Borrowed Time

by Edie Claire

  Sarah’s eyes paused. Rockney. A full first name, or a last? She leaned toward the latter. He probably had a first name he didn’t like. She continued to skim. No further names caught her eye. Until she saw her own.

  He took me home on his bike, and when we got there, Sarah was in the yard. She was doing something in the flower garden by the garage.

  Sarah’s heart beat loudly. This part, she remembered having read before. She remembered how much she had hated it.

  Sarah looked gorgeous of course, like she always does. She’s got hips and thighs as slim as a boy, but with just enough butt to make guys drool. And even though she’s kind of flat-chested, she’s got such great shoulders she’s still totally hot. She was wearing a halter top and short shorts, and I just knew Rock would notice her.

  Dee knew that Sarah would read the story. She had written about her sister before, and always in flattering terms, perhaps because of that. But her words now brought nothing but nausea.

  She didn’t come out to see us, and I was glad. Rock stared at her and asked who she was, and I told him she was my straight-laced and boring little sister. [No offense!] I thought he might ask more about her, but he didn’t. He just grabbed me and started kissing me, right there in front of her!

  Sarah slammed the book closed. There were only two paragraphs to go, and she could tell at a glance there were no names in them. What was the point of torturing herself? She knew how it ended. Dee mused about how good a lover Rock was likely to be, then ended the chapter looking forward to their next date. Except that their next date hadn’t happened. The Landers’ plane had crashed first.

  Sarah breathed out heavily. She hadn’t completely wasted her time. His name was probably something Rockney. Maybe he even went by Rock Rockney. Either way, it was an unusual name, and that would make tracking it easier.

  She replaced the book and returned the box to the closet. Then she headed back to her computer and put her hands on the keyboard. Her fingers were less than steady, and she had to backspace twice to correct typos, but at last the hated words appeared clearly on the screen before her. "Rock Rockney."

  She hit the enter key and the search engine churned, producing a list all too quickly. Her eyes scanned it with trepidation. There were indeed men with the last name Rockney who went by "Rock." But none were logical matches. They were either too old or too respectable. If she did come up with a hit for him, it was not going to be as part of a byline.

  "Rockney Alabama," she typed. Then she held her breath. There were few entries, and her eyes zigzagged over them as if she were racing. Genealogies. Too old. Unrelated news story. That’s a woman.

  She released the breath. There was nothing.

  She sat motionless for a moment, deliberating. Maybe no news, in this case, was good news. It was possible she had the wrong name altogether, or that she was missing a reference in another state. But there was nothing on the internet that tied him to Alabama. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

  She felt a tiny surge of jubilation. Had she not wished, more than once, that all traces of the man’s very existence could be erased? That she could pretend he had never been born?

  Perhaps she could. Evidently, nobody else cared about him either.

  Her doorbell rang. As always, its volume caught her off guard, and she sprang from her seat in response. Adam. He had come over to check up on her again. He said he would call, but she had left her cell phone in the bedroom; if it had rung, she hadn't heard it.

  She shut down the computer and made haste toward the door. She didn’t want him to know what she was doing, but she didn’t care to risk a 911 call either. "I’m fine," she said immediately, greeting him with a tight smile. "I just left the phone where I couldn't hear it. Sorry about that."

  He appeared handsome in the porch light, as he did in all lights, and she could no longer look at him without recalling the sensation of being held. The memory—and the potential—tantalized her. There had been a time when she was certain she would never be attracted to a man again, but she had been wrong. Whatever else Rock Rockney had done to her, he had not robbed her of the capacity to appreciate—and desire—human affection.

  Without hesitation, she reached out, took Adam by the hand, and pulled him inside. "Come in."

  He acquiesced, but then stood stiffly in the doorway, seeming uncomfortable. She realized that she hadn’t bothered with her robe, and wondered if her state of dress was disturbing him. But she was perfectly decent—well covered in a T-shirt and the sleep pants her Holter monitor was clipped to.

