After a second, she sighed, her eyes shifting toward Cynthia. “Sorry, he just seems to bring out the worst in me.”
Mitch was becoming accustomed to Clancy’s flare-ups. Maybe he deserved them. But they were not about to deter him from what he knew he had to do. “I came to talk to you about next week.”
“Next week?” Clancy echoed, as if the words made no sense to her. She was having difficulty thinking of the next hour. Next week seemed an eternity away.
He nodded, looking at Cynthia. “When you’re alone.”
She was alone now, Clancy thought, suddenly feeling cold. A sliver of independence surfaced to counteract the emotion. “What about it?”
He’d given this a great deal of thought, and what he was about to suggest wouldn’t be easy for him. He was a loner, accustomed to his own company. Sharing space with her would be difficult, but that was the price he’d have to pay for what he’d done. “I thought I’d move in some things and stay with you until you’re back on your feet.”
Though his proposal took her completely by surprise, Clancy’s mouth curved in response to his words. Humor rivaled with bitterness for the same space. “No pun intended.”
Cynthia had been worried about leaving Clancy on her own. This would solve everything. She placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder and nodded at Mitch. “Sounds good to me.”
Clancy hated having to constantly look up at everyone. Her neck was beginning to ache, shortening her temper further. “Then you take him.”
Cynthia attempted to smooth over the situation. “I think my husband might have something to say about that, but if I were you—”
“Well, you’re not me. No one is.” The retort tumbled out without any thought on Clancy’s part, as if it had been waiting for a break in her control. She paused, attempting to regroup. She was behaving like someone she would have disliked intensely. She shifted her eyes toward Cynthia’s, silently asking the woman to bear with her. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just biting off everyone’s head since—”
Cynthia shook her head, curtailing the flow of words. “No apology necessary. God knows you’ve got the right.” She looked at Mitch. If she had someone who looked like Mitch in her life, ready to wait on her, she’d certainly take him up on it. But maybe there was more to the story than she was aware of.
“It’s up to her, but if I had a say in this, I’d vote for your plan.” Cynthia was a very practical woman. She couldn’t understand Clancy turning her back on such a ready solution. “You need someone around, at least part-time, and as much as I’d love to be here for you, between work and my family...”
Clancy waved away the rest of the excuse. Cynthia didn’t have anything to apologize for. She didn’t need to be here now, except for her extremely nurturing nature. Besides, this wasn’t her fault.
It wasn’t Mitch’s, either, Clancy reminded herself, despite the fact that he seemed to think it was. She shouldn’t be taking all her frustration out on him.
She took a deep breath. “Look, we’ll discuss it later in the week, all right? Who knows?” Dry humor twisted her lips. “Maybe there’ll be no reason to discuss it.”
Mitch’s eyes held hers. “Maybe.”
But they both knew there would be.
* * *
Clancy slowly pushed herself into the guest room. The thick plush rug wasn’t easy to maneuver with the wheelchair. The palms of her hands were developing calluses. Another reminder of her infirmity.
She shifted her attention to Cynthia. She was going to miss the woman, she thought. A great deal. Cynthia had doggedly filled each day for the last seven, and made them tolerable.
Clancy watched her packing. The oppressive feeling of loneliness built as each article of clothing went into the tan leather suitcase. “I want to thank you for staying. I know it hasn’t been easy on you.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hey, what are friends for?” She turned from the bed, where the suitcase lay open. “Tell me something. What’s the story with you and the dark, brooding angel?”
The brooding angel. It seemed like an apt description for him. Mitch had dropped by several times, twice when the therapist had been here. Each time he’d grilled the woman, asking questions, watching. Absorbing actions and information as if he were storing it all up for later use. He’d attempted to get Clancy to do a few of the exercises with him, but with Cynthia to fall back on, she’d refused each time. He never stopped pushing.
“We dated a couple of years ago.”
Dated seemed like a tame word to apply to the man. Cynthia doubted if men like Mitch dated. “And you let him get away?”
It was painful to remember any of it. He’d hurt her a great deal. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. He ran.”
There was a lot Clancy wasn’t saying, Cynthia decided. “Seems to me he’s changed his mind.”
Clancy shook her head adamantly. She had no illusions as to why Mitch was back. “No, this is about guilt.”
Not from where she stood, Cynthia thought. There was something in the man’s eyes when he looked at Clancy. Something Clancy—and probably he—was unaware of. But it was there just the same. “Doesn’t matter what brought him here. As long as he’s here.”
If Clancy had wanted him, she would have wanted the terms to be different. But she didn’t want him. She didn’t want anyone. “It matters to me.”
Cynthia placed the last article of clothing into her suitcase and snapped the locks shut. She heard the shift in tone and knew that her friend was distancing herself. “I’m sorry. Am I being crass?”
Clancy was more grateful to Cynthia than she could ever say. “No, not crass. It’s just that I won’t accept his pity, or his guilt. Those weren’t the emotions I wanted from him—when I wanted him.”
Cynthia studied Clancy’s face. “Wanted. As in past tense?”
