The baby photos of Matt had gone out in the mail the day after she learned of Kate’s condition. It took Paul nearly a year to respond, but when he did, he truly surprised her.
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
Kate sat on the chair and stared at the phone, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her body slowly rocked in rhythm with the banjo clock.
It was late. Why hadn’t Mike called? Surely he knew by now. Surely Sheryl had told her own brother. And surely he would call once he found out.
But there was nothing truly sure in life. Why hadn’t she learned that lesson long ago?
She had to talk to him. Had to. When he’d said they needed to spend some time apart, he hadn’t factored in a seismic event of this magnitude. This involved them both. She needed his love now more than ever. They would need each other to get through this … to make sense of it.
The clock struck eleven and Kate made up her mind.
“I know you don’t want to see me right now,” she began, as Mike’s back door opened. “But I have to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?” He took her arm and pulled her through the doorway. She looked like hell and Mike was afraid that their sorry attempt at intimacy was to blame. Maybe it had been too soon.
“You haven’t talked to Matt yet, have you.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think so.” She took his hand and led him to a chair. “You’d better sit down.”
“Katie, your hand is frozen. Are you all right?”
She turned her back to him and leaned into the counter. “You know how they always say, if you don’t like the weather wait fifteen minutes, it’ll change? But they never tell you it can change from bad to worse.” Shaking her head slightly, her voice resigned, she said, “They never tell you that.”
Mike remained silent. He was aware that every muscle in his body was tensed, and he made a conscious effort to relax. But nothing could have prepared him for what Kate said next.
She sat down across from him. “In the past forty-eight hours an earthquake measuring about seven on the Richter scale hit, and they’re still adding up the damage.” Her eyes met his. “Mike, there’s no other way to tell you this. And I wish to God I didn’t have to be the one to tell you …”
“Jesus, Kate. What the hell happened?”
“Matt is Paul’s son.”
His first thought was, She’s drinking again, and this is the result. She’s lost her mind. And he almost said it out loud, but the steadiness of her hands and the new wisdom in her eyes stopped him.
She went on. She had obviously rehearsed everything she was saying. Her composure—her calm—this too was new. He never once interrupted her as she told it all from beginning to end. He listened, his disbelief ebbing away and replaced by a deep, burning fury for the heartbreak she had gone through thanks, once again, to Paul.
And then he thought of Sheryl, his own sister, whom he would have sworn he knew forward and backward, voluntarily taking part in this deceit. The rage at this new pain brought him up out of the chair. It tipped over backward, falling onto the floor with a loud clatter. Kate flinched, and quickly stood.
“He was supposed to be my friend,” he said in a harsh voice. “He desecrated the word, and he contaminated everything I’ve ever loved. And my own sister let it happen.”
Kate knew what he wanted to do next, and she put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Don’t go over there feeling like this, Mike,” she said. “It won’t help.”
Like a skittish horse calmed by his owner’s touch, Mike went still. “How are you dealing with this, Kate?” he asked in a low, tight voice. “Why aren’t you mad?”
“I was. I still am.”
She told him of the two hellish days and nights she’d spent. Of the night she did open that bottle and take a drink. Of the anger she felt at even that being caused by Paul’s betrayal, and the subsequent deep cut she’d received in her knee as she knelt to clean up the shards of broken glass after she’d thrown the bottle against the sink. That episode brought her a brief moment of clarity, and she realized she needed help. His help.
She’d fallen into an uneasy sleep only to wake an hour later, sweating and scared, from dreams that seemed too real to speak of. This went on and on, until she finally fought off sleep and had now been awake for over thirty-six hours.
But Kate couldn’t tell him of the phone’s continuous ringing. Either Sheryl or Matt. She hadn’t wanted to know. Hadn’t wanted to hear Sheryl’s excuses.
No more blaming herself. Paul’s duplicity was the reason they all found themselves in this incredible morass, and Kate’s days of protecting his image were over. The doorbell had rung at one point and she could see Matt’s car outside, but she couldn’t make a move to answer it, so she’d hidden away in the den, away from his anguish.
She’d had too much time to think. And she began wondering what Matt was going through. Then she’d think of Sheryl, and her anger would reach new heights, only to be topped by her anger at Paul. He’d fouled off enough balls, but Kate knew this had been the final strike. He was irrevocably, inevitably, out.
But most of all she thought about Mike. What they had was so fragile. What would this do to them? But she’d gaze at his house and think, No, Kate. Hold on. It’s Mike you’re talking about—the one person in the world you can trust to still love you. So she’d waited and waited. Hoping that Sheryl had the decency to tell Mike. But apparently she hadn’t, and it became physically impossible for Kate to wait any longer.
She looked up at Mike now and continued. “I’ll never understand the things Paul did. Why he hurt me over and over again. Why I let him.”
Kate moved closer to Mike and he put his arms around her. She was rigid. Trying so hard to pretend this was something she could deal with by simply saying she’d dealt with it.
“Katie. Darlin’,” he whispered into her hair.
And she broke. Her body shook with sobs. “I’m so furious with them, Mike. What am I going to do? She’s your sister … How can you and I have a life?”