  "You missed a great casserole tonight," she said, suddenly feeling awkward herself. She moved toward the living room and gestured for him to follow. "Too bad you were tied up. You could have had a free line-dancing class, too."

  He smiled, but didn’t move. "Rose has long since given up on me as a dancer. But I am sorry I missed the food."

  Sarah stopped walking. She tried again. "Want some leftovers?"

  He continued to stand in place, watching her from a distance. "No thanks. I can’t stay long. I just wanted to check in. Are you going to sleep now? No more climbing stairs or operating the stove tonight?"

  "Straight to bed," she responded, not bothering to cover the disappointment in her voice. "I promise."

  He nodded. "All right, then. Good night." He turned toward the door.

  Sarah moved to intercept him. "Thank you for checking on me," she said sincerely, blocking his path. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts—alone with the books still sitting on her bedside table. Even if he did appear anxious to leave.

  "You’re welcome," he said softly.

  She knew he was intentionally distancing himself from her, but regardless, she felt an overwhelming urge to touch him. "You know," she replied, being careful to keep her own voice light. "As guardian angels go, you’re the best."

  If it was a mistake, she didn’t care. She put her arms around his neck, and she hugged him.

  Chapter 20

  A knock on Sarah’s office window startled her. She jumped in her seat and swiveled around. Adam was standing in the hall. Confused, she gestured for him to come in. He had never come all the way into the library before; ordinarily she waited for him outside. Was he early?

  She checked her computer clock. No, he wasn’t early. She was late. She floundered with her mouse, quickly closing out the web site she had been combing. He hadn’t seen it, had he? Her face reddened. She had been doing well today. She had vowed to do some online research as soon as she put her salaried time in, and she had kept that promise. But she’d found more than she bargained for, and she had lost track of time. He could not have seen the site. She couldn’t deal with the questions.

  She studied his expression as he entered. She couldn’t tell if he were reacting to the website or something else, but he was clearly on edge again. He had departed at light speed after she had hugged him last night, and though he had acted more normal on the drive to work this morning, she was certain now that she had blundered. It had been an innocent embrace—much less than what she wanted. But perhaps he had sensed that. Perhaps that was why he had recoiled.

  She sighed at her own foolishness. She had wanted to experience new emotions; she hadn’t considered that rejection might be one of them.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked.

  "Of course," she answered, shutting down her computer and gathering her things. "Work always makes me hungry. But as I told Rose last night, I don’t expect the two of you to feed me. I should be cooking for you."

  "And I fully intend to let you do that," he countered. "But not tonight. Tonight the weather’s gorgeous, and it’s high time you saw the view from Mt. Washington. A trip up the incline is mandatory for all new residents, and if we don’t get you up there soon, you’ll be fined. Plus, I know a great little restaurant in Station Square that’s right on the way. What do you say?"

  Sarah blinked. Whatever had happened last night, he wasn’t recoiling from her now. The proposal sounded
heavenly, and she didn’t care to analyze it. "Will you let me buy dinner?"

  He considered. "Only if you promise to spring for dessert, too. They make an awesome cheesecake, and I’d hate to miss out because I was too polite to ask."

  She grinned at him. "Like that’s a risk." A flash of color caught her eye, and her brow furrowed. He had a trace of bright green along the side of his face, smeared into the roots of his black ringlets.

  He followed her eyes and put a hand up. "I didn’t get it all off, did I? Sorry about that. I was in a hurry."

  Her eyebrows rose. "What exactly—"

  "Vacation Bible school," he explained, opening the door for her. "I was the Jolly Green Goliath. You got a problem with that?"

  "Um, no," she said with a smile. "No problem at all."

  ***

  A gust of wind ruffled Sarah’s hair, and she put up a hand to tame it. The breeze that rolled off the rivers was brisk, and in the warmth of the evening, delightfully refreshing. But she didn’t want her hair in her eyes. She wanted to take in every detail.

