by Edie Claire
She stood a moment with her hand on the car door, looking at him with a gaze so studious he felt a strong urge to squirm. But his game face didn’t falter.
She smiled superficially, returned his goodbye, and closed the door.
He watched her as she walked up the steps and into her house, her slender legs moving nimbly, her long, shiny hair bouncing along behind her. Whatever turmoil was going on inside of Sarah, her carriage was never meek. Her shoulders were always drawn back, her spine straight, her head held high. When she was still, she seemed fragile. But when she moved, she was lissome. The contradiction was fascinating.
Her image stayed with him as he backed his car out of her driveway, across the cul-de-sac, and into his own.
Excellent actor or no, he was going to have a hard time convincing Sarah that his interest in her was purely platonic.
He sure as hell couldn't convince himself.
Chapter 9
Sarah rang the doorbell. Her heart pounded against her sternum, and her hand went reflexively to the knobby leads taped to her chest. The thin wires were hidden under her shirt, and to an uneducated observer, the Holter monitor clipped to her waistband looked much like a MP3 player. But she felt like a cousin of Frankenstein.
The door opened within seconds. Adam greeted her as if he were pleasantly surprised.
"Do you have a minute?" she asked, once again willing her heart to slow. Willing alone never seemed to work, but she didn’t have an alternative. It had been twenty-four hours since Adam had offered to accompany her to Alabama, and she owed him an answer. She was here to give it.
"Sure," he answered, gesturing for her to come in.
She entered the house’s living room, then looked around, baffled. She was hardly knowledgeable in matters of interior design, as her own outdated house would attest. But the look of Adam’s living quarters was so far off the mark, even she was struck. The room was furnished with dilapidated antiques, from spindly end tables to a scratched-up secretary, and the assorted high-backed couches and chairs were upholstered in faded patterns of roses and trefoils. The wallpaper consisted of dainty floral stripes, and the worn carpet was mint green. If she had to give the atmosphere a name, the best she could think of would be "little old lady."
He offered a wry smile. "What? You don’t like my decorating?"
She couldn’t think of a polite answer.
He chuckled. "I know, it’s hardly me, but no one at the church has offered to redo it, and there are things I’d rather spend my money on. Besides, who knows? The next pastor in here might like the place."
She began to understand. "You don’t own the house, then."
He shook his head. "No, the church does. I just live here. Would you like a drink?"
She threw him a wary glance. "Do you stock the refrigerator yourself?"
He grinned. "I have orange juice and diet cola. Take your pick."
"Juice, please. Thanks."
He dodged through a doorway into a small kitchen, and Sarah continued her perusal of the living room. With the exception of the plastic basketball hoop in the hall, it didn’t look like it saw much living. Her eyes moved toward the wall over the couch, and a large silver frame caught her eye. She stepped forward for a closer look.
It was Adam’s wedding portrait.
He and Christine looked young, barely in their twenties. The couple stood before a church altar, he with his arm wrapped tightly around his bride, she nestled into his side, both of them beaming with happiness. Adam wore a dignified-looking, classic gray tux, but with his black curls flying and a youthful glow to his face, he looked more Bohemian than clerical. Christine’s white gown was equally traditional and modest in cut, though her petite figure, delicately boned and curved in all the right places, could only be played down so much. Her short, golden-blond hair framed her face in perfect, wavy curls, and her large, light-brown eyes were as gentle as those of a doe. Her cheekbones were high; her lips, full; her complexion, peaches-and-cream.
She was most the beautiful creature Sarah had ever seen.
"Here you go."
Sarah jumped a little. Adam had returned with her drink. As she took the proffered glass and stepped away from the portrait, melancholy enveloped her. He and Christine had looked so happy. The pain of losing her must have been unbearable.
"Your wife was very beautiful," she offered awkwardly. He had seen her looking at the picture; it seemed inappropriate to say nothing.
His eyes flickered away from hers, his discomfort obvious. "Yes, she was." He turned and took a sip from his glass.
Sarah decided to change the subject. Her own history, if nothing else, had afforded her some insight into other people’s grieving. Sometimes talking about the person you had lost felt good; other times, it didn’t.
She spotted a set of diplomas on the wall behind the dining room table and crossed over to read them. "Master of Divinity, Pittsburgh Theological Seminary," she quoted, lightening her tone. "Well, what do you know? You weren’t lying after all."
Her eyes moved to the second one, and her levity dampened. It was also from the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. Christine Reed Carmassi. Master of Arts, Religious Education.
Adam cleared his throat. "We went to school together," he explained, making an unsuccessful attempt to sound cheerful. "We met in college, actually, then we both went to seminary. But she wasn’t a minister, per se. Her interest was Christian education."
The sadness within Sarah deepened. Not only had Adam been married to the most beautiful woman on the planet, but he had found his soul mate as well.
Found, and lost.
She looked into his dark eyes. The pain within them was profound, and the sight brought an immediate moistness to her own. But she squelched the impulse, suspecting that he would dislike being the object of pity as much as she had when her own wounds were fresh. Reminders of loved ones didn’t have to be sad.
