Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  Later they showered and, as Brent had promised, they went out for a long drive, stopping in a quiet town at a roadside cafe for a delicious lunch of baked ham and succotash and scalloped potatoes. They sipped coffee out of fragile china cups, and on the way home Brent stopped by a horse farm. They talked about buying a pair of Arabian mares since they had more than enough space for them. Eventually they drove home, and the evening was terribly romantic; Brent built a fire in their bedroom and they just watched the flames and talked, entwined together.

  Geoff had tickets to a ball game on Sunday; they all went and their team actually won. Sunday night, when everyone had gone, Brent was as tender and solicitous to Gayle as he had been the night before. She thought about showing him the sketch, and she thought about sharing an even more personal secret, but then she decided that she would wait. She could barely remember the things that had happened Friday night, but she still felt that their relationship was on delicate ground, and she didn't want anything to ruin the new intimacy they were achieving.

  On Wednesday after work she went back to Dr. Shaffer for her appointment. It was a miserable hour. She started to tell him about Brent's strange behavior; then she realized that she couldn't tell this little man about all of Brent's behavior, so she hemmed and hawed and made a lot of excuses. Shaffer asked her if she thought that he should suggest to Brent that he come in.

  She definitely thought that Brent should, but then she remembered how Brent felt about coming in himself. His attitude was something that she resented, but at that particular time she didn't feel like arguing it out.

  Brent couldn't have been any more careful of her feelings than he was in the week that followed. One night when they returned from an antiquing trip, Brent surprised her with a cleaned-out stable—and the pair of Arabian mares they had looked at together. Mary warned them that she wasn't going to be looking after horses, and Brent assured her that he'd hired a foreman for the place. Gayle stroked the smaller mare's neck and said she wasn't sure she wanted anyone else looking after her new baby, and Brent assured her that she wouldn't mind having a few boys around to clean up after her new baby.

  Mary told them both good night—she and her husband were going to drive into Richmond for the evening to meet their daughter. Brent stayed with Gayle in the stable until they were gone; then he slipped his arms around her.

  “Ever fooled around in the hay?”

  “No—and it's amazing, considering how long I've been married to you now.”

  He laughed. “Well, get ready to ravish.”

  “To ravish, or to be ravished?”

  “Your choice.” Brent brought a blanket and laid it over the pile of hay. Laughing, they fell into it. The smell of the hay was sweet and clean, and there was something especially exciting about being out in it. The cool air caressed them as they lay there, feeling very decadent in their naked flesh.

  As darkness fell completely Gayle lay against him, feeling languorous and too tired to move. The problem with the stable, she decided, was the lack of a refrigerator or even running water that she trusted. “We'll have to put a refrigerator out here,” she murmured; then she rose and stretched, sighing because she would have to dress to go back to the main house. No one should have been on their property then, with the Richardsons being in Richmond, but she was certain that if she decided to sprint like a jay from the stable to the house, a million cars would suddenly come pulling into the drive.

  “I'm going to go and get—”

  “You're not going anywhere.”

  Gayle froze. She recognized the tone of voice because she had heard it before. It was Brent speaking, of course, but then again, it wasn't Brent at all.

  She backed away from the pile of hay, trying to reason while jumbled thoughts crashed through her mind. It was happening again. She had tried to pretend that it hadn't occurred at all, but it was happening again, and she couldn't begin to understand it.

  “I just want a drink of water—”

  “No! You can't leave here. Not tonight.” He bounded to his feet, sweeping his arms around her and dragging her over to the window. Gayle swallowed sharply and looked up at him. His eyes fell to her.

  She expected to find the hatred in them, to feel the loathing he had shown her before.

  It wasn't there, or perhaps it never really had been hatred, just anger and terrible pain and reproach. There was torment there and haunted anguish and a fire that burned passionately, but nothing of hatred.

  And nothing of evil.

  “Brent,” she said softly, “I just want water—”

  “No!” He screamed out in exquisite agony, and she found herself swirled around again and down beside him in the hay. He was over her, and he stroked the sides of her hair and stared down into her features. “How could you go to him, my love. I'd rather die a thousand times over, don't you know that?”

  “Brent, please—”

  “Do you know it? Or do you care? Was the temptation too great, or were you ever on their side?”

  “Brent—”

  “No! By God, I don't want to hear it! They're here now, aren't they? They'll stumble upon us soon, and you'll stand there with them. You were there when I had the fever. You bargained—oh, Jesus—you bargained with them...”

  “Brent—”

  She tried to push away from him. He shook his head almost sadly. “Not tonight, my love. Not tonight. You'll not go running out tonight. You'll remember me. I swear it.”

  He cupped her chin between his hands, and a glaze of tears shimmered on her eyes. “Brent...please...not like this, oh not like this! I don't—”

  He kissed her, slowly and softly. It wasn't that he hurt her; it was that she was so very afraid. He wasn't hateful; he was in agony, and she was the cause of that pain.

  He kissed her forehead and his hand cupped her breast and his whisper came against her ear. “Katrina, how could you betray me so? Oh, my God, all the years and all the love—and all the deceit and the hatred!”

