The Passion Play

by Amelia Hart

  He came after her, surprised her by reaching for her again, taking hold of her with a tug that was not so polite, so her body came up hard against his. He bent to her and this kiss was brief, firm, a thread of possession in it that made her cling to him, unthinking, wanting to surrender.

  But he let her go and stepped away, his eyes fierce as he nodded and said: "Dancing. Friday. I'll pick you up at nine."

  Her swollen lips still parted, she watched him go, his powerful stride carrying him swiftly away, and she was thrilled and angry and confused, but Friday seemed now to hold more promise.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Her Saturday evening at the club was a disappointment, as if she was forcing it, trying to find an elusive enjoyment. It was difficult to stay in the moment. She kept forgetting and looking for Luke at the bar, and that made her edgy and bad-tempered.

  She did not want to want him, only him. She did not want to miss him, nor to think of him like there was anything special about him. He was just another jock; sexy enough, nice enough for a fun time. That was as much as she wanted or was ready for. Casual was the name of the game.

  So she pushed herself into trying to enjoy the night, the music, the atmosphere of the club, but it did not work. She barely saw the men there, even the two she danced with. No one stood out. In the end she went home early, washed off her makeup, showered and went to bed to lie staring at the ceiling for far too long.

  Was going out like this at night still achieving what she wanted to achieve? She was trying to be open to new possibilities, to understand herself better, to be more confident and relaxed about men. She wanted to feel young and adventurous and alive, as if there were no boundaries.

  She just . . . she felt restless.

  On Monday she spontaneously walked into the office of a local travel agent, collected brochures and took them home with her, using them as the starting point for browsing the internet. The whole world was open to her. She could take the time off work, and go anywhere.

  When she felt the familiar hesitation, the objections crowd around her – I’ve never travelled alone before, something might happen to me, I might get lonely, I might want to be pregnant by then – she recognized the excuses for the fear they masked and decided she would go to Europe in three months. Enough time to do the research and decide exactly where. She would start in London where at least she spoke the language, and wander from there.

  She booked a one-way trip online, and paid for it.

  On Tuesday was a dinner party she had accepted six weeks ago. Back when she and Dan were still together. Not that she had told him about it at the time. He seldom planned his social life so far in advance. But the appointment was in her own diary. She stared at it.

  The hosts were an ex-player, Tom Rafferty, and his wife Eleanor. There would probably be other team members there, but most uncomfortable was the thought of Dan. He might still have been invited, directly rather than through her. She did not want to spend an evening in the same room with him.

  But that was just the fear talking, really. The thought she might not be able to stand her ground, to dismiss him from her mind, her life, if she had to look at him or talk to him. The task was to be stronger than that. Otherwise she must give up every friendship from her former life with him, and with the team in particular, and she did not want that.

  She dressed carefully, stockings and a knit wool dress that was thin but beautifully warm and draped very well, elegant and sophisticated. Too much for one of these gatherings, which were so casual, but she would rather be overdressed and look great. She balanced it by gathering her hair in an elastic band on the back of her head, a plain bunch, and applying very natural make up.

  That would do. She need only seem coolly relaxed, as if anything Dan said could not touch her. A polite disinterest.

  Outside Tom and Eleanor's house she sat in her car for a long minute, gathering her poise about her like a shield. No matter what happened here, she could manage it. These people liked her, and she liked them, and so long as Dan was civil there was nothing to worry about. If for some reason he was not, everyone would side with her. She was among friends.

  But Dan would be civil. After all, this was his professional life as well as his personal one. Of course he would be. No need to build it up to be some frightening thing it was not. She gathered her bag, got out of the car and went to the front door.

  When Eleanor let her in, she thought she detected some extra emotion behind Eleanor's eyes, her smile. It might have been pity. Felicity did not like it but knew it was well meant. She fastened her own, brightest smile on her face and breezed through the moment. She was ushered into the large living room of the immense house – a house bought with some of the money Felicity had helped them manage. Tom was one of the players who had taken her advice and was now well-established for life. The place was full of people already, standing in groups with beer bottles or glasses of wine or orange juice in their hands, or sitting on the sofas that were arranged in several conversational groups across the expanse of carpet.

  Felicity scanned the room for Dan's distinctive big frame but she could not see him anywhere, nor hear his too-loud voice. Perhaps he had still to arrive. Or maybe – and she brightened at this thought – he would not come at all.

  She found the wine and poured herself a glass, more to hold than to drink, then began to circulate.

  It would have been pleasant to talk, to exchange news, other than the awkwardness of the one piece of news it seemed everyone had heard about: her separation.

  "It's sad when a marriage ends."

  "Yes, it is," she agreed, exasperated with a comment she had heard half a dozen times already.

  Amanda waved a hand at the rest of the room. "And coming here, seeing all the friends you had as a couple, must be hard too."

  "I suppose. I wasn't really thinking about it. How's the flower business these days? The florist shop going well?"

  "Still a bit slow. I'm thinking I need to reduce staff to push the profits back up . . ."