“Very past tense.” Clancy gestured at the wheelchair that held her prisoner. “Look at me, Cynthia. I’m not exactly a great catch.”
It was difficult accepting the self-pity she heard in Clancy’s voice. Cynthia still hadn’t written her off, even though Clancy had.
“Well, except for the rip-roaring bout of depression you’re having, which is completely justified,” she added quickly, “I’d say you were a terrific catch. You’re bright, funny, kind.” Cynthia laid a hand on Clancy’s shoulder. “And I always thought you were too damn beautiful for the rest of us.”
That was all in the past. Clancy looked down at the wheelchair. “I can’t walk.”
“Now.” Cynthia’s voice was stern.
She shook her head. In the week she’d been home, despite the fact that she’d been regularly prodded by the nurse and the therapist, nothing had changed. Her legs were still a leaden weight she dragged to and from the wheelchair. All feeling still died abruptly across the middle of her thighs. She was struggling to make her peace with that. So far, she was failing miserably. “Maybe ever.”
Even if she never walked again, it still didn’t make her any less of a person. Cynthia wished she could make her accept at least that much. “Funny, when I first met you, your legs were the last thing I noticed.” She leaned down and affectionately kissed her cheek. “Think about it, Clancy.”
The sound of the doorbell echoed throughout the apartment. Cynthia picked up her suitcase. “Sounds like the changing of the guard to me.” She walked into the living room, then looked over her shoulder at Clancy. “Wish I could stay longer.”
Clancy dismissed the silent apology in her voice. “You’ve already done so much.”
“Don’t forget to keep up with your exercises.”
Clancy refrained from saying the exercises were useless. “He won’t let me forget.”
“Good for him.” Cynthia paused a moment before opening the door. She lowered her voice so it wouldn’t carry. “And between you and me, I like this one a hell of a lot better than Mr. Smooth-As-Glass, now that he’s out of the picture.”
Clancy didn’t want to talk a
bout Stuart. He had turned out to be another horrid lesson in reality. She’d had enough lessons to last her a lifetime.
Cynthia opened the door just as Mitch was about to ring again. He filled the doorway. He was dressed in civilian clothes and carried a duffel bag over one wide shoulder. From the looks of it, the bag wasn’t full. The man traveled light, she mused.
“A hell of a lot better,” Cynthia repeated, her eyes skimming the ridges of Mitch’s biceps.
Mitch felt as if he’d walked into the middle of a conversation. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” A wide smile slashed Cynthia’s pleasant face. “Just finishing a thought. Take care of her, Mitch. She’s a pain right now, but she’s worth it. See you soon, Clancy.” Giving her friend a warm hug, Cynthia let herself out.
Now that he was here, he felt somewhat awkward about the arrangement. Even when he had been seeing Clancy, there had never been talk of moving in with one another, or even of exchanging keys. Though they had made love, Mitch hadn’t wanted Clancy to get under his skin, to get into his mind.
Now here he was, moving in. But it was for an entirely different reason. It helped to remember that.
“I’ll just put my things in the guest room.” Mitch nodded toward the room as he walked in that direction.
“Sure.” She moved the wheelchair out of his way and let him pass.
This was a mistake, she thought. A big mistake. But she had no choice. She didn’t want to admit it aloud, but she was afraid, afraid of being alone day in and day out. Where once she had enjoyed her solitude, now it threatened to swallow her up. Cynthia had made a difference this last week, with her chatter and her way of finding the funny side of everything. It hadn’t made Clancy feel better about her condition, but it had given her just the slightest, most-tenuous desire to regain hold of life again.
And it had kept the dark at bay.
That was the only reason, she told herself, that she even tolerated Mitch’s suggestion about moving in.
It had gone beyond a suggestion, she realized, watching him walk into the guest room. It was now a reality.
Another reality she had no control over.
Chapter Seven
He hadn’t expected it to be easy, Mitch thought as he reached for the carton of eggs in the refrigerator. And it wasn’t. After dropping off his things last night, he’d gone out for Chinese food, remembering that it was her favorite. It was one of the few things they’d had in common.
Clancy had hardly touched her meal. Whether it was because she wasn’t hungry or because she resented his being there, he didn’t know. He hadn’t asked. Resigned, he had eaten his own dinner and then cleared the table. When he had suggested doing a few exercises, she’d countered by saying she was tired.
Mitch had begun to override her, then thought better of it. Maybe she needed her space, at least for that evening. They both had things they needed to get used to, she more than he.
Mitch cracked an egg on the side of the pan and emptied the contents. Right now he’d rather be on stakeout, crammed into a compact car with his partner, than here with her. He couldn’t find a niche for himself, couldn’t force the silent tension from his body.
He’d always faced up to his responsibilities squarely. But it was different, being alone here with Clancy.
There was more at play between them than the guilt created by the accident. Another guilt shimmered beside it, just within the shadows—an older, well-creased guilt. It was there despite the fact that he knew he had done the right thing.
It was there because she’d been hurt.
He reminded himself that she would have been more hurt if he had remained.