  The tears fell from her eyes. She caught his wrist and tried to push him from her. She could not budge him.

  “Brent! I'm not Katrina. Oh, God, please stop this. I don't understand. I want—”

  “You'll not leave me again. A kiss, and that kiss is death, my love, but we'll wait it out together. There's no escape, is there? The cordon is around us. You married me; you swore you loved me; and if life ends tomorrow, then tonight at least you are mine.” He smoothed her hair from her face. Her tears continued to dampen her cheeks, and she turned in the misty darkness to stare out the door at the moon.

  He was gentle and tender, then ardent and fierce. He didn't strive to hurt her, but she felt as if it poured into her, all the tempest that raged in a maddened soul. He whispered a name, over and over. Katrina. He railed against her for betraying him, and he told her that she was a slut. And then he made love again, telling her that he loved her anyway. He would never let her go. Never. Until death did them part.

  When he was done with her, Gayle was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He collapsed again into a death-like slumber, and nothing that she could do or say awakened him. She had to keep assuring herself that he was alive because even his breathing was shallow. Gayle was startled to touch his cheeks and find them damp. He had been in so much pain...

  She let out a soft sob, wondering again what in God's name was happening to them. She bit into her lip, and pulled the blanket from the hay to wrap around herself. Feeling as if she were in shock, she crawled into the corner of the barn and watched him as he slept. She felt so lost. Bewildered. She didn't know what to do. Her world was falling apart, drifting through her fingers.

  Brent was her world.

  She lowered her head and her tears began to fall again and she wondered why. Love was so very hard to come by, and she and Brent had had it all. Maybe she should have expected something bad would happen. She'd learned that life was hard and seldom fair. She had been too happy.

  Outside, dawn began to come,
arriving with a very soft and gentle pink light. She must have dozed finally because when she opened her eyes Brent was staring at her, and she knew that she had her husband back at last.

  “Gayle?”

  “I'm here.”

  “I've got an awful headache. Did we fall asleep in here? God, my mouth feels like rubbish.”

  Her mouth curled painfully. “You don't remember?”

  “What? No, nothing. I must have dozed off early.”

  It was awful again, the headache that he had. He was going to have to see a doctor about it. Maybe he was getting migraines. He sat up and stretched and then scratched; the hay was itchy against his body.

  And then he took a good look at Gayle, and his heart seemed to sink to his feet.

  She did not stare at him with anger or even reproach. She seemed ill herself and stricken. Like a wounded doe, wondering why a trusted hand had shot an arrow into her heart.

  His own heart thudded hard. She was curled into the corner, with the blanket about her shoulders. Her hair was a wild tangle of golden curls around her shoulders, giving her an air of innocence, while her eyes seemed to have aged with the night.

  “Gayle?” He winced as he whispered her name, squeezing his eyes shut. What had he done now? He had no damned memory! He wanted to touch her; he didn't dare try.

  “Gayle, what...I didn't hurt you, did I?”

  She lowered her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “You didn't hurt me. And you don't remember anything. Again.”

  “I don't understand—”

  “No,” she said wearily. “And you don't want to, do you?”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded defensively.

  She stood up, dropping the blanket from her shoulders. She was so beautiful with the pink light playing over her body, the firm mounds of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples, the dips and curves and planes of her hips. He felt an instant erection, but knew it was no time to think of sex, or anything else, except for keeping her near him.

  “Gayle—”

  “You need a psychiatrist, Brent. You are losing your mind. You spent the night calling me Katrina, whispering that I'm a little slut and a traitor—but you love me anyway.” She began to dress.

  “Maybe I was dreaming—”

  “It was demented behavior, Brent.”

  “Gayle, damn it, I can't see a psychiatrist. Gayle, wait a minute—where are you going?”

  She was dressed and headed for the door. He caught her wrist. She stared at his hand coldly.

  “Gayle! Where are you going?”

  “I'm going up to the house. I'm going to make coffee and then I'm going to shower. And then, Brent, I'm going to leave you.”

  “What?” he roared, his hold upon her tightening like a vise. He couldn't believe she could even say such a thing.

  But she was serious. She nodded sadly, meeting his eyes. “I can't go on like this, Brent. Never knowing what is going to happen. And you don't care. You just don't care.”

  “What do you mean, I don't care? I love you! Christ, you know that! I love you more than anything—”

  “Except for your pride, Brent.”

  “I—I don't know what I'm doing! I would never hurt you on purpose, you know that. I can't stop what I don't know. I'll try, though, I swear it. I—dammit, Gayle! Marriage is for better or for worse!” He told her bitterly. “I thought that you loved me.”

  “Brent! I do love you. And you know that—”

  “Then you can't leave me!”

  “You won't try!”

  “Try what?”

  “A psychiatrist. I went because you asked me to, remember?” She didn't wait for an answer. She watched him just a moment longer; then she turned and headed for the door again. He watched her. She looked determined.

  She really meant to leave him!

  “Gayle!”

  She was halfway along the lane, heading toward the house, when she heard his voice. She turned around and saw that he was running to her, stark naked, on the lane.

  She had to smile. He was as beautiful and graceful as a healthy animal, and he was totally unselfconscious about his nakedness.

