A Bride After All (5 page)

“Suave,” he grumbled as he made his way back to the kitchen to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “You’re the new king of suave, that’s what you are…”

Claire took a bath when she got home. She normally showered, her free time always seeming to be at a premium. But tonight a bath seemed in order. The warm water would relax her, perhaps cut through some of the caffeine from those two cups of coffee at Nick’s house, and maybe even wash away the thoughts that had plagued her on the drive across town to her condo.

What on earth had prompted her to defend—yes, that was the only word for it—domestic abusers?

She knew the answer to that one. Lumping them all into the same pile would mean lumping Steven in with the man who had broken his wife’s ribs tonight. Steven wasn’t like that. He was a lawyer, highly respected. Financially solvent, active in the community. He’d never touched her in anger. Not once. He didn’t fit the profile—but was there really a profile?

That’s all she’d really been saying to Nick tonight, she believed. Abusers weren’t one-size-fits-all.

And there were all different kinds and levels of abuse, her brother Derek had reminded her when she’d phoned him, told him about how Steven had been…God, stalking her. Mostly, Derek had told her what she wanted to hear: “Get out, now, sis. Come to Allentown. Vivien and I have plenty of room. And you know I’ve got a place for you in my practice. I’ve told you that before.”

Admitting to failure. That had been so hard. Claire
recognized that she’d always been a chronic over-achiever, and failure didn’t come easily to her. Derek had told her that she was blameless, that the fault was all squarely with Steven.

But was it? Was any relationship ever that black and white? Was there some reason Steven had been drawn to a woman who had made no secret about the fact that she planned to work at her chosen career after marriage, even after their children were born? Was there a reason she had been drawn to a man who wanted a stay-at-home wife, with him at the very center of her universe?

It had taken two years of weekly visits with Dr. Fallon before Claire had believed she at last understood that she was not responsible for Steven’s actions, but only for her own. Actually that had taken one year. The second year, she and the psychologist had spent those weekly fifty minutes together learning all about Claire, and she’d emerged from the sessions more confident in who she was and more forgiving of herself for choosing to leave an untenable situation rather than try to somehow
fix
Steven,
fix
the unfixable marriage.

“If you want a fixer-upper, Claire, buy one of those neglected old pre–Civil War houses in downtown Allentown and have at it. Don’t marry someone who needs fixing, because that they have to want to do on their own,” Dr. Fallon had said during one of their final sessions.

And that had about summed it up for Claire.
Steven had married her hoping to “fix her up.” Change her, mold her into what he wanted, what he needed. She hadn’t seen the pitfalls because she’d been in love. She couldn’t believe he didn’t understand how much her career meant to her, and had closed her eyes and mind to the warning signs that had been there all along, before the marriage.

She could live with that now. They’d both made mistakes. Would he have eventually turned to physical violence? She’d never know, and never wanted to know.

What she did know now, at twenty-nine, was who she was. And that felt good.

Maybe it was time to stop treading water and take the new, aware Claire out for an airing of the romantic kind? Her unwanted baggage had been taken care of, which she considered important, because she didn’t plan to make the same mistake twice. She had a great career she loved, her own condo, a nice car and money in the bank. She was happy in her own skin, content. She didn’t
need
anybody.

A mental image of Nick Barrington’s easy smile and laughing eyes danced across her brain.

They were so comfortable together. She’d never had conversations with Steven that touched on anything even close to the conversations she’d had with Nick in just their first two meetings. Silly, and then at times nearly profound. Refreshingly honest. She wasn’t the type to play games, and neither was he.

“We’re not lonely,” she said out loud as she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a fluffy bath towel. “Not either of us. But that doesn’t mean we have to be alone.”

She’d planned to stay home and try out the new highlighting hair color she’d seen advertised on television, put a couple of subtle blond streaks in her hair with the nifty “easy-to-use” applicator just in case Nick called and they really would be going to dinner and a movie the next night.

