Fire and Rain

by Diane Chamberlain

  At first, she had looked at the pictures objectively, with a certain clinical detachment: My, Chris, what a good job you’ve done with this. Look at how beautifully you’ve arranged four photographs to a page, look at how neatly you’ve written the date below each one, when your handwriting is normally so indecipherable.

  It wasn’t until they had looked at the last picture—a shot of a four-year-old boy in a bean bag chair—and Chris had turned back to the first page and said “Let’s start over,” that she realized how tightly she was hanging onto the slim thread of her composure.

  “No,” she’d responded, starting to get off the sofa. “Let’s make some coffee.”

  But he’d held her down, one hand snug on her shoulder. “We’re looking through it again, Carmen.”

  She studied Chris’s face, and it was as though she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t really noticed him, in over four years. He had aged. When he didn’t smile—and he wasn’t smiling now—there was no boyishness left in his face at all.

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice husky. “It was too hard the first time.”

  “You didn’t even see these pictures the first time,” he said, softly. “This time, I want you to look at them. Look at Dusty.”

  She lowered her eyes reluctantly to the picture of the baby she had carried with such hope, such terror, after losing his two siblings. Next to that picture was one of her sitting in their bed here at Sugarbush, Dustin on her lap. She could almost remember the moment Chris had snapped the shutter on that photograph. She had just nursed Dustin. Her robe was still open, one full breast partly exposed. Her gaze was focused entirely on the baby snuggled in her arms, her beautiful dark-haired son, and she felt again that aching in her breasts, that oddly pleasurable pulling in her belly.

  She began to tremble. “I can’t,” she said to Chris. “It hurts too much.”

  “I know it does. Believe me, I know how much it hurts.”

  At first, she was frightened by her tears. She didn’t want to lose control, afraid she might never find it again. But there was safety in Chris’s arm around her shoulders, and the tears gradually began to feel welcome. Cleansing. She no longer struggled to hold them in. She no longer bothered to wipe at them with the back of her hand. They fell like raindrops on the plastic-covered photographs of the album as Chris turned the pages.

  Her child’s eyes were ruined. If he were ever to be out on the street, out in public, people would stare at him. Children would be frightened by him. They would ask their parents what had happened to that little boy. They would have nightmares that they themselves might wake up one morning with their own blue or green or brown eyes turned the sightless color of an overcast sky.

  And yet there was such beauty in him. By the third or fourth page, she no longer noticed the milky eyes, but rather the thick dark lashes, the perfect, pouting mouth. “I’ve missed out on so much,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.” The terrible wrenching tone of his voice told her that he misunderstood. He thought she was referring to what she’d missed out on by not having a healthy child.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve missed him. Dustin. I had him for just a few hours. A few days. They seemed so… magical. But then I turned my back on him. Jeff was right. I—”

  “You were sick,” Chris interrupted her.

  She shook her head, a sense of conviction growing inside her. “I’m not sick anymore,” she said. “Can we go see him?”

  He didn’t bother to mask his look of surprise. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  “Now?”

  He smiled. “It’s a little late. How about tomorrow?”

  Carmen knew he wasn’t quite convinced she was all right, because he said he would spend the night in her guest room rather than go back to his cottage. And that was where he was now. Two rooms away from her. Her husband. Ex-husband.

  She got out of bed and left her room. The tiled floor was cool on her bare feet, and a breeze slipped past her as she walked down the hall. She opened the door to the guest room without knocking. Chris was lying on his side under the peach-colored blanket, facing the window. He turned when she walked into the room, and she knew he hadn’t been sleeping either.

  “Carmen,” he said.

  She raised her nightgown over her head and dropped it on the chair by the window. He drew back the covers for her, and she slipped into the bed next to him. And when he pulled her close to him, when he pressed his body against hers and buried his head deep in the crook of her neck, she knew she would cry again that night. But it would be a long, long time before she would cry again from unhappiness.

  44

  THEY DIDN’T TALK MUCH during the night, and Chris couldn’t have said whether that was his doing or Carmen’s. He knew there was a great deal that needed to be said, but nothing seemed as important as touching each other, as making love. He hadn’t wanted to spoil the night with words—words that might be angry, or empty, or that might somehow ruin the spell that seemed to have wrapped itself around them.

  They made love slowly, cautiously at first, as if neither of them could quite remember how, but their awkwardness soon gave way to a shared familiarity, an easy, loving intimacy. They held onto one another all night long, asleep or awake, while the rain pounded endlessly against the guest room windows.

  “What time can we go?” Carmen asked, as the black of night gave way to the gray sky of morning. Her head was on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, her leg twined between his. He hadn’t even realized she was awake, although he’d been wide awake for a half hour himself, awake and enjoying the warmth of her next to him.

  He’d been afraid she’d pull away from him once daylight washed the night’s enchantment from the room, but as she asked the question, she nestled even closer to him.

  He smoothed his hand over her thick hair. “After breakfast?”

  “Okay. I don’t think I can eat anything, though.”