  Felicity managed, but after an hour she was ready to find a quiet place to sit with a plate of food as occupation, and take twenty minutes off. This was more draining than expected.

  Others were helping themselves from the buffet, a laid back affair of hamburger and hotdog fixings, salad and coleslaw and baskets of hot chips Eleanor kept refreshing from the oven. Felicity gathered a plate and hovered by the table, mentally assembling a meal before she committed anything to the plate itself.

  "Not your sort of food?" came a masculine voice from just behind her, and she turned and blinked up at Luke Barrett.

  For a moment she gaped, and then she snapped back into polite composure, refusing to think about their parting Saturday night, with a mental shove of those pictures to the back of her mind. The food. He had mentioned the food.

  "It's not that. I just don't want to put something on my plate I then don't like."

  "If you find you don’t like it just leave it," he recommended with a smile.

  "And you so well-mannered, Mr Barrett. I'm sure your mother taught you to eat everything on your plate, when someone else had made it for you."

  "She surely did. And it's Luke, if you remember. But she's a practical woman, my mom, and she also taught me when there are this many guests your hosts can't be everywhere. Take your unfinished food to the kitchen and hide it down the waste disposal. Not that unfinished food is often a problem with me, I'll admit."

  A little surprised – she had never heard him string so many words together at one time – she nodded. "It takes a lot of fuel to feed you guys."

  "It does, no question. Can I help you to anything?"

  "I think I can manage, thanks."

  He stepped past her and with swift, economical movements he filled his plate to almost overflowing, then stood by expectantly, clearly waiting for her.

  Thus prompted she began, more selective than he, leaving the over-sized buns and the chips but taking hamburger patties, salad
, coleslaw, fried onions and pickles in dainty small serves.

  "Look at that arranged all nice and tidy on your plate," he said admiringly, and she glanced down at the selection that yes, she had absent-mindedly placed to be as attractive as one could manage with such food.

  Then he stepped sideways, inclining head and body in a way that ushered her to come along with him. "There's a nice spot over here, a bit quieter and the view's good."

  She felt hijacked, but he did it all with such good humor, such visible pleasure to have her company she could not resent him for it, and he was right, the breakfast room was empty for the moment and the windows out onto the lawn showed the garden lit up like a picture, the careful landscaping highlighted by equally careful lighting. There was even the table so she did not need to balance her plate on her knee.

  And perhaps, all things considered, Luke would not expect to discuss her failed marriage with her. That alone made his company welcome.

  She sat next to him, oddly aware of his big body hulking next to hers. Odd, because she was accustomed to large football players. Why should she feel so self-conscious in this moment, so feminine and small?

  "Had a good day?" he asked, and gathered a large forkful of food together.

  "I have, thanks. Mostly working. I got a lot done."

  "What do you do for work?"

  "I'm a financial analyst."

  He flashed her a bright, interested grin. "Financial analysis? I wouldn't have guessed it, looking at you."

  "What do you mean?" she asked, pausing with a mouthful of salad halfway to her mouth, ready to be offended. She had heard plenty before about how her pretty blondness made observers think of light, sweet, fluffy things, right down to Dan deciding his pet name for her would be Candy Floss, the English name for cotton candy.

  "It seems a dry subject. Hard to imagine someone with your natural gifts gravitating to it."

  Okay. Alright, that response was acceptable. She would let that one pass. "If you have money you have a life full of choices," she said, her own personal mantra. "We're a society obsessed by it but woefully ill-equipped to make it work for us. I think that's a crying shame."

  "You're changing the world one bank account at a time."

  "I help my clients have security for themselves and their children and grandchildren, and then I encourage them to think about how they can give to the wider community. Because of me, hundreds of thousands of dollars have gone to community projects in the city and the state. I think that's a pretty good scorecard."

  "It sure is," he said admiringly. "When did you know you wanted to do that?"

  "I followed my father into it. It's what he does. He made it fun to keep my own budget and accumulate money and make investments when I was little. He's this really organized guy and he showed me how being well-organized can set you free, in finance and your home and social life."

  "So even in your work life you're very family-oriented."

  "I . . . yes, I guess so. I hadn't thought of it like that."

  "It seemed kind of obvious to me. You were always coming into the stadium to help out your ex, and I'm guessing nobody paid you for that."

  "No, of course not. I was just being helpful. It's what family do for one another, isn't it?"

  "I've always thought so. Did your ex help you out with your work?"

  "No, he . . . ah . . . no. I didn't really need help. I could get it all done myself."

  "Most of us can get it done by ourselves. But that's not what it's about, is it? If you care for someone you help them. Not because it's necessary but because it feels good. It lets your special person know you see them, you care enough to get involved. Their goals are your goals."

  "Yes. Yes, that's true." But she had grown used to working full time and keeping the house all on her own without help. There was really no other option. Dan had always spoken of how lucky she was that her work was more flexible and less demanding than his, how she could set her own schedule and there were no deadlines, no one chasing her for answers this second.

