The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

She started to speak and stalled. His body language was shutting her down, but he couldn’t stop it. He’d made love to her, his body worshiping hers. But the shell on his heart grew thicker every moment they sat.

  “Dessert?”

  She’d obviously noticed how little he ate, because she said no. When they got back to the suite, he lingered in the sitting area.

  She yawned. “How are you not exhausted?”

  He said, “I need to unwind.” Once he’d have done it with a snifter of Courvoisier, the finest on the market. He’d have poured until the pain was no more than a dull, throbbing memory. “I’ll join you in a while.”

  “Morgan . . .”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep.”

  Staunch little soldier, she turned and obeyed. He closed his eyes, tempted to follow, but in this mood intimacy would be a mockery. He went and sat by the window, taking in the cold Paris night.

  Quinn would have known better, but Erin Spencer had taken over her mind, heart, and body. Though she hadn’t known the specifics of his loss, from their very first encounters she’d seen the effects. When his eyes turned to steely plates at the restaurant, she’d felt the pain coming off him like blades that could slice if anyone got too close. And what he’d shared—was it even possible to come back from that?

  In spite of her dazed condition, she slipped into a restless sleep, broken by whirling smoke and the lights and sirens of a rushing fire engine bearing down on her.

  Near dawn, Morgan slipped into bed, pressing his chest against her back. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be.” She truly could not fathom the losses he’d experienced.

  He encircled her with his arms and fell asleep. She lay there absorbing the strangeness and uncertainty of what they’d done, before drifting into a dreamless doze.

  They woke at nearly the same moment and the strangeness returned. What yesterday had seemed so natural, almost inevitable, now felt like poorly fitting clothes, pulling in all the wrong places.

  Morgan brushed his fingers down her cheek and said, “Let’s not dawdle.”

  She said, “Okay.” And they rose and prepared for the day.

  With only a shadow of the night in his eyes, Morgan sipped his coffee in the softly drizzling morning outside the corner café. While he showed no crippling melancholy, neither was he buoyant. Yet he made an effort. “Once you’ve had breakfast in Paris, the word never sounds the same again.”

  “That’s unfortunate if we ever plan to leave.” Erin—she forced herself to think that name—sipped her own.

  “As there’s a small child in need of her father, I’m afraid that’s imminent.”

  “Of course.” She was Livie’s caregiver now—if Morgan wanted that. It was difficult to tell what he wanted this morning. We’ll always have Paris, she thought wryly.

  As she started to rise, Morgan reached around and pulled out her chair. “Want one more run at the boutiques?”

  “No thanks. I don’t know how I’m checking all I have on the plane.”

  “I’ll have the hotel ship it.”

  “Won’t that take weeks?”

  “No, honey. There’s airmail. Overnight, if you like. I’ll leave a New York address, and we’ll have it for the second leg.” He squeezed her shoulders to soften the tease.

  How would she know? She was no world traveler. And she only traded in the US.

  He cast a lingering glance around. “Not much of a honeymoon, I guess.”

  “It was, though.” She hadn’t expected anything.

  He shrugged. “Maybe when we figure things out, we’ll come back with Livie.”

  “That would be nice.” If they figured things out.

  He took her hand and they made the short walk to the hotel. Two hours later, they were flying back to New York. Just over seven hours after that, they landed. She had the strange impression Paris hadn’t happened. But it must have, because Morgan stopped the limo driver outside a jeweler. Surprised, she followed him to a case sparkling with diamonds.

  “Sorry I didn’t have these for the ceremony.”

  “I don’t expect—”

  He pointed to a pair of platinum wedding bands, the smaller of the two dressed with baguettes.

  “Very nice,” the jeweler said, unlocking the case and setting the velvet box on the counter.

  She was reaching saturation.

  “Do you have one in her size?”

  The jeweler took out a clip with sizing bands and tried two on before he found one small enough. He locked the case and went into the back, probably to a vault. He came back with a box, took the ring out, and examined the diamonds with a jeweler’s glass, then handed it to Morgan to do the same. He showed him the card that certified the particular brilliance and clarity of each long rectangular stone.

  Looking into her eyes, Morgan held the ring against the tip of her finger, where it glittered and shone more beautifully than anything she’d seen.

  “Will you wear it?”

  She swallowed the tears in her throat. “If you want me to.”

  “It’s not very convincing otherwise.”

  Who were they trying to convince?

  He turned back to the jeweler. “And for me?”

  She hadn’t realized, but somewhere along the way he’d removed his previous wedding band. As the jeweler fitted him with the counterpart to hers, she wanted to ask if he minded the replacement, but feared he might say yes.

  He directed the driver to a hotel where she hoped they could light even for a short time. She was so tired of travel, she felt it in her bones.

  Morgan assessed her with a critical eye. “We’ll need dinner, but how do you feel about room service?”

  “Great as long as I don’t have to decide anything.”

  “I’ll order for us.”

