Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  The way she’d laughed and told him it was about time, when he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out.

  The first time they’d made love. And the last.

  The way she’d looked on their wedding day, radiant, delicate. The way she’d looked when she told him it was over, so cold and distant. And all the moods in between that had slipped from hope and happiness to dissatisfaction, disappointment, then lack of interest.

  The voice on the phone was a buzzing in his ears. His hand fisted under the desk. He wished to God there was a drink in it.

  “I’ll need to get back to you on the rest, but all the details are in the press release. I’m sure we can arrange for a short interview tomorrow night during the event. . . . You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry, Drew,” she began when he hung up. “Ms. Purdue isn’t at her desk, so I thought I’d take the chance.”

  “It’s all right.” The foolish words scraped at his throat. “Just another reporter.”

  “The event is generating a lot of positive press.”

  “We need it.”

  “It’s been a difficult couple of months.” He didn’t rise as she thought he would, so she stepped into the room and faced him with his desk between them. “I thought it would be best, easier for both of us, if we had a few minutes. I wouldn’t have come, but Elizabeth insisted. And I have to admit, I would have hated to miss all of this.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her, no matter how it burned his heart. “We wanted all the key staff members here.”

  “You’re still so angry with me.”

  “I don’t know what I am.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Putting this thing together hasn’t left a lot of time for R and R.”

  “I know this is awkward.” She reached out a hand, then drew it back again, as if realizing it wouldn’t be welcomed. “The last time we saw each other was—”

  “In a lawyer’s office,” he finished.

  “Yes.” Her gaze dropped. “I wish it could have been handled differently. We were both so hurt and angry, Drew. I was hoping by now we could at least be . . .”

  “Friends?” He let out a bitter laugh that didn’t hurt nearly as much as the innocuous word he’d forced through it.

  “No, not friends.” Those fabulous eyes of hers went soft and damp with emotion. “Just something less than enemies.”

  It wasn’t what she’d expected, this hard-eyed, cynical look. She’d expected regret, unhappiness, even a spurt of anger. She’d been prepared for any and all of that. But not for this tough shield that bounced all her efforts back at her.

  He’d loved her. She knew he’d loved her, and had held on to that even as she signed her name on the divorce papers.

  “We don’t have to be enemies, Elise. We don’t have to be anything anymore.”

  “All right, this was a mistake.” She blinked, once, twice, and the tears were gone. “I didn’t want any difficulties to spoil tomorrow’s success. If you were upset and started drinking—”

  “I’ve quit drinking.”

  “Really.” Her voice was cool again, and the grim amusement in it sliced bloodlessly. It was a talent of hers he’d forgotten. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “The difference is it has nothing to do with you now, and everything to do with me. I emptied plenty of bottles over you, Elise, and I’m done with it. Maybe that disappoints you. Maybe you’re insulted that I’m not crawling, not devastated to see you standing there. You’re not the center of my life anymore.”

  “I never was.” Her control cracked enough to let the words snap through. “If I had been, you’d still have me.”

  She spun around and rushed out. By the time she got to the elevator, tears were stinging her eyes. She punched the button with her fist.

  He waited until the rapid click of her heels had echoed away before lowering his head to the desk. His stomach was in ragged knots and screaming for a drink, just one drink to smooth it all away.

  She was so beautiful. How could he have forgotten how beautiful she was? She’d belonged to him once and he’d failed to hold her, to hold their marriage, to be the man she needed.

  He’d lost her because he hadn’t known how to give enough, to love enough, to be enough.

  He had to get out. Get air. He needed to walk, to run, to get the scent of her perfume out of his system. He used the stairs, avoiding the wing with all the bustle of work, slipped through the thin, early-evening visitors in the public areas and walked straight out.

  He left his car in the lot and walked, walked until the worst of the burning in his gut had eased. Walked until he no longer had to concentrate to draw and release each breath evenly. He told himself he was thinking clearly now, perfectly clearly.

  And when he stopped in front of the liquor store, when he stared at the bottles promising relief, enjoyment, escape, he told himself he could handle a couple of drinks.

  Not only could he handle them, he deserved them. He’d earned them for surviving that face-to-face contact with the woman he’d promised to love, honor, and cherish. Who’d promised him the same. Until death.