Because she’d be on call Saturday from six in the morning until four in the afternoon, Claire had Friday afternoon off, and she’d been five minutes of reading the directions and ten minutes of indecision as to whether or not she’d end up looking like a skunk away from opening the color bottle when the phone rang.

She grabbed it halfway through the second ring, checked the caller-ID, breathed out, “
Finally
,” and hit the Talk button. “Hello, Nick. Should I be breaking out the First-Aid kit?”

His easy laugh was her answer, and she relaxed shoulder muscles she hadn’t realized she’d been holding tense all day. “You should see the other guy.”

“That’s a joke, right?” she asked anxiously.

“And not a very good one, I’m guessing. Sorry. Seriously, Claire, I’m fine. And I think I may be in line for a merit badge of some kind, because I took your advice.”

“
My
advice? I didn’t tell you to go see that man today. That was all your idea, remember?”

“But it worked out.”

Claire collapsed into a nearby chair. “Oh. Well, in that case, how brilliant was I?”

“Brilliant enough to make me realize that I was lumping the bad guys all together and writing them off, and not looking at them as, well, as people in their own right. Individuals. Not a good thing for a journalist to do, Claire. I’m supposed to stay objective. Anyway, this guy I got together with this morning? Sober, he’s a really nice guy. Loves his wife, he says, loves his kids. He actually cried when he realized they’d left him.”

“He might be a very good actor, you know,” Claire felt it important to point out.

“Ah, ye of little faith. I didn’t call until now because I was busy getting him in front of a judge I know and having him admitted to a treatment center that supposedly shows some good results. I think maybe it took coming home to an empty house to finally wake him up. He signed himself in for the full course, and the judge signed a separate order as well, so he can’t change his mind. I don’t know if that’s the answer for him or his family, but I have to tell you, I feel a lot better. So, thank you.”

Claire blinked rapidly several times, as her eyes had begun to sting with tears. “Ah, Nick.”

“That’s it? Ah, Nick? Ah, Nick what? Ah, Nick, what a nice thing to do? Ah, Nick, you’re a stupid dreamer? Ah, Nick, you deserve a big fat kiss?”

She laughed. “No, that’s it. Just, ah, Nick. Where are you now? Do you have a deadline or anything?”

“Nope, I filed my story this morning. I’m doing a three-parter on the new development of the old Bethlehem Steel property. It’s more than just the new casino, you know. Anyway, I looked up your address in the phone book, and it turns out I’m not that far away from you. Sean and I are heading for a gym at a church on Fullerton Avenue, an away game for his basketball team, and I wondered if maybe you’d like to come along.”

“Really?”

His voice was so low now she could barely hear him. “I know it’s last-minute, but it was Sean’s idea. I don’t know what you did last night, but he seems to think you’re not terrible.”

“That’s high praise, coming from a nine-year-old.” Claire ran her hand through her hair, which she’d already broken out of its French twist in preparation for Operation Highlights. She was dressed in jeans and a ratty old T-shirt and not exactly ready for prime time. “How long until you get here?”

“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”

“I’ll be outside,” she said, and then quickly hung up before she could change her mind. The T-shirt hit the floor before she made it to the bedroom closet, where she stood staring dumbly at the racks, as if she had nothing to wear.

Time. She was wasting time being a girl.

She grabbed a yellow cotton summer sweater
from the hanger and yanked it over her head, pulling her hair out from the neckline as she slipped her bare feet into a pair of rope sandals, and then headed for the bathroom.

On the way, she glanced at the clock on her beside table. How long ago had he called? Two minutes? That gave her five minutes, tops, before she should be on her way out the door and down to the parking lot.

Claire brushed her teeth, freshened her five-minute face with a two-minute touch-up, and then ran a brush through her hair and decided she’d just leave it down. Casual. She was going to go for casual. Not like she was fixing herself up because Nick was on his way.

“Liar, liar,” she told her reflection in the mirror over the bathroom vanity. She thought her hair was one of her best features. Thick, and glossy, and down past her shoulders when she wasn’t scraping it all back for work. Maybe she shouldn’t think about highlights? She probably should have asked Marylou. Except, if Marylou thought she needed highlights, she probably would have already dragged her to some stylist named Francois, or something.

