s GNP.”
“It sounds like he’s got a future in government.”
“You’d better believe it. He wanted me to help him get a summer job on Capitol Hill, like the one I had in Senator Milford’s office. He’s too young—I couldn’t do much for him. But he’s going places, for better or worse.”
Jenny turned to face Luke. Her eyes were still bright, sparkling with intelligence and energy, and her hair was lustrous with coppery streaks in the fading sunlight. “I’m so glad you became a teacher,” she said earnestly, all traces of amusement gone. “You seem...content.”
“It’s all because of you,” he said, adopting her tone. If she wanted to talk seriously, if she wanted to bump up against the past, that was fine with him. “I don’t know if I’ve thanked you for everything you did for me back then.”
“I didn’t give you of a chance to thank me,” she muttered, lowering her eyes.
“Then give me a chance now.” He slid his thumb under her chin and tilted her head back so she had to meet his gaze. “Thank you. For everything.”
“I didn’t do all that much,” she said.
“You just opened my eyes and put my head on straight and saved my life.”
“And then vanished.”
“Vanished,” he agreed, startled by her unflinching honesty. “And then reappeared.” Without shifting his eyes from hers, he placed his glass on the glass-topped table, then eased her glass from her hand and set it down beside his. He slid one arm around her waist and lifted his other hand to twine his fingers through the glossy silk of her hair.
He hadn’t come here for this, and if she made the merest show of resistance he would back off. He waited, giving her the opportunity to rebuff him.
Her eyes remained locked with his, glittering with emotions he couldn’t interpret. Her body remained inches from his; her shoulders remained proudly square. The only sign of nervousness in her was her breath, which became short and shallow.
His respiration was uneven, too. His heart was pounding. Simply imagining what was about to happen put his nervous system on alert.
He leaned toward her. She didn’t stop him.
Her lips were so soft, soft and velvety against his. Exercising restraint, he concentrated solely on them, brushing and stroking them with his mouth, not daring to venture further.
Her eyelids fluttered but stayed open, her gaze still fixed on him. She raised her hands to his sides and arched her fingers along his ribs. It would take little effort on her part to push him away.
She didn’t.
He slid his arm more snugly around her, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer. He angled his head. Gently, he nipped her lower lip.
She moaned and closed her eyes. Her fingertips dug into his sides.
Oh, God, he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. More, even, than he’d wanted her seven years ago. He felt her self-protective layers melting like ice beneath the sun, liquefying and slipping away, bathing him with the promise of more.
His tongue danced across her lips, and with another helpless moan she opened her mouth. He stole inside, tasting, drinking her in, devouring her. His body grew taut and his arms drew her fully to himself, letting her know exactly what she was doing to him, exactly how much he desired her.
With a cry, she jerked her head away. The sudden motion caused him to release her, and she stumbled back from him. Her eyes blazed with panic and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Her breath came in labored gasps and her cheeks went from crimson to waxy white in the fraction of a second.
What? What went wrong?
“The dinner,” she mumbled vaguely, darting toward the sliding glass door. “I’d better go check the dinner.”
And once again, she vanished.
* * *
ALONE IN THE KITCHEN , she headed straight for the sink, turned on the cold water and doused her face. Her lungs hurt from the deep, ragged breaths she was taking, and her legs were rubbery. She felt sick and weak and despicable.
The amazing thing, she realized as the splashes of icy water shocked her brain back into a lucid state, was that she hadn’t minded Luke’s kiss at first. She had almost enjoyed it.
For the first time in seven years, she had actually enjoyed kissing a man.
She’d reveled in the subtle persuasion of his lips, their warmth, their life. She’d experienced pleasure as he’d raveled his fingers into her hair, as he’d closed his arms around her. Her body had been suffused with a strange glow, a sensation of tingling expectation that seemed to stir awake in some distant, long suppressed region of her soul.
Then he’d shifted, pulling her closer and pressing into her. She’d felt his erection, demanding and unbearably male, and all that sweet, syrupy pleasure had shriveled up into a dry, withered knot of fear. She’d had to run. She couldn’t deal with this.
Some things were simply beyond her ability to manage.
She heard the distant sound of the glass door sliding shut. Then Luke’s voice from the kitchen doorway: “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, still hunched over the sink, hiding her face from him, feeling cowardly and queasy. “Dinner’s ready.” Mustering what little strength she had, she turned from the sink, carefully keeping her back to Luke, and walked to the oven to turn it off.
He didn’t speak. His silence magnified every other sound in the room. She heard the dull pop of the wine bottle being reopened, the slosh of the glasses being refilled, the squeak of the oven door’s hinge as she shoved it shut.