  She could never eat when she was excited or upset or anxious. He’d forgotten that about her.

  Indeed, he found he had little appetite himself. He managed to eat half a bowl of granola while she sipped a cup of coffee, and he restrained himself from saying, Remember all the mornings we started like this, sitting in this room together?

  The phone rang. Carmen picked it up, then covered the mouthpiece to tell Chris it was business, would he please excuse her? She carried the phone into the study, and she was gone a long time. He had washed the dishes and read the paper by the time she returned to the kitchen.

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you later.” She was carrying two umbrellas, one black and one green, and she handed the black one to him. “I’m anxious to get on the road, all right?”

  He couldn’t read her face. He was curious about the call but wouldn’t push her. She would tell him when she was ready.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They were still quiet with each other on the winding roads above Cinnamon Canyon. Chris turned on the radio, set to the station most likely to play a little folk music, and the windshield wipers tapped out their familiar background noise.

  “The reservoir looks wonderful,” Carmen said as they drove along the road high above the expanding pool of water. Chris couldn’t see it from his side of the car, but he knew how it looked these days: in the rain, leaden and dull; in the sun, blue and bottomless. In either case, rising. Steadily rising.

  Carmen didn’t speak again until they reached the freeway. “The call was from Dennis Ketchum,” she said then. “He held a meeting last night with the management staff.”

  Chris turned off the radio so he could concentrate on what she was saying. She’d spoken very quietly, not looking at him at all. She seemed engrossed in the bumper of the car in front of them.

  “And?…” he prompted.

  “Well, I’m not supposed to talk about it, so keep this under your hat, but he said there’s an excellent chance of my getting Sunrise back.” Her hands were knotted t
ogether in her lap, and she twisted them, one over the other. “Apparently Terrell Gates doesn’t have a clue that they’re talking about this. But hell, she’s young, she’ll recover, right?”

  He knew what this meant to her, and he wanted her to be back on Sunrise as badly as she wanted to be there. But he could tell by her subdued tone that she hadn’t been made an offer—rather, they’d presented her with some sort of deal. “Go on,” he said.

  “He said that they love what I’ve been doing, that they’re very impressed. They’re just about convinced I’ve still got whatever the hell it is I used to have.” She pursed her lips in an expression of self-disgust that surprised him. “Want to know what he said exactly?” She glanced at him, and he returned the look.

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘I can just about promise that if you unravel the Jeff Cabrio story, you’ve got the show.’” She was wringing her hands so forcefully now that her knuckles were white. “And they’re all hot about my idea of kicking it off by bringing on the people I’ve interviewed who knew Jeff in the past. He said, ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, Carmen. You’re dynamite.’”

  Chris wasn’t pleased by the tone or content of Dennis Ketchum’s ultimatum, but he could see that Carmen was equally displeased, and that surprised him. He reached over to pry her fingers apart and wrap his hand around hers.

  “So,” he said, “what did you tell him?”

  “Not much.” She shrugged. “Nothing specific. I kept up the ‘tough old Carmen Perez’ facade.” That self-deprecating twist of her lips again. “I said I was pleased they’ve regained their faith in me. I told him I’m feeling very strong and that I’m up to anything, any sort of challenge they want to throw my way.”

  He didn’t envy her dilemma. “How do you plan to handle this?” he asked.

  She sighed and looked away from him, out the window toward the string of new houses going up on the crest of a hill. “Well, I guess I keep looking for the dirt on Jeff,” then added hurriedly, defensively. “He’s a nice guy, Chris, I admit that. But he did something he had to run away from. Maybe it wasn’t much. Maybe he stole a pack of gum from a convenience store. But whatever it is, he made his own bed and now he’ll have to lie it. That’s not my fault.”

  Chris said nothing. If she wanted absolution, she was looking to the wrong person to get it.

  She continued, ignoring his silence. “It’s drugs, I think, although I admit he doesn’t seem the type. But neither does his stepfather. He’s a sweet old man.” She shook her head. “Has Jeff told you anything about his father? Has he talked to you about his past at all?”

  Chris sighed. “You know how I feel about this. Jeff is saving Valle Rosa. That’s all I need to know about him. That’s all anyone should need to know.”

  Carmen looked into her lap where Chris’s hand was still locked around her own. “You disapprove of me pursuing his story,” she said.

  “Well… I think you’re in a pretty tight bind, Car, but I trust you to come up with the best course of action.”

  She laughed. “And you’re a diplomat, you know it? You’re mayoral material if ever there was such a thing.”

  “Mmm.” He smiled.

  “Valle Rosa needs you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She paused, then added quietly. “And I need you, too.”

  He glanced at her and tightened his grip on her hand.

  “I always have. Even when I hated you… when I thought I hated you, I still needed you. You’ve been so good, Chris. I wouldn’t let you near me these past few years, and yet I knew you were always there, looking out for me. I’ve never been a particularly… lovable woman, I guess, but—”

  “That’s not true,” he interrupted her. It wasn’t. He could give her a hundred examples of her soft and tender side. “That’s not true at all.”