She’d just opened the main door of her building when she saw Nick’s car pulling into the parking lot. She raised her hand and waved, and he pulled into the No Parking zone in front of the door.

“Perfect timing,” he said as she slid into the front seat. “It’s a talent. I like your hair like that.”

“Thank you. I didn’t have time to put it up.”

He slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the No Parking slot. “Like I said, perfect timing.”

He was flirting with her. This was beyond being a nice guy. He was definitely flirting.

“Funny man,” she said, and then quickly looked into the back seat, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “Hi, Sean. I didn’t know you played basketball. Thanks for inviting me along.”

The boy looked up from his handheld computer game and nodded. “You said you like sports. Basketball is a sport.”

“I know. I played on my high school team. I was a Forward, first string varsity. I wasn’t good enough to play in college, though. Or tall enough.”

“Tell Ms. Ayers what position you play, Sean.”

The child looked a little rattled, as if he wasn’t sure. “Um…you tell her, Dad.”

“He’s a guard. Not the shooting guard. But he’s good for several steals during the course of the game.”

“Scrappy, huh?” Claire smiled at Sean. “I look forward to watching you play.”

“Uh-huh.” Sean went back to his computer game, his ears turning a little red. He seemed embarrassed by her attention. Which was nice.

What wasn’t nice was how involved with the game and the success of Sean in that game Claire became as she sat on the fifth row of the bleachers, her spirits rising and falling with the score.

By the time the fourth period was halfway over,
and the Wildcats had lost the lead for the tenth or twelfth time, she realized she was in danger of becoming a real basket case.

“Their number forty-three almost always drives to the right. If Sean only kept his eye on the boy’s waist, he could tell which way he’s moving before he even takes a step, and go right with him. I want to call instructions out to him, but I know I shouldn’t,” she told Nick, who was one of those good guys who clapped no matter which team scored a basket. Clearly the man had no feel for competition. “How can you be so calm?”

“I’ve been doing this since he turned six. Baseball, soccer, basketball and now karate tournaments. It’s either learn to go with the flow or court ulcers, I guess.” He lifted Sean’s gym bag from the empty row of bleachers behind them and offered it to her. “Here. There’s some crackers in here, and a couple of mozzarella sticks. You won’t be tempted to yell if your mouth is full. I’ve tried it, when I’m tempted. It really works.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.” She took the bag anyway and looked inside. Along with a jacket, the crackers and cheese, and an apple that looked to have passed its prime, there were also some action figures she almost recognized, and a plastic something-or-other that looked like it might be a futuristic car or plane or something.

It was kind of cute.

She pulled it out and held it, because if nothing
else, it kept her hands busy, and went back to watching the game.

With two minutes left, the Wildcats pulled ahead by seven points, and she began to relax.

“I think they’ve got it now,” she told Nick, who looked at her, smiled and shook his head. “What?”

“Nothing. I like your enthusiasm, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re going to play, winning is better than losing. But I behaved, I’m good.” As she spoke, she ran her thumbs back and forth on the underside of the toy. “Oh, there’s some sort of button here,” she said, lifting the toy and looking at the button. “These toys are something else, aren’t they? I wonder what this button—
ohmigod.”

It was one of those “That didn’t just happen, did it?” moments that you relive several dozen times in varying reactions of horror, disbelief and hilarity.

A small yellow plastic disk about an inch across had just gone flying forward three rows, to hit a man in the back and then fall to the bleacher seat, unnoticed by the unintended victim, luckily.

“Excuse me a moment,” Nick said, deadpan, as he stood up, nonchalantly climbed down the three rows of bleachers, picked up the yellow plastic disk, and returned to sit beside her once more. He took the toy from her now nerveless fingers, and reloaded it before slipping it back into the athletic bag. Then, with laughter in his marvelous green eyes, he sighed, shook his head and said mournfully, “We can’t take you anywhere, can we?”

And that, Claire would remember days later, was probably when she began to fall in love with Nick Barrington.