She wondered why he didn’t just take off, get out of her life, find himself a normal woman.
He wanted to know. That was why he’d come here, why he kept showing up, kept spending time with her. They had once loved each other intensely, and that love was gone, and he wanted to know why. If only it didn’t hurt so much to talk about it, if only she weren’t so determined to let the past recede into shadow and put a good face on the present, if only she wasn’t so damned afraid...
She had never testified. Now, seven years later, before a jury of one, perhaps it was time.
She put the steaming dinner
entrees on a tray and brought them into the dining area, where she’d set the table for two. Luke followed her, carrying the wine glasses. They took their seats, facing each other across the table. He watched her, attentive, patient, wary.
You have nothing to hide. She was haunted by her own words, words spoken to give Trisha the strength to testify. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
“I was raped,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“I KNOW.”
Jenny stared at him. “When did you figure it out?”
“Three minutes ago,” he said. “When you broke from me and ran inside.”
She dropped her gaze to the feast arrayed before her—enchiladas, tamales, quesadillas, rice and guacamole. She had no appetite. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“Sorry?”
“I should have told you before.”
After a pause, he nodded. “It would have clarified a lot.”
“Oh?”
“The way you’ve been handling your court case, for instance,” he elaborated. “The way you get so riled up when you talk about it.” He lifted his glass to his lips, swallowed some wine, and added, “The way you dropped out of my life.”
“I had to, Luke, I—”
“I know. You broke down. I’m not criticizing you, Jenny, so stop apologizing.” He tempered his blunt words by extending his hand across the table to hers, covering it, stroking his thumb against her wrist. “If you’d been mugged...I could believe you would suffer emotionally, but I don’t think you would have cut me off like that. A rape, though... It’s different.”
“Yes.” She concentrated on the soothing pattern his thumb was sketching on her skin. “I keep trying to convince myself that it’s just like any other violent crime. Someone hurts you, and if you’re lucky you recover and get on with your life. But it’s not a crime like any other, Luke. It hurts you in places that never heal.”
He squeezed her hand. “If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No, I do,” she insisted. “I owe you—”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he argued.
“I do. I’ve lied to you, Luke.” The words spilled out in a rush. She would never be able to discuss this with Luke again, so she had to say it all now, right away, before she lost her nerve. “I lied about the crime—”
“Not really.”
“And I lied about your letters. I got all of them.”
His thumb stilled. Even without looking at him she could feel his eyes on her, first quizzical, then wounded, crystallizing into coldness. She didn’t have to see him to know how icy they’d become.
“I thought...” She sighed tremulously. “I thought I was doing you a favor by clearing out of your life. I wanted you to find a woman who was healthy and whole, who could love you in every way. I couldn’t, not after...” She drifted off a minute, loathing the quiver in her voice but unable to stifle it. “I couldn’t. I loved you enough to want something better for you.”
“Christ.” Though whispered, the word carried anguish and anger. “What made you think I wouldn’t want you?”
“Think?” She let out a caustic chuckle. “One thing I wasn’t doing much of was thinking.”
“But afterwards—I mean, after you got better.”
“I’m still not better,” she snapped. “I’ll never be better, don’t you see? Some things haven’t healed.”
He scrutinized her. She had neglected to turn on the light, and as the sun drifted westward it threw shadows over the table. She wondered whether the darkness in his face was a result of dusk or his own confusion. Both, probably.
She had to tell him. If she wanted catharsis, she had to testify. No more lies. The whole truth and nothing but. “I love you, Luke,” she confessed, her voice low and rich with emotion. “I did then, and I do now. I love you.”
“Jenny—”
“But we can never have a relationship, not a complete one. I can’t...I can’t have sex anymore. I hate it. It hurts. I’ve tried, Luke—I’ve gone through therapy and I’ve dated a few men. I’ve tried. And it—” she closed her eyes, afraid of how he might react “—it disgusts me. I can’t help it. It disgusts me.”
His thumb came to life again, moving slowly, consolingly over the pulse point in her wrist. “You’re on the pill,” he observed.
She wasn’t sure how he knew that, but she saw no need to deny it. “Yes. In case I get raped again.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Going through it was wretched enough—but then, afterwards, I had to face the possibility of a pregnancy. I went crazy, Luke. I demanded an abortion. I demanded a hysterectomy. It turned out I wasn’t pregnant. But the fear that I might have been... For a while I was on tranquillizers, and then I went on the pill. If it ever happens again I’ve protected myself. I’ve learned judo and I take my pill every day.”