  He stepped inside, stared at the walls with bottles dark and light lining the shelves. Fifths and pints and quarts just waiting, just begging to be selected.

  Try me and you’ll feel better. You’ll feel fine again. You’ll feel fan-fucking-tastic.

  Glossy bottles with colorful labels. Smooth bottles with manly names.

  Wild Turkey, Jim Beam, Jameson.

  He picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, running a finger over the familiar black label. And sweat began to pool at the base of his spine.

  Good old Jack. Dependable Jack Black.

  He could taste it on his tongue, feel the heat slide down his throat and fall welcome to warm his belly.

  He took it to the counter and his fingers felt fat and clumsy as he reached for his wallet.

  “This be all?” The clerk rang up the bottle.

  “Yes,” Andrew said dully. “That’s it for me.”

  He carried it with him, tucked into its slim paper sack. He felt the weight of it, the shape of it as he walked.

  A twist of the top, and your troubles were over. The nasty ball of pain in your gut forgotten.

  As the sun set toward twilight and the air cooled, he went into the park.

  The yellow trumpets of the daffodils were rioting, a small ocean of cheer backed by the more elegant red cups of tulips. The first leaves were unfurling on the oaks and maples that would offer shade when the summer heat pounded during its short stay in Maine. The fountain trickled, a musical dance at the center of the park.

  Over to the left, swings and slides were deserted. Children were home being washed up for supper, he thought. He’d wanted children, hadn’t he? Imagined making a family, a real family where those in it knew how to love, how to touch each other. Laughter, bedtime stories, noisy family meals.

  He’d never pulled that off either.

  He sat on a bench, staring at the empty swings, listening to the fountain play, and running his hand up and down the shape of the bottle in the thin paper bag.

  One drink, he thought. Just one pull from the bottle. Then none of this would matter quite so much.

  Two pulls, and you’d wonder why it ever had.

  Annie drew two drafts while the blender beside her whirled with the fixings for a pitcher of margaritas. Happy hour on Friday nights was a popular sport. It was mostly the business crowd, but she had a couple of tables of college students taking advantage of the discount prices and free nibbles while they trashed their professors.

  She arched her back, trying to work out the vague ache at the base of her spine as she scanned the room to be certain her waitresses were keeping the customers happy. She dressed the birdbath glasses with salt and lime.

  One of her regulars was into a joke involving a man and a dancing frog. She built him a fresh Vodka Collins and laughed at the punch line.

  The TV
above the bar was showcasing a night baseball game.

  She saw Andrew come in, saw what he had in his hand. Her stomach took a slow nosedive, but she kept working. Replaced crowded ashtrays with fresh empties, mopped damp rings from the bar. Watched him walk to it, take a seat on a vacant stool, set the bottle on the bar.

  Their eyes met over the brown paper sack. Hers were carefully blank.

  “I didn’t open it.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “I wanted to. I still want to.”

  Annie signaled to her head waitress, then tugged off her bar apron. “Take over for me. Let’s take a walk, Andrew.”

  He nodded, but he took the bag with him when he followed her out. “I went to a liquor store. It felt good to be in there.”

  The streetlights were shining now, little islands of light in the dark. End-of-the-week traffic clogged the streets. Opposing radio stations warred through open car windows.

  “I walked to the park and sat on a bench by the fountain.” Andrew shifted the bottle from hand to hand as if to keep it limber. “Nobody much around. I thought I could just take a couple of pulls from the bottle. Just enough to warm me up.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “It’s hard. What you’re doing is hard. And tonight, you made the right choice. Whatever it is, whatever’s wrong, you can’t add drinking to it.”

  “I saw Elise.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s here for the exhibit. I knew she was coming. But when I looked up and saw her, it just slammed into me. She was trying to make things better, but I wouldn’t let her.”

  Annie hunched her shoulders, jammed her hands into her pockets, and told herself she was insane even pretending she and Andrew stood a chance. That she stood a chance. “You have to do what feels right to you there.”

  “I don’t know what’s right. I only know what’s wrong.”

  He walked back to the same park, sat on the same bench and set the bottle beside him.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, Andrew, but I think if you don’t resolve this and let it go, it’s going to keep hurting you.”

