Blue-Eyed Devil

by Lisa Kleypas

  “No it wasn’t,” Liberty insisted. “Sometimes an imitation of love can be pretty damn convincing.”

  The words reminded me of something I’d heard her say a long time ago on her wedding night. A lifetime ago. “Like the imitation you had with Hardy Cates?”

  She nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. “Yes, although I wouldn’t care to put Hardy in the same company as Nick. He would never hurt a woman. In fact, Hardy had the opposite problem . . . always wanting to rescue someone . . . I forget the name for it . . .”

  “A white knight complex.”

  “Yes. But after the rescue was done, that was Hardy’s cue to leave.”

  “He wasn’t such a white knight when he ruined Gage’s business deal,” I couldn’t resist pointing out.

  Liberty’s smile turned rueful. “You’re right. But I think Hardy considered that a shot against Gage, not me.” She shook her head dismissively. “About you and Nick . . . it’s not your fault that he went after you. I’ve read that abusers choose women they can easily manipulate—they have a kind of radar for it. Like, if you filled the Astrodome with people and put one abusive man and one vulnerable woman in there, they’d find each other.”

  “Oh, great.” I was indignant. “I’m a walking target.”

  “You’re not a target, you’re just . . . trusting. Loving. Any normal guy would appreciate that. But I think someone like Nick probably thinks of love as a weakness he can take advantage of.”

  Regardless of what I wanted to hear, that got to me. It was a truth I couldn’t get over, under, or around . . . it stood right in my way, blocking any possible path back to Nick.

  No matter how much I loved him, or what I did for him, Nick wouldn’t change. The more I tried to please him, the more contempt he would have for me.

  “I can’t go back to him,” I said slowly, “can I?”

  Liberty just shook her head.

  “I can imagine what Dad will say if I got a divorce,” I muttered. “Starting with a big, fat ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “No,” Liberty said earnestly. “Really. I’ve talked with Churchill more than once about the way he behaved. He’s sorry about having been such a hard-ass.”

  I wasn’t buying that. “Dad lives to be a hard-ass.”

  Liberty shrugged. “Whatever Churchill says or thinks is not important right now. The point is what you want.”

  I was about to tell her it might take a long time to figure that out. But as I lowered myself next to the baby’s warm body and snuggled close, a few things had become very clear. I wanted to never be hit or yelled at again. I wanted to be called by my own name. I wanted my body to belong to me. I wanted all the things that anyone deserved by virtue of being human. Including love.

  And I knew deep down it wasn’t love when one person had all the power and the other person was completely dependent. Real love was not possible in a hierarchy.

  I nuzzled Matthew’s scalp. Nothing in the world smelled as good as a clean baby. How innocent and trusting he was in sleep. How would Nick treat a helpless creature like this?

  “I want to talk to the lawyer,” I said sleepily. “Because I don’t want to be the woman in the Astrodome.”

  Liberty draped a throw blanket gently over the two of us. “Okay,” she whispered. “You’re in charge, Haven.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN TEXAS THERE IS AN OBLIGATORY SIXTY-DAY waiting period after you file a petition for divorce. At some point someone in the state legislature had decided that a legally mandated cooling-off period was a good idea for people who wanted a divorce. I’d rather they had left it up to me to decide whether I needed cooling off or not. Once the decision had been made, I wanted to get it over with quickly.

  On the other hand, I made pretty good use of those two months. I healed outwardly, the bruises fading, and I started going twice a week to a therapist. Having never been to a therapist before, I expected I was going to have to lie back on a sofa and talk while some impersonal white-coated professional took notes.

  Instead I was welcomed into a small, cozy office with a sofa upholstered in flowered yellow twill, by a therapist who didn’t seem all that much older than me. Her name was Susan Byrnes, and she was dark-haired and bright-eyed and sociable. It was a relief beyond description to unburden myself to her. She was understanding and smart, and as I described things I had felt and gone through, it seemed she had the power to unlock the mysteries of the universe.