The shadows lengthened until they shrouded the entire dining area. Luke remained silent, stroking her wrist. Several minutes elapsed, and then he rose from his chair and eased her out of hers. He guided her into the living room, onto the couch. Sitting next to her, he arched his arm around her.
She tucked her legs beneath her and nestled against him, her body folded in on itself. His chest formed solid cushion for her head and his arm sheltered her. She wanted him to protect her. She wanted him to carry her back in time, to make all the pain go away.
She wanted the impossible.
“He was a classmate?”
She nodded.
“Smith is an all-women school.”
“I was taking a class at UMass,” she told him. “It was an advanced seminar in educational philosophy at the School of Ed. There’s a five-college exchange program where Smith students can take courses at other colleges in the area, and I signed up for this course at UMass.”
“And you were dating the guy?”
“Dating him? No. I was in love with you.”
His fingers drew soothing circles against her upper arm. She snuggled closer to him. He wasn’t making the pain go away, but somehow, when she curled up within the curve of his arm and absorbed his strength and stability, the pain seemed easier to bear.
“He wanted to date me, though,” she continued, resting her head against the soft white cotton of his shirt. “He asked me out dozens of times. He wouldn’t give up, even when I told him I was in love with someone else.” She sighed. She knew she was inhaling Luke’s bracing male scent, the spicy aromas of their uneaten dinner, the clean fragrance of her apartment, but her nostrils filled with the odors of pine needles and decomposing leaves, one smell tangy and one musty. A shiver ran down her spine.
Apparently Luke sensed her sudden discomfort. “If it hurts too much to talk about—”
“I want to talk about it,” she insisted. “Unless you don’t want to hear.”
“I want to,” he assured her, touching his lips to the soft red wisps of hair at the crown of her head. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to know.”
“His name was Adam Hastings. He was brilliant but very disorganized. He was clinically bi-polar—at least that’s how his lawyer plea-bargained it.”
“There was never a trial?”
“No. He had himself voluntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital and everyone told me I was fortunate not to have to go through the agony of a court trial.”
“Is he still hospitalized?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” She swallowed. “He never seemed particularly unbalanced to me. We were friends. He was awfully persistent about trying to get me to go out with him, but he was a good person—I thought. I was so stupid...”
“No, Jenny.” Luke grazed the crown of her head with his lips again. “You’re not stupid.”
“Not anymore. I was then. I trusted everyone. I thought that if you treated people with kindness they would be kind right back to you. I thought that no matter what they were like on the surface, everyone was blessed with inner goodness. It never occurred to me not to trus
t Adam. I didn’t know how not to trust.”
Luke sighed. His chest rose and fell against her cheek, and he pulled her closer to himself.
“It was a Wednesday in October,” she said, determined to tell Luke everything. “The Wednesday before you were supposed to visit. I was at UMass for the seminar, and afterwards Adam asked me for my help on a research assignment. I told him I didn’t think we were allowed to collaborate, and he begged me to help him anyway, and we argued long enough that I wound up missing the bus back to Smith. He offered to drive me back to campus. So I got into his car.” She smothered a reflexive groan of self-loathing. Her parents, her doctors and her therapists had all labored tirelessly to convince her she’d done nothing wrong in accepting a ride from a classmate, and most of the time she believed them. But every now and then, when she thought about how different her life might have been if only she’d refused his offer and waited for the next bus...
“He drove right past the campus,” she said, her voice cracking. Luke encouraged her with a hug. “He started hounding me about why I wouldn’t go out with him, and why wouldn’t I give him a chance, and he was so much better than whoever it was I was in love with. And—” she grimaced at her memory of how obtuse she’d been “—I still didn’t think I was in any trouble. I just thought he was a bit overwrought. I told him I’d be happy to talk it through with him for the sake of our friendship, but I wished he’d take me back to Smith first. And he kept driving. He kept driving...”
Her voice drifted off. The smell was growing so intense she almost gagged. Pine needles and rotting leaves, autumn decay. Twigs and rocks. She couldn’t go on.
She couldn’t stop.
“He took me to a park. It was getting late, and no one was around. He made me get out of the car and go into the woods with him, and all the time he kept saying he was going to make me love him. And then—” She was silenced by another wave of nausea.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Luke murmured.
The deep, smooth texture of his voice lulled her. She closed her eyes and cuddled impossibly closer to him, so close she was practically sitting in his lap. She did have to tell him. If she didn’t, if she stopped now, it would be another defeat. Adam Hastings would have triumphed again.
One Good Turn Page 18