But he thought of it, of the guilt, every time he looked into her eyes and remembered how they had haunted him in the months after he’d left. Haunted him as he recalled how they had shimmered with tears. Tears that he had been responsible for.
The last egg joined the pool formed by three others in the pan. He returned the carton to the refrigerator, his mind barely on what he was doing.
Had he made a mistake volunteering to help her?
Probably, but he was bound by his conscience to be here for her.
He’d tried very hard last night to make it easier on both of them. But any headway he’d thought they’d made earlier in the week had evaporated. They were two opponents, shadowboxing in an arena.
“Do you want to watch anything?” he’d offered.
To him, television programs were something that droned on in the background in other people’s houses. He didn’t own a set, nor did he care to. His radio kept him as in touch with the world as he wanted to be.
Clancy had always loved to curl up next to him on her sofa and watch some mindless fare, enjoying it the way he was certain the producers and writers hoped the public would react to their brainchild—with pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
But last night Clancy had shown no interest. She’d merely shaken her head. “No, I’m going to bed.”
Mitch had raised a brow, thinking of all the logistics that might be involved in getting ready for bed. He hadn’t discussed with Cynthia just how far her care had extended or how much help Clancy needed. It was a delicate subject, but it needed broaching. He felt as comfortable as if he had just donned a pair of ballet tights and walked into the middle of Swan Lake.
He glanced in the direction of her bedroom. “Do you—”
She had read his expression easily and cut off the question. “And I don’t need any help.” It was important to her that she could do something, anything, on her own. That she have some control over her life. “I can get myself ready for bed.”
As if to prove her point, she had gripped the sides of her wheelchair and lifted herself up ever so slightly. A natural athlete who’d excelled in sports at school, Clancy had always had a great deal of upper-body strength.
She’d settled down in the chair again. “The vocational nurse they sent me before my release was very thorough in her instructions.” There was a trapeze bar now mounted over her bed, to help her get in and out. The bitterness came again, spilling across her face. “Even people like me can manage some of the simpler functions of life.”
“People like you,” he’d echoed, turning the phrase around slowly in his mind. He had little tolerance for self-indulgence or self-pity. His impatience had warred with his determination to keep his temper under wraps. “You mean people who feel sorry for themselves?”
She’d blanched, then twin flushes of fury had dotted her cheeks. “Well, don’t I have the right? You’re only here because you feel guilty and you pity me.”
He reacted with anger of his own. “I do pity you.” Despite her accusation, he’d seen her eyes grow wide. “But not for the reason you think. I pity you if you go on feeling sorry for yourself, if you continue having temper tantrums when everyone’s only trying to help you.” Her eyes had smoldered, but she’d remained silent. “People who don’t give up or give in don’t receive pity, they receive admiration.”
As regal as a queen, Clancy had drawn herself up in her chair. “Are you quite through?”
Disgusted at his own outburst, at not being able to hold on to his temper, Mitch had merely shrugged. “Yeah. I’m through.”
“Then I’m going to bed.” Ice had dripped from each syllable.
Clancy had pivoted and swung the wheelchair away from the table. The space wasn’t accommodating, but she managed to point herself toward the doorway.
The doorway hadn’t been built for wheelchairs. The fit was tight. Clancy had banged one of the wheels against the wall. Mitch had had to restrain himself from going over and pushing her to her room.
Instead, he’d shoved his hands deep into his pockets and remained where he was. She had wanted to handle this on her own. So be it. He of all people knew he couldn’t protect her indefinitely.
He had seen her reflection in the glass of the small curio as she passed it. There had been tears on her cheek.
He had remained roo
ted where he stood, but it hadn’t been easy for him.
With nothing else to do, Mitch had decided to turn in himself. It would give him a jump on the morning. He usually just had coffee for breakfast. There would have to be more on the table than that before he left for the precinct tomorrow.
Alone in the small guest room, Mitch had begun arranging his things. If he was going to help her, he thought, they were going to have to work past her hostility toward him. For whatever reason it existed, whatever claim to it Clancy believed she had, it was only getting in the way of her progress.
He had gone on to hang a few shirts in the closet. It had struck him that, though it was a simple enough act, he wouldn’t have been able to reach them if he were sitting down. How would he be reacting if it were him in the wheelchair rather than her?
Mitch mused that he wouldn’t exactly be cheerful, either. He could well relate to her anger. Maybe, if he found a way to work with it, it could be put to positive use.
His mouth had curved as the thought crossed his mind. He was banking on hope. It seemed so completely out of character for him to entertain the very possibility.
But then, he supposed that as a policeman, he actually dealt with hope on a daily basis. He offered hope to the local residents, making them feel safer by having the police around. Hope that he would solve the crimes that happened around them and bring about a happy solution. Hope that he could resolve difficulties as they occurred.
Without realizing it or thinking about it, he had been dealing in hope every day he’d been on the force.
The razor had slipped from his fingers and clattered as it hit the sink. He’d been placing it into the empty medicine cabinet when he’d heard the noise from the other room. Something had fallen.
Reacting, he had hurried from the room and down the hall to Clancy’s bedroom.
The room, he recalled without wanting to, where he had made love with her.
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