“We will. We’ll get through it and everything else will fall into place.”
She raised her wet face to look at him. Her hand came up to caress his cheek. “I love you so much.” He kissed her palm as she said, “I want to start living again. And I want you.”
He pulled her head to his chest and she couldn’t see the unexpected tears fill his eyes. He closed them, but couldn’t trust his voice.
The house was so quiet that for a few minutes it felt like they were the only two living beings in the world.
“Please let me stay here tonight,” she said.
His breath clouded the glass pane as he turned to gaze out the window at the thin blanket of snow. It must have started and stopped suddenly, while he and Kate had made love. Now, the clouds had formed thin wisps across the face of the waning full moon. The wind gusted around the eaves of the house and he shivered slightly, pulling the woven cotton blanket across his bare legs.
Too many people crowded into Mike’s head. A secretive Sheryl, who had fucked his best friend for some unfathomable reason. A manipulative Paul who always got what he wanted when he wanted it. A devastated Kate who had somehow managed to live through it all, and had retained enough of herself that she could fall in love again. And then there was Matt. Mike couldn’t even begin to imagine what his nephew was feeling. Hurt? Anger? Disgust? What could he say to Matt now, except he still loved him?
Kate moved on the bed and he shifted his body on the window seat so he could watch her as she slept. The icy light from the moon fell across her back, raising the scar into relief. She’d tried to hide it from him. He’d told her he knew it was there. That Paul had told him. She’d said it was supposed to be a secret. And Mike had said Paul wasn’t very good at keeping secrets. They’d both smiled ruefully at that, both thinking there was one he did manage to keep to himself.
Mike thought of getting up—of running his fingers down her spine, of tracing his tongue back u
p the seam the doctors had left that was paler than her own pale skin. But he didn’t want to disturb her. Looking at her was enough for now.
The clock on the mantel downstairs chimed twice. She had fallen asleep soon after they’d finished, and now she lay sprawled across the bed, an arm tucked under the pillow, one knee bent. Hair a wild, auburn aura swirling around her head, she looked like every man’s fantasy. A Vargas girl right here in his own bedroom. But the scar made her real—a slightly skewed vision of a pinup.
He had voiced her name with each thrust until he was spent. Mike had called out her name, and realized that was what had been missing all these years, and women, past. His dreams of making love to Kate, while he lay with Allison or Eleanor or the woman of the moment, had been what held him back from giving them all of himself. His mind would give him a sharply etched picture of Kate that erased anything else. And he could never bring himself to let go completely, because what he wanted—needed—more than anything in the world, was to intone Kate’s name.
The absolute release he felt at the moment he climaxed with Kate had brought tears to his eyes. This time it had been all he’d hoped. He was in awe of the power she had over him, but he wasn’t threatened by it. On the contrary. It made him feel stronger. And he wanted to show her that. Show her that she didn’t have to pretend any longer. He suddenly didn’t care what kind of relationship she and Paul had had in the bedroom. It didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered now was how Kate responded to him.
A muffled sound reached his ears and he peered at her. She was talking in her sleep. Nothing intelligible, but he could tell she was struggling with something. She raised her head for a moment.
“What is it, Katie?” he whispered.
But she didn’t answer, and he realized she was still asleep.
A blast of wind hit the window he’d leaned his face against. It found its way through the glazing, sending a chill through him. Kate pulled her legs up and hugged the pillow a little closer.
Mike pushed the coverlet aside and quietly made his way to the fireplace. The blue flannel shirt he’d been wearing earlier lay on the floor and he stopped to pick it up and slip it on. The logs were already placed on the grate and newspaper crumpled underneath them. The first match he struck hissed and went out. The second caught and he hunkered down and touched it to the paper. It burned brightly for a moment. He could hear the small sticks of fatwood begin to sizzle, then flare up.
Mike sat cross-legged and held his hands out to the fire. The crackling and hissing soothed him, and he stared into the flames, forgetting everything else except what had gone on between the two of them. A log shifted and he reached for the poker.
An unfamiliar bed, coupled with a nightmare and a thudding noise, brought Kate awake. A warm light suffused the room and her eyes sought its source. She focused on Mike’s shoulders. Backlit by the fire, a soft glow outlined his body. She could see he’d put his shirt back on, but he wore nothing else. A chill went through her, whether from the cold or the memory of his body on hers, she couldn’t tell.
Kate watched this man—her friend—sitting a few feet away, and thought of all the years that had slipped by. Would it have worked all those years ago? If she hadn’t been so dazzled by Paul? So taken in? She mentally shook her head to rid herself of the past. It was gone and it didn’t make any difference anymore. She sat up and reached for the quilt.
The rustle of the bedclothes caught his attention, and he turned. When he saw she was awake, he slowly smiled. “Hello, darlin’. You okay?”
“I’m a little cold,” she replied cautiously.
“Fire’s warm.” She didn’t move. “Want to bring the quilt and join me?” She gave a little nod. He watched, amused, as she pulled the cover around her tightly and carefully planted her feet on the floor. The quilt slipped slightly and she gave it a quick tug to secure it around her shoulders. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for modesty?” he asked as she made her way to the hearth.