  Susan said Nick’s behavior fit the pattern of someone with narcissistic personality disorder, which was common for abusive husbands. As she told me about the disorder, it felt as if she were describing my life as it had been for the past year. A person with NPD was domineering, blaming, self-absorbed, intolerant of others’ needs . . . and they used rage as a control tactic. They didn’t respect anyone else’s boundaries, which meant they felt entitled to bully and criticize until their victims were an absolute mess.

  Having a personality disorder was different from being crazy, as Susan explained, because unlike a crazy person, a narcissist could control when and where he lost his temper. He’d never beat up his boss at work, for example, because that would be against his own interests. Instead he would go home and beat up his wife and kick the dog. And he would never feel guilty about it, because he would justify it and make excuses for himself. No one’s pain but his own meant anything to him.

  “So you’re saying Nick’s not crazy, he’s a sociopath?” I asked Susan.

  “Well . . . basically, yes. Bearing in mind that most sociopaths are not killers, they’re just nonempathetic and highly manipulative.”

  “Can he ever be fixed?”

  She shook her head immediately. “It’s sad to think about what kind of abuse or neglect might have made him that way. But the end result is that Nick is who he is. Narcissists are notoriously resistant to therapy. Because of their sense of grandiosity, they don’t ever see the need to change.” Susan had smiled darkly, as if at some unpleasant memory. “Believe me, no therapist wants a narcissist to walk in the door. It only results in massive frustration and a waste of time.”

  “What about me?” I brought myself to ask. “Can I be fixed?” At that point my eyes stung and I had to blow my nose, so Susan had to repeat her answer.

  “Of course you can, Haven. We’ll work on it. We’ll do it.”

  At first I was afraid I was going to have to work on forgiving Nick. It was an indescribable relief to hear Susan say no, I didn’t need to stay trapped in the cycle of abuse and forgiveness. Victims of abuse were often burdened with the so-called responsibility of forgiving, even rehabilitating, their tormentors. That wasn’t my job, Susan said. Later we could find some level of resolution so the poison of my relationship with Nick wouldn’t spill into other areas of my life. But right now there were other things to concentrate on.

  I discovered I was a person with weak boundaries. I had been taught by my parents, especially my mother, that being a good daughter meant having no boundaries at all. I had been raised to let Mother criticize and have her way all the time, and make decisions for me that she had no business making.

  “But my brothers didn’t have that kind of relationship with her,” I told Susan. “They had boundaries. They didn’t let her mess with their personal lives.”

  “Sometimes a parent’s expectations of sons and daughters are very different,” Susan replied wryly. “My own parents insist that I’m the one who should take care of them in their old age, but they would never think of demanding that from my brother.”

  Susan and I did a lot of role-playing, which felt mortifyingly silly at first, but as she pretended by turns to be Nick, my father, a friend, a brother, even my long-gone mother, I practiced standing up for myself. It was hard, muscle-knotting, perspiration-inducing work.

  “No is a vitamin.” That phrase became my mantra. I figured if I told it to myself often enough, I would start believing it.

  GAGE HANDLED AS much of the divorce proceedings as I wo
uld allow. And, possibly because of Liberty’s softening influence, he changed his approach to me. Instead of telling me how things were going to be, he patiently laid out choices and explained them, and didn’t argue with my decisions. When Nick had dared to call the condo and demanded to talk to me, and I’d said all right, Gage had forced himself to hand the phone to me.

  It had been quite a conversation, mostly one-sided, with Nick talking and me listening. My husband poured it on, progressing from guilt to fury to pleading, telling me it was my fault as much as his.

  You couldn’t just give up on a marriage when you hit a rough spot, he said.

  It was more than just a rough spot, I said.

  People who loved each other found a way to work things out, he said.

  You don’t love me, I said.

  He said he did. Maybe he hadn’t been the best husband, but I damn sure hadn’t been the best wife.