  Hardly noticing the accommodations, she went into the bathroom and took a long shower. The door opened and closed, and when she got out, she found a plastic-covered hotel robe, extra small. She towel-dried her hair, then pulled the cushy soft robe on and sighed. Cinching the waist, she left the steamy bathroom to find a low bouquet of flowers centered on the table where two covered dishes waited. Had she taken that long?

  Morgan held her chair and she sat. He took the other seat and studied her over the flowers, a colorful mélange of exotics. “Would you like to bless the food?”

  That took her by surprise.

  “It seems we have things to be thankful for.” Before she could think what to say, he added, “Otherwise I’ll say grace.”

  “Let’s hear your grace.”

  He said the blessing and she smiled. “That was my grandmother’s prayer. Pops couldn’t cure her of it.”

  Smiling, Morgan lifted both lids off to reveal perfectly seared and seasoned rib-eye steaks and waffle fries, with glazed baby carrots, the green stems attached. Hunger punched her. “I haven’t done anything but eat for days.”

  “You climbed six hundred stairs.”

  “And walked a few miles shopping.”

  “Some women would call that therapy. My baby sister, Tara, for one.”

  “Baby sister?”

  “She’s really nineteen.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Me. Unfortunately.”

  “How? And why unfortunate?”

  “She’s a born clown. And an attention hog.” He cut into his steak.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t apply either of those to him. She took a bite of her own meat and the flavor burst over her tongue.

  “Mmm.” Morgan sighed. “The French have us on pastries, but there’s nothing like American beef. I told them to send up the best cuts in the kitchen.”

  “Naturally.”

  He cocked his head. “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just Paris, diamonds, this—I’m going to spoil.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but fatigue had loosened her tongue.

  His
eyes narrowed. “You’re supposed to feel special.”

  “But . . .”

  “You can have bread and water when we get home.”

  She stared at the delectable food. “I knew you were famous and rich, but living this way . . . It’s uncomfortable.” Where was this coming from—her dad’s disdain for opulence, his fear that joy might actually be sin? Or a deep-seated belief that she didn’t deserve it.

  She must have hit a nerve, because Morgan got up and strode to the window that looked out on a million lights. He leaned on the sash without speaking.

  “Morgan, I’m sorry. Please eat while it’s hot.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He spoke without looking.

  Feeling bad for treading on sensitive ground and too fatigued and disoriented to make sense of it, she went into one of the two bedrooms and closed the door. Moving to the window, she looked out. Since their suite formed the corner of the building, she and Morgan might both be staring at the city—only in different directions. She sighed.

  Moisture in the air haloed the lights of another place she didn’t know. If she and Morgan hadn’t joined, she could have disappeared into the vastness with her new name—Morgan’s name. She groaned.

  “Erin.” He tapped the door.

  Eyes closed, she blew a slow breath and opened it.

  He leaned on the jamb. “It’s an old argument I’m tired of, but that’s not your fault.”

  How could it be old, when they’d only broached the subject? And then she realized.

  “I’m not as rich as you seem to think. I’ve made money that makes money. I have a foundation that serves needs. And excuse me, but if I want to enjoy a steak with my wife, I can’t work up too much guilt.”

  She looked at him, chastened.

  “So, if we’re done with that, will you have dinner with me?”

  “Of course.”

  He stepped back, held her chair when she sat, and took his own. The food had cooled, but neither of them said so. She ate every bite, then wiped her mouth. “Thank you. That was excellent.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The words sank in. It was his pleasure to give. He didn’t appreciate the gift criticized or judged. She put the used dishes back on the cart and rolled it outside the door. That was what they did in movies. When she went back in, she heard the water running in the shower. How had she come to be in a hotel suite with Morgan Spencer in the shower?

  She sat down sideways on the couch and drew her knees up. Stretching her arm across the top, she rested her head on her shoulder, closed her eyes, and prayed for wisdom. She might have thought of that before they landed here, but fear had driven her. That was never good.

  “I’ve made so many mistakes. Please don’t let this be one.”

  “Do not let your heart be troubled. Trust in God.” Those were the verses her grandma had used to soothe whatever woe she’d shared. “Trust in God.”

  She wanted to. But even that was muddled. Her mind went through the moments that had brought her here. The trial, of course. The nomadic journey to Juniper Falls. The fragile roots she’d put down there. Her first sight of Morgan and a sense of purpose that felt like a shifting in the stars. Before that her universe had been one thing; now it would be another.

  She replayed each of their encounters, words, and expressions. Things he’d said, and things she surmised. She knew so little and sensed so much. Was there even a chance they could work? Tears burned behind her closed eyelids.

  Morgan came out in a similar robe and sat down behind her. He brushed her damp hair back and kissed the side of her neck with clear, if subtle, intent.

  “Morgan.” She turned. “Could we get to know each other first?”

  He rested his forehead against her hair. “If you want to know me, Erin, this is the way.”

  Catching the nuance he gave the word, she half turned. “I don’t mean biblically.”

  “But have you wondered why they chose that word? In bed, we are what we are. And when we come together, we are what we are together. Speaking for myself, knowing you is pretty awesome.”

  It was awesome. And she wanted him so much it scared her. But still she said, “Could we talk?”