Lowering herself to the carpet, she replied, “This feels—I don’t know—funny, Mike.”
“Well, why don’t you sit on the quilt?”
“You know what I mean.”
He set down the poker. “I know what you mean. But it feels very right to me.”
Kate looked into the flames. “You’ve thought about this—us—for a long time. I haven’t had that luxury.”
“Katie, look at me.”
She turned her head, careful to keep her eyes on his face. To see the rest of him would summon up the things they’d said and done earlier. His sweet eyes waited for hers, and her breathing turned shallow.
“I’m not new at this. But I need to tell you that making love to you was the best it’s ever been for me,” he said.
“Yes. It was nice.”
Nice? Mike inwardly cringed.
She realized how that sounded, and amended it with, “Very nice.”
Very nice? Mike tried to keep the disappointment off his face.
God, it still sounded bad, and she grew frustrated. “Damn it, Mike. What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing.” He held up his hand. “Don’t say anything else, please. My head is already too swollen from all the compliments.” They were both quiet for a moment, and then he said, “I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t try again.”
She had been studying the pattern of the quilt, and her head came up sharply. “You knew?”
His smile was melancholy. “Of course I knew. I’m a nineties kind of guy.”
She could feel her face flushing, but couldn’t come up with any explanation for him.
He hadn’t meant to disconcert her. He felt behind him until his fingers circled the leg of the armchair, and he pulled it closer. Mike’s hand closed over her shoulder and he gave a gentle tug. “Come here, Katie.” He could feel her resistance, but he persisted. He leaned against the chair, taking her with him, opening his legs to make room for her. Mike wrapped his arms around her as her back sank against his chest. “I just want to hold you.”
He wanted to hold her—yes. But he also wanted to touch her, caress her, lick her. He wanted to see her come. He wanted to hear her shout his name. This last thought came to him with such force that he had to suppress a groan, and he felt his cock begin to stiffen.
Placing his chin on top of her head, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally, but all that did was pull her scent into his nostrils till it reached the doorway in his brain marked Sexual Fantasies: Kate Moran Armstrong, M.D., and the doorway swung fully open.
Kate too felt an unaccustomed sense of desire the moment his arms enveloped her. He smelled of aftershave, woodsmoke, and sex, and she held her breath, knowing that if they made love, it would just end up the same way, and he’d be hurt again.
“I lied, Kate.” He lifted his chin, and then her hair. His mouth pressed against the nape of her neck. She felt his breath—hot—as he whispered, “I want to see you by firelight.”
“Mike, it’s not going to happen for me.” Her voice was kind and matter-of-fact. “It hasn’t for a long time.”
“Shush, Katie.” He was nibbling her earlobe. “Why don’t we see?”
But the thought of going through it again—the humiliation of hoping, and then having her body betray her—was too much. “Please stop, Mike.” She could feel the soft exhalation of his warm breath on her cheek. His arms tightened around her before letting her go, and she began to move away when he stopped her.
Gently taking Kate’s chin, he turned her to face him. “You’ve been hurt, and I wish to God I could take away the past. But I can’t. All I can do is try to make you believe that I’ll never intentionally do anything to cause you pain.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she closed them. “I’m counting on you to tell me when the time is right, Kate. You’ll do that, won’t you.”
She nodded, and he brought his lips to hers to seal the bargain.
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
There. T
he front door opened and closed. Matt was home. Sheryl waited in the kitchen, but his footsteps faded up the stairs. As tired as she was, she decided it was better to get it all out in the open now. There was no sense in waiting anymore.
Pushing herself out of the chair, she went into her office. The middle drawer of her desk held the usual supplies needed to run a small business, but underneath the ledgers and business cards was a small, flat box. Sheryl pulled it out and opened it. The contents hadn’t changed in nearly sixteen years. The only thing it held was an envelope. Written on the outside were the words “Safe-Deposit Key.” The bank and key had changed only once, when she’d moved back to Staunton.
Sheryl drove to the bank. Signing for her box was strictly a formality. She had gone to school with the bank manager. In the tomblike quiet of the vault, Sheryl pulled out the medium-sized metal box. Under the deed to her house, her insurance policy, and Matt’s birth certificate was the envelope she’d come for.
She never thought this was something she’d have to do. Mike had the other key. He was executor of her will. Had she expected him to live forever? To take care of this task when he didn’t even know the truth? Sheryl stood still, the envelope in her hand, trying to imagine what Mike’s reaction would have been to the melodramatic words she’d written on the outside: “For Michael Fitzgerald’s Eyes Only.”
Well, it wouldn’t happen now. The son she’d tried to protect would be the first to see what the envelope held. She hoped he’d be able to handle it.
Closing the hinged lid, Sheryl returned the box to its slot and left the bank.
Matt had heard his mother leave the house. He had stood at his bedroom window watching her drive away, and he stood there still when she returned half an hour later. Walking to his door, he opened it and waited for his mother as she climbed the steps.
“There’s more,” she said, holding out the white envelope.
He took it from her, but his eyes never left hers. “What is it?”
Remember the Time Page 28