  The dramatic contours of Pittsburgh fascinated her. Unlike every other place she had lived, and contrary to her own preconceived notions, western Pennsylvania was beautifully mountainous. The steep cliff that was Mount Washington towered over the Monongahela River below, offering a spectacular view of its junction with the Allegheny River to form the Ohio. A cluster of skyscrapers filled the Golden Triangle where the three rivers met, and a flowing fountain punctuated its tip. From the concrete overlook on which she stood, Sarah could see downtown, both stadiums on the North Shore, and many miles’ worth of the quaint city boroughs and suburbs that flanked the rivers’ edges. New office buildings gleamed where the old steel mills had once stood, but many historic clapboard houses still remained, clinging with seeming impossibility to the sheer slopes flanking the Mon.

  She leaned out over the iron railing. "Our houses are where, exactly? Over there?" She pointed.

  Adam, standing beside her, adjusted her aim. "More that way."

  "I see," she said with a smile. "And where’s Kennywood? Isn’t it right on the Monongahela?"

  He stared at her a moment, smiling curiously. "It’s that way," he pointed, "around the bend."

  Sarah took in the view with satisfaction. She felt good tonight—as good as she could remember feeling. Just as in Georgia, Adam had managed to whisk her troubled mind out of its element and into a fantasy zone that was blissfully carefree. In the dream, she could be a normal person. A normal woman.

  The rather noisy family of five that had been sharing the overlook with them decided to move on. Silence descended, and Adam looked over his shoulder. They had been in the midst of crowds all evening, but now, suddenly, they were alone.

  Sarah liked the thought. She had read that the windswept overlook was a popular place for weddings, and now she could understand why. Its milieu was undeniably romantic.

  Adam pulled his arms from the railing and straightened. He moved a step away.

  Sarah frowned. They had had a fabulous evening. She had eaten pasta and cheesecake until her slacks were tight and laughed until her ribs were sore. Adam had laughed, too. And she didn’t believe he was only humoring her.

  So why should being alone with her now make him uncomfortable? "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  He started. "No, of course not," he answered, his smile self-conscious. He leaned back against the railing—but farther away.

  Sarah watched him, puzzled. She might be one of the least socially experienced twenty-six-year-olds on the planet, but even she was certain, after tonight, that he was as attracted to her as she was to him. She had been making no secret of the latter—at least not lately. So why was he fighting it?

  She moved over next to him, their arms and shoulders touching. "This is a beautiful spot. Thanks for bringing me."

  He straightened and stood up, his expression graduating from nervous to miserable. "You’re welcome. We’ll have to come again sometime. But for now, we should probably get going."

  Disappointment slammed her like a blow. Why did the one and only man in the last decade who had managed to stir her interest have to be so noble? She wanted to be held again. She wanted that warmth, that comfort. She would be happy with even the smallest dose of it, at least for now. What was the problem?

  He turned to leave, but she stood still. "Adam?"

  He stopped and faced her.

  "Can I ask you a personal question? Please?"

  She saw his jaws clench. He deliberated a moment. "All right."

  "Have you dated anyone since Christine died?"

  His every muscle seemed to tense. "No."

  "Do you think you will?"

  He turned away from her. His shrug was stiff. "I’m not sure."

  Sarah breathed out with a huff. She knew she had no right to ask for clarification, given how carefully she guarded her own history. But she was almost certain that his hesitancy had something to do with Christine. Whatever the source, she wished they could resolve it soon. Patience and forbearance took time she didn’t have.

  "I wish you would tell me more about her," she requested, her voice casual. "All I know is that you went to seminary together and that she was beautiful. But what was she like?"

  He looked out over the vista rather than at her, and his gaze seemed troubled. But after a long pause, he put his hands back on the railing, relaxed a little, and complied. He smiled as he talked, but his tone was mirthless. "Christine was devoted, caring, resourceful. She loved working with kids. She struggled through seminary, but she enjoyed her work in Christian education, and she was good at it. She was an only child, and the way she was raised she could have been spoiled, but she wasn’t. She never complained about anything. She was happy to keep her life simple. Her faith was very strong."