  With only a second’s hesitation he said, “Sure,” and settled her back against him.

  Naturally, she could think of nothing to say.

  He pulled a crooked smile. “Favorite ice cream?”

  She elbowed him.

  “You’re making this harder than it has to be. Just picture Paris.” He kissed the crook of her neck.

  She groaned. “That was another world, another me.”

  “You’re my wife. And for what it’s worth, I’m—”

  “For what it’s worth? Do you think this is about you?”

  “I’m not sure what it is.”

  She dropped her head to her arm. “I just feel . . .” Dazed. Confused. Scared. Paris had been a dream and a cold awakening. To experience such love, then such raw unresolved pain . . .

  He stroked her arm. “There’s no pressure. We can sleep. We can talk. Whatever moves you.”

  She shifted around, circled his neck, and kissed him.

  He raised his brows. “Interesting conversation starter.”

  “Do you think I’d have dared that a week ago?”

  He tugged a piece of her hair with a contemplative expression. “I get it.”

  “You’re this person I . . . okay, fantasized about.”

  Again the humor in his eyes.

  “We had a snowball fight. A . . . turkey dinner.”

  “Don’t forget the furniture moving.”

  “A haunted cellar and a drug deal.”

  “Way more interesting than dinner and a movie.”

  She loved the way he did that, catching the flow and spirit and letting it take them. He leaned in and kissed her long enough to still her doubts and quicken her heart.

  “I don’t want to mess up.”

  “Why do you think you could?”

  Like the asylum’s “porcelain doll,” she’d been fed a heaping dose of stricture and criticism, something she’d successfully conquered until now.

  He murmured, “Erin,” in a tone that reminded her of all he’d done and why.

  As she wrapped his neck again, her wedding band caught and scattered lamplight, infusing her uncertainty with hope and longing. It was possible. They could make it real, couldn’t they? Maybe they already were.

  Leaving Erin sleeping, he went shirtless to the window in the elegantly appointed sitting room, a sensation like vivisection once more destroying any hope of rest in the city that never slept either. He’d been swept up by her sweetness, her energy, the way she spoke, the way she laughed, that half-vixen, half-vestal cast to her eyes that called to everything physical inside him. Sex was easy—it was great. It was not the whole story.

  It complicated. It claimed. It demanded an emotional, spiritual engagement or the beast stayed hungry. He recognized the void, but couldn’t fill it from reservoirs drained dry and cavernous. And it was dangerous, dangerous ground.

  He might live to fix, but God knew he could also break. He could destroy. He closed his eyes and saw, not his precious Livie, but the daughter he’d lost. Sometimes it seemed that single glance she’d sent through the thick hospital glass had emblazoned on his mind, eyes his color in a face swollen and peeling, a ravage of dying that ended heartbeats later.

  Erin had no part in that pain. It was Jill’s sorrow and despair that had joined and mingled with his, their love that found a way through. What would she think now? Did this betray her? He ground his fists into his sockets.

  What would she say if she could answer? “I never loved anyone but you”?

  He dropped his head into his hands, loss rising from his chest to his eyes, grief unexpressed like rusty water from a well. Corrosive. Toxic. These tears would not cleanse if they fell. He should have done this work before he tried again. It wasn’t fair—

  He stiffened when Erin’s w
arm hand touched his clammy arm. He wanted to resist, to make her go. Instead he turned. “It’s been two years. I thought I was past this.”

  “You’ve been everything for Livie. When did you grieve?”

  He opened and closed his mouth.

  She slid her hand down his arm. “You’re cold.”

  She was right. His body felt rigid with cold, as though nothing could thaw it. He reached, and she pressed into him, warmth and softness and strength. He found her mouth and took it.

  In his kiss, she felt the wound, the loss, the shattered pieces of him. When he pressed his face to her hair, she held him, feeling their age difference closing—feeling older even, stronger. She could almost see something breaking open inside him, something he savagely defended. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.” He moved away, as though fearing his grief might devour her. He went to the sofa and sank down. “There’s too much you don’t know.”

  She sat down beside him, waiting.

  “I’m not going to . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Talk about Jill?”

  “About everything.” His hand fisted. “Her, me . . . all that’s come before.”

  They sat in the glow of city lights through the window, his reluctance an uninvited guest.

  “I crashed on my bike once,” she said, “and all these pebbles got ground into my knee. One was imbedded so deeply they missed it. A week later the infection had burned up and down my leg and the lump turned a streaky, fiery red.” She tucked her foot up underneath her. “I thought I’d suffered enough the first time they pulled the stones out and demanded they leave it alone. Because I’d been indecorous, my father made the nurse leave it. Three nights later I woke, crying with pain only excising the wound could relieve.”

  A clear and simple message. “How old were you?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know, maybe four.”

  Feeling a faint spike of anger, he ran a finger over the knee protruding beneath her robe as though it might still bear the wound. Perhaps inside it did. Slowly, he worked into the silence she offered. “When Jill got pregnant, I’d have married her, but her dad said she’d aborted the baby, and I would never come near his daughter again.” A rippling rage passed through the muscles of his jaw.