  I’m sure you’re right, I told him. But I don’t think I deserve getting a cracked rib.

  He said there was no way he’d cracked my rib, that must have happened accidentally when I fell.

  I said he’d pushed me, hit me.

  And I was astonished when Nick said he didn’t remember hitting me. Maybe one of his hands had slipped.

  I wondered if he really didn’t remember, if he could actually rewrite reality for himself, or if he was just lying. And then I realized it didn’t matter.

  I’m not coming back, I said. And every comment he made after that, I repeated it. I’m not coming back. I’m not coming back.

  I hung up the phone and went to Gage, who had been sitting in the living area. His hands had clenched so hard in the arms of the leather chair that his fingertips had riveted deep gouges in the smooth hide. But he had let me fight my battle alone, as I had needed to.

  I had always loved Gage, but never so much as then.

  I filed for a divorce on the grounds of insupportability, meaning the marriage had become insupportable because of personality conflicts that had destroyed “the legitimate ends of the marriage relationship.” That was the quickest way to end it, the lawyer said. If Nick didn’t contest it. Otherwise there would be a trial, and all kinds of nastiness and humiliation in store for both parties.

  “Haven,” Gage said to me in private, his gray eyes kind, the set of his mouth grim. “I’ve tried my best to hold back and do things your way . . . but I have to ask you for something now.”

  “What is it?”

  “You and I both know there’s no way Nick’s going to let the divorce go uncontested unless we make it worth his while.”

  “You mean pay him off,” I said, my blood simmering as I thought of Nick getting a financial reward after the way he’d treated me. “Well, remind Nick that I’ve been disinherited. I’m—”

  “You’re still a Travis. And Nick will play his part to the hilt . . . a poor hardworking guy who married a spoiled rich girl, and now he’s being tossed aside like a bartender’s rag. If he wants, Haven, he can make this process as long and difficult and public as possible.”

  “Give him my share of the condo, then. That’s all the community property we’ve got.”

  “Nick will want more than just the condo.”

  I knew what Gage was leading up to. He wanted to pay Nick off, to keep him quiet long enough to let the divorce go through. Nick was about to get a big fat reward, after all he’d done to me. I got mad enough to start shaking. “I swear,” I said with blistering sincerity, “if I manage to get rid of him, I will never get married again.”

  “No, don’t say that.” Gage reached for me without thinking, and I shrank back. I still didn’t like to be touched, especially by men, which Susan had said was a protective mechanism and would get better in time. I heard Gage utter a quiet curse, and he dropped his arms. “Sorry,” he muttered, and heaved a sigh. “You know, putting a bullet in his head would be a lot cheaper and quicker than a divorce.”

  I glanced at him warily. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Right.” He made his expression bland, but I didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  “Let’s stick with the divorce option,” I said. “I’d prefer Matthew and Carrington not to have to visit you in prison. What kind of terms are you thinking? And am I supposed to go crawling to Dad for money to give to Nick? . . . Because I sure don’t have any.”

  “You let me worry about the terms. We’ll settle up later.”

  Realizing my brother was not only going to assume the expenses of my divorce, but also the settlement, I gave him a wretched look. “Gage—”

  “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’d do it for me. You’re not causing hardship for anyone, sweetheart.”

  “It’s not right for you to pay for my mistakes.”

  “Haven . . . part of being strong is being able to admit you need help sometimes. You went into this marriage alone, you suffered through it alone, you damn sure don’t have to get out of it alone. Let me be your big brother.”

  His quiet certainty made the ground beneath my feet feel solid. Like someday everything might actually be okay.

  “I’m going to pay you back someday.”

  “Okay.”

  “I guess the only time I’ve ever felt more grateful,” I told him, “is when you pulled Bootsie out of the ligustrum bush.”

  I SWALLOWED MY pride and called Dad the day after my divorce was final in February. To my profound relief, Nick hadn’t appeared at court when the judge signed the decree. Two people had to show up to get married, but only one had to for a divorce. Gage had assured me that Nick would stay far away from court that day. “What’d you do, threaten to break his legs?” I asked.