"Beautiful and smart," she said with a smile, walking toward him again. "What possessed her to settle for you?"
His eyes brightened instantly. "Temporary insanity, I suppose."
"Must have been." Spirits bolstered, she took a long swig of her drink. She had been concerned that being alone with him in his house would be unsettling, but his physical appearance no longer unnerved her. When she looked at him now, all she saw was a genuinely kind person who had suffered a tragic loss—much like she had. "Can we sit down somewhere, maybe?" she asked.
"Of course." He started to wave her toward one of the antique chairs, then reconsidered. "Why don’t we go downstairs? It’s a little more—well, normal."
She shrugged in agreement, and he gestured for her to follow him down a narrow staircase off the kitchen. They stepped out into a finished basement that occupied the entirety of the house’s footprint, the ground-level back wall having sliding glass doors that opened onto a concrete patio. The furniture downstairs was much like her own: inexpensive, mismatched, and chosen for comfort. An unimpressive entertainment system occupied one corner, the expected weight set, another. One wall, she noted with satisfaction, consisted entirely of bookshelves.
She sat down on the generously padded couch without being prompted, and he settled on the arm of a recliner opposite her.
"So how have you been feeling?" he asked. "Any more episodes?"
She shook her head. "I’ve been fine for three days now. Melissa says that if the rest of the tests come back normal, it will be okay for me to travel—as long as I’m not alone." Her hand itched to fiddle with the taped-on leads again, but she refrained. If he had noticed the contraption already, he had been tactful enough not to mention it. "That’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk about what you suggested yesterday—about my paying your way to Atlanta."
His hand went to his mouth, and he rubbed his chin. It seemed almost as if he were trying to cover a smile. "You made up your mind?" he asked.
Sarah paused. His idea had seemed preposterous at first, and in many ways, it still did. If anyon
e had told her a week ago that she would voluntarily embark on a plane trip with a man, she would have laughed out loud. But this had been no ordinary week. What was left of her life had been turned upside down, and if her only chance to right it meant facing two phobias at once, so be it. Moving to Pittsburgh had taken strength, but she had found it. She would find the strength to do this, too.
"Yes," she answered. "I have."
She tried not to show any hesitancy. She could not completely discount the possibility that his offer might be romantically motivated, either consciously or subconsciously. But she had been careful not to encourage him in that direction, and his behavior had always been courteous. Whether he was attracted to her or not, she was certain now that she had nothing to fear from him. On that score, the long talk she’d had with Rose last night had put any lingering misgivings to rest.
Adam is an absolute lamb, my dear, the older woman had insisted with a dismissive flick of her wrist. You couldn’t be safer than with him. He’s honest, and he’s kind-hearted—he would never take advantage of a woman. Believe me, I know a skirt chaser when I see one. Hell, I was married to one. Adam’s more like Dean, my second: discerning men who look for substance.
Sarah didn’t doubt the assessment. Rose was a very shrewd woman, and she had been Adam’s neighbor—and his friend—for over a year. Melissa seemed equally fond of him, and even Sarah’s own instincts, distorted as they were by her past, avowed his integrity. But his stated motive in making the offer still baffled her.
Do you really think he wants to go with me just because it’s a free trip? Sarah had asked, frustrated. Does he like to travel that much? Because if he’s not planning to jump my bones, I really don’t see what else he could get out of it.
Rose hadn’t laughed. Instead she had pondered the question, almost long enough to worry Sarah. But eventually, she had answered. Sort of.
Adam is the adventurous type, there’s no doubt about that, but you can’t always tell what’s going to float a man’s boat. When he flew to Seattle last fall I told him he should look up my sister—that she made the best lasagna west of the Mississippi and had a thing for Italians. I was only joking, of course. What young man wants to spend his vacation having lunch with an old widow? But damned if he didn’t drop in on Rhoda, and she got such a kick out of him she keeps pestering me to send him back.
Rose had fixed her gray eyes on Sarah then, her voice bittersweet. I can’t pretend to read the man’s mind. But I do think that his getting away from here for a few days, spending time with someone his own age, would be good for him. He may seem content on the outside, but he’s still carrying so much sadness…too much sadness.
"Well?" Adam prompted, interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. "Do I get a free trip, or don’t I?"
She cleared her throat. It would be difficult, but she knew what she had to do. The offer he had dropped into her lap was too convenient, too fortuitous, to reject. Since leaving the doctor’s office she had thought of little else besides the gravesites she might never visit again and the keepsakes that her absence would see thrown to a flock of bargain-hunting vultures. She couldn’t rest until she had said one last goodbye—and proved herself brave enough to do right by her family.
"Here’s the situation," she answered, keeping her tone professional. "I may need more help than you realize. I’ll want to move some things from my parents’ house to a storage unit. Nothing really heavy—but I don’t think I could do it all by myself, either. It may take most of the day on Saturday. If you want, you could take me back to the motel in Atlanta and drop me off as soon as we’re done, and then you could have Saturday evening and Sunday morning by yourself to see the city. But you might not have much more time than that. Is that a problem?"