  He reached her, panting. He set his hands on her shoulders and she didn't fight him. She kept smiling, though tears threatened; and when he held her to his heart, she was glad she felt his warmth and the rapid pounding there.

  “Don't go.”

  “Brent—”

  “I'll see Shaffer. I'll call him, and I'll take his earliest appointment. Just don't leave me. Don't ever leave me. I love you so much. You are everything to me.”

  She kissed him; then she laughed; then she cried. Holding his hands, she pulled back and looked at him. “You are bonkers, you know? It's broad daylight, and you're standing here bare-assed in the breeze, and any moment now—”

  She broke off. “Any moment” was happening. There was a truck coming down the lane—the morning paperboy.

  “Oh, hell!” Brent swore. He looked toward the house, then toward the barn, and decided they were equally distant. “You, my love, are worth it!” he proclaimed. Then he kissed-her quickly and streaked off toward the house.

  And Gayle continued to laugh and then she started to cry again. And she sat down, right there, right in the lane, and started to laugh and cry some more.

  The paperboy, she was certain, considered her far more dangerous than Brent. He dropped the paper into her lap, asked her if he could help her, and then disappeared before she could reply, as quickly as he had come.

  CHAPTER 16

  A week later on Tuesday afternoon Gayle sat nervously on the corner of her desk, waiting. Brent was supposed to finish his battery of tests with Dr. Shaffer today, then pick her up at the gallery.

  The gallery was filled with bird pictures. Cardinals, hummingbirds, blue jays. Gayle thought they were beautiful. The artist was a woman, a small, spectacled grandmother who had waited most of her life to really put her heart into her work. Geoff and Gayle had both been pleased with the showing—Mrs. Fitzsimmons wasn't a McCauley, but she was very good with her subject, and the paintings and lithographs had sold very well.

  At the moment, though, Gayle stared at a red-breasted woodpecker and barely noticed the bird. Geoff came up to her and pressed a glass into her hand; she looked down to see that he had poured her some of his prized brandy.

  “Thanks,” she told him, smiling. Curiously, Geoff had been the one she had been able to talk to. She didn't know how happy Brent would be about that, but she didn't intend to tell him. Maybe the fact that Geoff had admitted that he and Tina had begun a bit of a temperamental affair had made her break down. Then again, maybe she finally talked to him because she had burst into tears while they were eating a quick lunch in his office earlier that day. Whatever, she was glad that she had talked to him. He had been warm and understanding, and though he couldn't give her any answers he didn't seem to think that either Brent or Gayle had completely gone off their rockers.

  “You look like you need that,” Geoff told her. He slid into the chair behind her desk. Gayle turned to face him. “You don't have to wait, Geoff. You go on.”

  “I'll wait. I'm in no hurry.”

  “What about Tina?”

  He squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, we had a spat again last night.”

  “Whatever do you fight about all the time?”

  He grinned. “Other women, other men, where to go for dinner, how to drive through the traffic. The list is longer. Want to hear the whole thing?”

  “No!” Gayle laughed, then she frowned, remembering the sketch she had hidden away in the cupboard.

  “What's the matter?”

  “Oh! I was just thinking. Geoff, do you think you could come out soon? I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “A sketch.”

  “Brent's?”

  “No. No, this is old. It's done on vellum. I found it at a barn sale.”

  “And you think it might be worth something?”

/>   She shook her head. “No. Well, maybe. I don't really know or care. It's just upsetting because...because it looks exactly like something Brent has done. I mean, to a T. As if he and this other artist, who probably lived two hundred years ago, had seen the same thing, from the same perspective.”

  He arched a brow curiously. “Sure, I'll come out. What does Brent say?”

  “I haven't shown it to him.”

  “Oh?”

  She shrugged and looked away from him. “I found it after the first night he acted—so strangely. I don't why, but I held off from showing it to him.”

  The door opened then and Brent stepped in. Gayle looked at him anxiously, then jumped up to greet him with a kiss, glad to see that he was smiling. “How did everything go?” she asked him eagerly.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” He looked past her to Geoff and grimaced. “This one has nightmares and screams; I act out Rambo fantasies in my sleep.” He looked at her suspiciously, seeming to realize that she had said something to Geoff, then shrugged as if he didn't mind. He smiled at Gayle again. “A clean bill of health. I went through the physical stuff like a Trojan, I swear it. And I stared at ink dots and did the whole bit. I made my life an open book. And I'm clean. There's nothing wrong with me.”

  “That's great.”

  “Want to come to dinner, Geoff?” Brent asked.

  Geoff lifted his shoulders. “Are you being polite? Would you rather be alone?”

  Brent shook his head, pulling Gayle against him and resting his chin on the top of her head while his arms slipped around her waist. “No, we can't be alone in a crowded restaurant anyway. Come on along.”

  Geoff did come to dinner; curiosity—and that he loved Gayle and really cared for Brent—decreed that he should do so. They were both still beautiful. Gayle in soft swirling gray silk with padded shoulders, Brent in a casual fawn jacket, tailored shirt, and neatly pressed jeans. She was so light; he was so dark. The fairy-tale prince and his angel-haired princess.