  He stopped. He looked so unhappy Sarah’s own stomach twisted. She didn’t understand. She expected him to be melancholy, to miss the love of his life. But something didn’t seem right. It was as if, over a year after his wife’s death, his grief still had claws. She felt the same way when remembering Dee, and she knew she always would. But her situation was different. Christine’s death had been tragic, but at least it had been due to natural causes. Her husband should have found more peace by now. The same peace Sarah had come to with her parents’ passing.

  "Then I’m sure she would have wanted you to be happy," Sarah stated, well aware of her brazenness. "She wouldn’t want you to grieve forever."

  He straightened again. His smile was superficial; tolerant. "Of course she wouldn’t. She was quite adamant about that, in fact."

  He backed off and took a step toward the street. "Enough about me. Are you ready to go?"

  Sarah smothered another sigh and followed. She realized she was getting nothing more than a dose of her own medicine. But that didn’t make it taste any better.

  ***

  They were alone in the incline car on the ride back down the mountain. Sarah supposed Adam regretted that. He was sitting a good foot away from her on the bench seat; from the looks of him, he would have preferred the row behind.

  She supposed she should be embarrassed—trying to convince a man he should move on when her motives were so obviously self-serving. But she refused to be embarrassed. Adam’s being lonely didn’t serve anyone’s purpose. Still, she suspected she should tread a bit easier. "I didn’t mean to push you," she offered, breaking an increasingly awkward silence.

  To her surprise, a glint of humor appeared in his eyes. "You, push me? I don’t think that’s a problem."

  Sarah stared. Then what was the problem? He couldn’t possibly think he was the one doing the pushing. If anything, he’d been treating her like she were made of glass.

  A sour thought wafted through her mind, and her pulse began to pound, rattling her body in concert with the shudder of the descending incline. "Adam," she said earnestly. "Are you afraid I’m going to die?"

  His face hardened. His eyes met hers. "You ar
e not going to die," he commanded. "Don’t even say that."

  "But you are afraid of something," she insisted. She knew it was egotistical, assuming that something besides lack of interest was preventing the closeness she was suddenly so desperate for. But the chemistry between them tonight had been palpable. Why wasn’t he acting on it? If it wasn’t Christine and it wasn’t her illness, what was it? He might be a minister, but he wasn’t a priest.

  "Tell me," she demanded.

  He continued to look her straight in the eyes. His answer was slow and deliberate. "I’m afraid of hurting you, Sarah. You may think you’re ready for more than a friendship, but I don’t believe you are."

  A flush of heat enveloped her. Her cheeks burned. What was he talking about?

  She scooted away on the bench, twisting to face him. "What makes you think," she practically stammered, "that you know what I need?"

  His brown eyes continued to hold hers, gentle now, but fervent. "I saw the way you looked at that mattress in the house. I see how uncomfortable you are around men. It’s not hard to put two and two together."

  When the light turned on in her head, it seared her like a flame. She put a hand to the rail in front of her, half-standing in the quivering car. "You think I was raped?" she shouted, incensed.

  Adam’s eyes flickered over her shoulder. They were passing the ascending car on the opposite track. Two middle-aged couples, no doubt within earshot, eyed them suspiciously.

  Adam lowered his voice, but its resolve didn’t waver. "Yes. I do."

  "Well, you’re wrong!" she hissed. "You’re just plain wrong!"

  He said nothing. He remained sitting, his stance calm, sympathetic. She squelched a strong urge to throttle him.

  "You don’t believe me, do you?" It was rhetorical question, and she didn’t give him a chance to answer it. She plopped back down on the bench with her back to him, working hard to regain her composure. Why was she so indignant? It was easy enough to see how he could reach such a conclusion. Yet she hated that he had even thought it—hated it so much that she had just come perilously close to blurting out the truth. The man was getting to her.