  She had stayed silent, thinking but not saying they would sure enough be chasing her if she did not get her work done so efficiently, well ahead of expectations and self-imposed deadlines. That was how she had built up her business with so little in the way of advertising. People had referred her for the quality of her work, and the results that were the natural outcome of her many hours of quiet research.

  "Still, I guess everyone's different," he said. "It must be hard on people who go into a relationship thinking it's going to be one way, and the other person thinks the opposite. Lonely and maybe a bit sad."

  "Yes." And here they were talking about her failed relationship. It seemed it was inevitable. Apparently no one could look at her and think of anything else. "I’ll be sure to clarify every assumption in the future," she said tartly.

  He just grinned his laid back grin. "That's a tall order in itself. Don't think a person can manage that, either."

  "Maybe the world needs a thousand-item questionnaire that's compulsory for all dating couples. A detailed self-analysis of every hope, dream and intention for life after marriage. Fill out every question then swap answers."

  "Maybe we do need it. We should get a smart woman like you on the job. What is it they say? If you want something done, give the job to a busy woman?"

  "I'm the last person in the world to do something like that. You'd need someone with a good track record in relationships." And with that, unintentionally, they were back to seriousness.

  "Aw, that sounds like you're beating yourself up. There's more wisdom to be had from making mistakes than succeeding every time."

  "Would you rather listen to an expert proved successful, or a proved failure?"

  "Don't know as I'd pick one over the other. I think it depends on the subject. But best of all is probably the person who failed first, then succeeded later. They're the one who knows the pitfalls. They've got more compassion for the others who make mistakes. Getting things wrong teaches you compassion."

  "I suppose I'm on my way to becoming more compassionate, then."

  "You saying you're used to getting everything right?" When she opened her mouth to reply, he held up a hand to halt her, his eyed crinkled attractively at the corners. "Don't answer that. I can tell you are. Pretty near perfect, if I'm any judge. You're allowed to get some things wrong."

  But this hit too close to home, and she scowled at him. "Thank you so much for your approval."

  He just went on smiling his genial smile, endlessly casual. "No worries. I could tell you were anxious about it. Didn't want you fretting."

  "You're so generous."

  "Or compassionate, maybe. It's all those mistakes I've made, you see? That's compassion in action, for sure. I'm here for you, I'm feeling your pain," he ticked off items on his fingers, "I know it's tough but I have faith in your resilience. See? I'm either a genius or I've got this stuff wrong before too."

  And now, though the humor was still there, he had segued to a point of vulnerability and sat there looking at her with his warm hazel eyes that told her he understood, did not pity her but really saw her, his half-emptied plate pushed a little away so he could prop his forearms on the table.

  She wanted to cut him off, to deny the connection he established that seemed too personal, too intimate. She looked away from him, down at her plate, and poked at what remained of her mound of coleslaw. "Maybe you're right. I'll get on that questionnaire right away. Create it and hand it out."

  "Copies to every single person. I'll expect mine in the post."

  "Complete it right away," she said absently, assembling her next mouthful.

  "Yes ma'am. And get it straight back to you," he said softly, and she looked up, startled, caught suddenly in a meaningful glance she had not wanted to share.

  The implication was too much, even in teasing. They were not dating. She did not need to know a single thing about his expectations for a life partnership. For marriage. She opened her mout
h, unsure what she would say to tell him how wrong he was, how he encroached too much on her.

  But perhaps he already knew it, because he inclined his head respectfully and rose before she could find words. "I'll be getting on now, but I'm looking forward to Friday night. Catch you later."

  He went and left her gaping after him, as he took another seat within sight of her, next to other people talking animatedly, sat down and slotted easily into the conversation.

  A moment later he glanced her way and when he found her still looking at him, he winked.

  She pressed her lips together and glared at her plate, then began to furiously attack the remaining food, eating and fuming.

  "He's so nice, isn't he?" said Eleanor, making her twitch in surprise.

  "Who?" she asked as if she had no idea what Eleanor was talking about. But the other woman sat and nodded in Luke's direction, her dark hair gleaming in wings on either side of her face. Her eyes held a fondness.

  "That Luke. He's such a sweetie."

  "Is he? I don't really know him that well."

  "Definitely. Single too, if you're looking. Though maybe it's too soon for you. And truth be told, I guess he's very picky. I've never known him to go out with anyone and he's been here more than a year."

  "Oh?" said Felicity, trying to sound offhand.

  "My friend Maya asked him out and he kind of ducked the invite as if he hadn't quite got what she meant. It made me laugh, I have to say, because Maya's used to getting her own way with men. Not that I told her that. And he did it well, too. Or maybe he's gay."

  "I wouldn't have thought so."

  "Neither would I, actually. He definitely doesn't give off the vibe."

  "No."

  The two women sat and looked at Luke Barrett for a long moment, then at each other, Eleanor with a conspiratorial air. "Definitely not. So he must just be picky. You should give him a try."

  "Should I?" Felicity felt a little resentful of this advice. As if she was not complete and sufficient without a man.