  “I know it.”

  “She’s only going to be here a few days. If you could make your peace with it, and with her, while she’s here, you’d be better for it. I never made peace with Buster. The son of a bitch.”

  She smiled, hoping he would, but he only continued to watch her with those steady, serious eyes. “Oh, Andrew.” She sighed, looked away. “What I mean is, I never made the effort so we could be civil, and it still eats at me some. He wasn’t worth it, God knows, but it eats at me. He hurt me, in a lot of ways, so all I wanted to do in the end was hurt him right back. But worse. Of course, I never did because he never gave a shit.”

  “Why’d you stay with him, Annie?”

  She pushed a hand through her hair. “Because I told him I would. Taking vows at the courthouse on your lunch hour’s just the same as doing it in a big church in a fancy white dress.”

  “Yeah.” He gave the hand that now held his a squeeze. “I know it. Believe it or not, I wanted to keep mine. I wanted to prove that I could. Failing at it was like proving I wasn’t any different from my father, his father, any of them.”

  “You’re yourself, Andrew.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  Because he needed it, and so did she, she leaned forward, laid her lips on his, let them part when he reached for her. Took him in.

  God help her.

  She could feel the edge of desperation, but he was careful with her. She’d known too many men who weren’t careful. The hand on his face stroked, felt the prickle of a day-old beard, then the smooth skin of his throat.

  The needs that kindled inside her were outrageous, and she was afraid they wouldn’t help either of them.

  “You’re not like them.” She pressed her cheek to his before the kiss could weaken her too much.

  “Well, not tonight anyway.” He picked up the bottle, handed it to her. “There, that’s a hundred percent profit for you.”

  There was a relief in it, he realized. The kind a man feels when he whips the wheel of his car just before plunging off a cliff. “I’m going to go to a meeting before I go home.” He puffed out a breath. “Annie, about tomorrow night. It would mean a lot to me if you’d change your mind and come.”

  “Andrew, you know I don’t fit in with all those fancy art people.”

  “You fit with me. Always have.”

  “Saturday nights are busy.” Excuses, she thought. Coward. “I’ll think about it. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll walk you back.” He rose, took her hand again. “Annie, come tomorrow.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she repeated without any intention of doing so. The last thing she wanted to do was go up against Elise on the woman’s turf.

  twenty-seven

  “Y ou need to get out of here.”

  Miranda glanced up from her desk, where she was buried in a sea of papers, saw Ryan watching her from the doorway. “At this moment, I basically live here.”

  “Why do you feel you have to do all of this yourself?”

  She ran her pencil between her fingers. “Is there something wrong with the way it’s being done?”

  “That’s not what I said.” He walked over, laid his palms on the desk and leaned toward her. “You don’t have to prove anything to her.”

  “This isn’t about my mother. This is about making certain that tomorrow night is a success. Now I have several more details to see to.”

  He reached over, plucked the pencil out of her hand and snapped it in two.

  She blinked, stunned by the ripe and ready temper in his eyes. “Well, that was mature.”

  “It’s more mature than doing the same to that stiff neck of yours.”

  If she’d held a silver shield and lowered it between them, it would have been no less tangible a block than the way her face closed up.

  “Don’t you shut me out. Don’t you sit there and play with one of your ubiquitous lists as if there’s nothing more important to you than the next item to be crossed off. I’m not a fucking item, and I know just what’s going on inside you.”

  “Don’t swear at me.”

  He turned on his heel and started for the door. She expected him to go straight through, to keep going, as others had. Instead he slammed the door, locked it. She got shakily to her feet.

  “I have no idea why you’re so angry.”

  “Don’t you? You think I didn’t see your face when I told you where that e-mail had come from? Do you really believe you’re so in control, Dr. Jones, that the devastation doesn’t show?”

  It was killing him. Her complexities and complications were killing him. He didn’t want them, he thought furiously. He didn’t want to find himself constantly compelled to fight his way through to her.

  “I don’t believe I in any way attempted to kill the messenger,” she began.

  “Don’t take that private-school tone with me either, it doesn’t work. I saw your face when your mother walked in. How everything inside you went on hold. Cold storage.”

  That got through, and stung. Brutally. “You asked me to accept