He watched her for a long time, still half hiding his mouth behind his hand. "What about Friday night?" he asked.
"What about it?"
"Will you need me then?"
"I’m afraid so." His disappointment reassured her a little. If he wasn’t interested primarily in sight-seeing, he was doing a darned good imitation of it. "Even if we go straight to the airport after work, we won’t get to Atlanta before nine, and it’s another two-and-a-half-hour drive to Auburn."
"Is the drive interesting?"
"No, not in the dark it isn’t." She began to worry. She wanted to be honest with him, but if he withdrew his offer now, she wasn’t sure what she would do. To survive such a trip, she would need more than just a chauffeur. "If you want more time alone," she suggested, "I could try to hire some moving help locally—"
He raised a hand. "I’m not complaining. I’m just getting the details straight. As far as I’m concerned, we’re on. I can carry some boxes, no problem. Go ahead and buy the tickets."
Sarah smiled. But she tried not to smile too broadly.
"Anything else I need to know?" he asked.
"No," she responded. "That’s all for now."
He didn’t realize the appropriateness of his question. She didn’t want him to know any more about her plans. On this journey, his ignorance was precisely what would make him so valuable. His alien presence would be her mental shield—firmly anchoring her to the here and now. She knew she couldn’t set one toe inside that house without someone at her side to ground her, and though Adam was less than ideal, he would have to do. Returning bodily to the accursed place was bad enough, but slipping mentally into the past—reliving what had happened there—would be unendurable.
"Are you going to be okay with the flight?" he asked, studying her with concern.
She felt a flush of warmth. The more familiar the dynamic between them became, the odder it felt. When it came to nonprofessional relationships, she was out of practice. She didn’t have male friends, at least not any who weren’t old enough to be her grandfather.
"I’m a little nervous," she said honestly. "But I’m not really worried about the danger. My parents died in a four-seater operated by a private pilot; I know how risky that is relative to flying commercial. Driving is riskier too, and I’ve spent plenty of time crisscrossing the Midwest in a compact car. The only reason I’ve put off flying for so long is—"
Her voice cut off. It was more information than she wanted to give.
"What?" he prompted.
She didn’t want to say it. He would misunderstand.
I’m afraid to do it alone. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she fought them back. How pathetic would it be to tell him the truth? That in all the years since her parents had died, he was the first person who had offered to fly with her? That despite all the mental exercises she had put herself through, poring over statistics and battling superstition, she still couldn’t face the thought of boarding an airplane by herself? She knew what would happen. No sooner would the plane begin to sink down from the sky than she would find herself mentally reliving her parents’ last moments, imagining the horror they must have felt…
She had never been able to do it. But she believed that she could now, as long as someone was there to distract her. Someone who understood.
"I don’t know why," she lied. "I guess I’m just a procrastinator."
He offered a smile. It was a we-both-know-I’m-not-buying-that smile, but it was a kind one, nevertheless. His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.
She felt suddenly antsy. "Well, thank you for the drink. But I need to go. I have plans to make."
She rose and handed him her empty glass, then headed up the staircase and picked her way through the antiques toward the door. He followed at a polite distance, but seemed reluctant to let her leave.
"So," he chatted, "What kind of weather can we look forward to down there?"
"It’ll be hot."
"It’s hot here."
She laid a hand on the doorknob with a chuckle. "Right."
"Will you call me with the details?" he asked. "Do you need a ride anywhere in the meantime?" His voice was merry; his enthusiasm about the trip, plain.
She pondered Rose’s a
ssessment. Maybe he was just happy to get away. From what she had seen of his belongings, he wasn’t rolling in the kind of discretionary income required to travel for fun. As much as she had acted the lunatic lately, it was difficult to imagine him enjoying her company. But perhaps the company didn’t matter to him. She of all people could empathize with the desire to experience someplace new, any place devoid of painful reminders.
At least one of them could enjoy the trip.
"Yes," she answered, pulling the door open. "And I don’t think so, but I’ll let you know."
"Great. Goodbye, then."
She returned his goodbye and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 10
Adam watched as Sarah attempted to settle herself in the middle seat, her body pulled as far away from his—and the window—as she could manage. He was glad the aisle seat was empty, but he feared it might not stay that way. The plane was still loading.
"I don’t remember these seats being so small," she commented, her voice strained. Her face was pale; her manner, anxious. He had been trying to make her comfortable with small talk every since he had picked her up at the library, but his efforts were failing. She was strung so tightly that he was almost nervous himself, and he loved to fly.
"That’s probably because you were smaller," he quipped. "Unless you used to fly first class?"
She looked at him as though he had called her a spendthrift. "Of course not," she retorted. Then her eyes filled with alarm. "You don’t normally fly first class, do you?"
He laughed out loud. "Um, no. I consider myself lucky not to be in cargo."
She seemed to relax a bit. Then she pulled the emergency instruction card out of the pocket in front of her and began to read it. He really wished she wouldn’t.
"Would you like the window shade open or closed?" he asked, determined to distract her before she hit the part about procedures for a water landing. She looked up at the window, but didn’t answer. The question appeared to be a tough one.