  “I told him if I caught sight of him, his guts would be strung on the courthouse gate within five minutes.” I had smiled at that until I realized Gage hadn’t been joking.

  Gage and Liberty had let my family know that I was back in Houston, but that I wouldn’t be ready to see anyone or do any telephone-talking for a while. Naturally Dad, who wanted to be in the center of whatever was going on, took offense at my elusiveness. He told Gage to tell me that any time I was ready to get off my high horse, he would like for me to come see him.

  “Did you tell him I was getting a divorce?” I asked Gage.

  “Yes. I can’t say he was surprised.”

  “But did you tell him why?” I didn’t want anyone to know about what had occurred between Nick and me. Maybe in time I would tell Jack or Joe, but for now I needed it to be kept private. I didn’t want to be seen as weak or helpless, a victim, ever again. Most of all I didn’t want to be pitied.

  “No,” Gage said, his tone reassuring. “I just told Dad it didn’t work out—and if he wanted any kind of relationship with you at all, to keep his mouth shut about it.”

  So I finally called Dad, my sweaty hands gripping the phone. “Hey Dad.” I tried to sound casual. “Been a while since I talked to you. Just thought I’d check in.”

  “Haven.” The sound of his gravelly voice was familiar and comforting. “You took your sweet time. What have you been doing?”

  “Getting a divorce.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s all over between me and Nick.” Since my father couldn’t see me, I wrinkled up my face as if I’d chomped on bitter dandelion greens as I forced myself to admit, “It was a mistake.”

  “There are times I take no pleasure in being right.”

  “Like hell,” I said, and was rewarded by his scratchy chuckle.

  “If you really got rid of him,” Dad said, “I’ll call my lawyer this afternoon and have you put back in the will.”

  “Oh, good. That’s why I called.”

  It took him a moment to realize I was being sarcastic.

  “Dad,” I said, “you’re not going to hold that will over my head the rest of my life. Thanks to you, I’ve gotten a great education, and there’s no reason I can’t hold down a job. So don’t bother calling the lawyer—I don’t wan
t to be in the will.”

  “You’ll be in the will if I say so,” Dad retorted, and I had to laugh.

  “Whatever. The real reason I’m calling is to say I’d like to see you. It’s been way too long since I’ve had a good argument with someone.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Come on over.”

  And with that, our relationship was back on track, as flawed and frustrating as it had ever been. But I had boundaries now, I reminded myself, and no one was going to cross them. I would be a fortress of one.

  I WAS A new person in the same world, which was a lot more difficult than being the same person in a new world. People thought they knew me but they didn’t. With the exception of Todd, my old friends were no longer relevant to the new version of me. So I turned to my brothers for support, and I discovered that adulthood had done nice things for their personalities.

  Joe, a commercial photographer, made a point of telling me that he had a big house and there was plenty of room if I wanted to stay with him. He said he was gone a lot of the time, and we wouldn’t infringe on each other’s privacy. I told him how much I appreciated the offer, but I needed my own place. Still, it wouldn’t have been bad at all, living with him. Joe was an easygoing guy. I never heard him complain about anything. He took life as it came, which was a rare quality in the Travis family.

  But the real surprise was Jack, the brother I’d never gotten along with—the one who’d given me a bad haircut when I was three, and scared the wits out of me with bugs and garden snakes. The adult Jack turned out to be an unexpected ally. A friend. In his company I could fully relax, the haunted, anxious feeling burning away like water drops on a smoking griddle.

  Maybe it was because Jack was so straightforward. He claimed to be the least complex person in the Travis family, and that was probably true. Jack was a hunter, comfortable with his status as a predatory omnivore. He was also an environmentalist and saw no conflict in that. Any hunter, he said, had better do his best to protect nature since he spent so much time out in it.