  “Well, these last few years I’ve been anything but, yet you’ve still loved me, haven’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said with a smile. “It’s not as if I could help myself.”

  “Last night was wonderful.”

  “Yes.”

  She rested her other hand on top of his. “Chris? I’d like you to move back into the house.”

  He was surprised, but he knew she was still captive to the mind-clouding effects of the night before. “Not yet,” he said. “Let’s wait a while, okay? I need to be certain that’s what you really want before we live together again.”

  And you haven’t seen Dustin, yet, he thought, returning his attention to the road. You haven’t seen firsthand the damage I’ve done.

  “ARE YOU AFRAID?” HE asked her as they walked up the steps of the Children’s Home.

  “A little,” she said. “But only a little.”

  Chris had called Tina to let her know he would be visiting today and that Carmen would be coming with him.

  “Really?” Tina had said. He could guess at the emotion behind the word. He knew what they all thought of Carmen. Probably they expected a camera crew to join them, to catch Carmen Perez in the act of being a good mother so she could show the footage on television. A bid to win back the sympathy of those who thought she was nothing of the kind.

  It was immediately obvious that everyone knew she was coming. Tina greeted them by the front desk, but other members of the staff peered out of their office doors or slipped by them in the foyer, staring.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” Tina said graciously to Carmen.

  Carmen nodded, locking her hand tightly around Chris’s arm.

  “How’s he doing?” Chris asked.

  “Oh, he’s having his usual ups and downs.”

  He knew by the look Tina gave him that Dustin’s downs were more prevalent than his ups today.

  Tina gestured toward the hall. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Chris was glad she didn’t plan to join them. He didn’t want anyone else around on Carmen’s first visit with her son.

  They walked down the long hallway to Dustin’s room.

  “Smells kind of institutional,” Carmen said disapprovingly.

  “That’s because it’s an institution,” he said. “But wait until you see his room. It’s very homey.”

  Chris pushed open the door to Dustin’s room. The little boy was in bed. He lay on top of the covers in striped pajamas. His eyes were open, facing in their direction, and Carmen’s hand flew to her mouth. Chris gripped her arm, fearing she might faint.

  “Oh,” she said, “he’s precious.”

  Her reaction took him by surprise, and as she pulled free of him to walk over to Dustin’s bed, he felt the threat of tears. She bent down to hug her son, and the little boy, startled, jerked away from her, sounds of distress coming from his lips.

  “Unh! Unh! Unh!”

  Carmen took a step back, her hands in the air. “What did I do?” There was an edge of panic to her voice.

  Chris rested his hand on her back. “You startled him, that’s all. Remember, he can’t hear you or see you.”

  Dustin thrashed on the bed, grunting, still shaken by the intrusion into his small, silent world. Carmen pressed her fingertips to her lips. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to hold him.”

  Chris wrapped his arms around her. She was trembling. He wished there was something he could do to make this easier for her. “I know,” he said. “You’ll get to hold him. You just need to learn how.”

  He bent down next to his son. “It’s Daddy, Dustin.” Slowly, he stroked the little boy’s cheek, and slowly, Dustin screwed up his face and began to cry. Chris groaned. “Not today, Dusty,” he said. “Come on. It’s a special day.”

  “Is he hungry?” Carmen gingerly lifted the hem of Dustin’s pajama top and grimaced at the sight of the feeding tube. “Or wet maybe? Could that be why he’s crying?”

  Chris stood again. “Nobody really knows why he cries. He just does.”

  Carmen reached for Dustin’s
hand, trying to touch it with the same tentative stroking motion Chris had used on the little boy’s cheek, but the gesture was met with a fresh flood tears.

  Folding her arms in front of her, Carmen spoke dejectedly. “He’s not going to let me near him.”

  “It’s not you, Carmen. He’s that way with everybody. Sometimes stroking his back helps. Sometimes holding him in the rocking chair. Sometimes nothing helps, so don’t feel bad if that’s what happens today. Let me try him in the rocker.” He pulled the rocking chair close to the bed, then gently lifted Dustin, ignoring the little boy’s wailing and thrashing.

  “Don’t hurt him.” Carmen hovered over them. “The feeding tube. Maybe it’s pinching him when you lift him up or—”

  “Hey.” He smiled at her, amused by her sudden parental concern. “I’ve been picking him up for years.” He sat down in the rocker with his fidgeting, yelping son and began singing “All My Trials.” By the time he started the second verse, Dustin had settled down. Chris felt him grow heavy in his arms.

  “It worked.” Carmen smiled. “You did it.”

  He looked up at her glowing face and saw the hunger there to touch her child. “Would you like to try holding him?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood to let Carmen sit in the rocker. Then he carefully lowered Dustin into her arms. The little boy immediately began whimpering and squirming again, and Carmen struggled to contain him.

  “He’s so strong,” she said, and Chris had to laugh at the maternal pride in her voice.

  “Sing to him,” he said. “That seems to have some sort of calming effect on him.”