An Accidental Woman (32 page)

Poppy remained cautious. “Why do we think he'll say anything different now from what he said then?”

Griffin opened the oven again. This time he reached for mitts and pulled out the pan. “This is done,” he decided. Setting aside the mitts, he took up the serving pieces lying nearby and started filling each plate with half a hen, roasted potatoes, and an array of vegetables. “We think he'll say something different now, because fifteen years have passed and the man's done an about-face. Back then, he had a great job, lots of friends, and a private line to the DiCenzas. He has none of that now. He's settled into total obscurity. People don't usually go from one extreme to the other like that unless there's a reason for it.”

“Maybe he was tired of California,” Poppy offered. “Maybe moving was part of his master plan.”

“Maybe. But maybe he couldn't live with the DiCenza restraints. Maybe he didn't like being told to keep quiet.”

“If that's so, and if he had a different story to tell now, wouldn't he have already gone to the police? He must read the papers. He must know that Heather's been arrested.”

Griffin put a plate at each of the table settings. “He may need a push. Ralph'll try. If he strikes out, I'll go.” He gestured her to the table. “I'm sorry to be so impatient, but my body is saying that it earned its keep today. I am starved, this smells divine, and we aren't waiting a second longer. May I help you with your chair, madam?”

Poppy couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Close, but no cigar,
Poppy thought and studied his profile. It felt familiar in ways that her fantasies hadn't imagined. She felt absurdly close to him, absurdly content. “I shouldn't be this relaxed,” she told him. “Not with everything that's going on.”

Griffin turned his head against the sofa back. With the absence of incandescent light, his hair was more auburn and his eyes a darker blue. “You sound like you feel guilty.”

“I do.”

“What Heather did or didn't do isn't your fault.”

“I know. Still. She's my friend.”

When Griffin didn't respond, Poppy looked back at the fire. Seconds later, he caught up her hand. He didn't do anything with it, just laced his fingers through hers. It felt nice enough, safe enough. So she didn't pull away.

“Want a kiss?” he asked and dug into his pocket with a free hand.

“No. No kiss. I'm stuffed.”

He settled in again. “Tell me about the accident.”

Her eyes flew to his. She didn't pretend to think he was talking about the Sacramento accident. There was an intimacy in his face, an intimacy in the moment. In her dreams, she could pour out the whole thing and still be loved.

“It was a long time ago,” she said with a sad smile.

“Tell me anyway.”

She returned a dry, “Tell me what you already know.”

He smiled so sweetly that her heart turned over. “I won't apologize for that. It's part of who I am. After I met you last fall, I wanted to know what happened.”

“Tell me what you know,” she repeated.

“There was a party—an outdoor affair in the middle of December, with a big bonfire in a clearing up in the hills. You'd all gone by snowmobile, and there was lots of booze. You and Perry left. The snowmobile
took a turn too fast and hit a boulder. You were both thrown off. Perry was killed. You lived.”

Staring into the fire, Poppy allowed herself to recall it. “I didn't want to at first. Didn't want to live.”

“Because of Perry?”

“Yes. And my legs. It was one of those awful things that so easily could have been different. If we'd only been a few feet to one side or the other, we'd both be whole.”

“You're whole.”

She didn't reply.

He took her hand to his chest. “Were you and Perry in love?”

“I don't think so. We were lovers. But it wouldn't have lasted. We were too different.” She rethought that. “Actually, we weren't. We were too alike. That was the problem. We had the same wild streak, the same need to rebel. Neither one of us could temper the other, but I think that good relationships need partners who do that—a head and a tail, yin and yang.”

“Do you think about him often?”

“I try not to.”

“That didn't answer my question.”

Looking at him then, she found his eyes level with hers. “I think about him more since you've come.”

“Why?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “You know.”

“Not for sure. I want to think it's because I'm the first man you've let come close since him.”

She didn't say anything.

“So where's it going, Poppy? I'm sitting here wanting to kiss you and not daring, because you could as easily chew me out as kiss me back.”

She wouldn't chew him out, she decided. The thought of responding to his kiss held appeal. It was part of good wine, good company, a good fire. It was part of the dream.

“Say something,” he whispered.

She didn't know what to say.

“You told Micah,” he began softly, “that he might have to break the ice
and say the things that Heather couldn't. If I were to do that with you, I'd say that you do like me—you like me more than any other man who's come along—but you don't feel you have a right to do some of the things that you want. It's a kind of punishment. For Perry.”

Poppy didn't deny it. “He's dead, and I'm alive.”

“Do you have to punish yourself for that? How long does the punishment go on? When is it done? When do you get to go for the gold?”

Poppy didn't know.

“Am I all wrong?” Griffin asked unsurely.

She took her hand back, still laced with his, and studied their fingers; his were more masculine than hers, but they were woven together as neatly as the threads of Sigrid's mats.

“You're not all wrong,” she said softly. It was easier not looking at him. “I may be punishing myself.”

“It was an accident.”

“It could have been prevented. If we'd been going slower, if we'd had less to drink, if it hadn't been so late at night and we hadn't been so tired. We thought we were immortal.”

“We all feel immortal at that age. And it's not like you punish yourself in everything, Poppy. You've made a good life. You're productive. You're comfortable. You just won't allow yourself to go beyond a certain point.”

Her eyes met his. “What point?”

“Adventure. Skiing. Snowmobiling. Taking risks. Having a husband and kids.”

“My sister Rose says I'm unfit to be a mother.”

“Your sister Rose is full of shit.”

“Griffin, I do have limitations. The fact is that I'll never be able to walk.”

“Maybe not the way I do.”

“Or dance. Even if I got past all that guilt, there'd be the guilt of knowing that if I get involved with a guy, I'd be holding him back.”

Griffin made a face. “That's a crock of it too, Poppy.” In a second, he was up off the sofa, going to the stereo, switching CDs. By the time he was back, the opening bars of Collin Raye's “In This Life” were filling the room.

He hunkered down in front of her. “I want to show you how we can dance, but you have to trust me.”

Poppy did trust him. But she was frightened.

Before she could say so, he slipped his hands under her and lifted her. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said, but they were already there, gone up naturally, only in part to fight the fear. Holding her against him, he began to sway to the music, but it wasn't just any old swaying. His upper body moved in soothing ways, rhythmic ways, ways that she could feel, and he kept going, moving gently around the room while his upper body conveyed the beat.

“Relax,” he whispered after the first turn, and how could Poppy not? Yes, she was frightened. She was frightened of failing. She loved the music, loved the beat, loved the confident way Griffin held her—and she loved to dance. The accident hadn't killed that urge. She often sat in her chair, swaying to the music. But she hadn't tried it again with a man.

A few more bars, though, and, ever so easily, it happened. Her upper spine loosened, and her arms circled his neck more out of volition than need. She let her body feel the beat, let it slide through her shoulders and her chest. Dropping her cheek to his shoulder, she moved with him, and that, too, was so very easy. Their bodies were totally in sync.

Poppy was just getting started when the song ended. “Replay it,” she ordered giddily and did the button pressing herself when he danced them to the machine. This time, she was into the song from start to finish, raising her head at the end, meeting his eyes, smiling in delight.

He kissed that smile and took her breath away, right along with the fear that she couldn't do it, that it wouldn't work, that something would go wrong and spoil the dream. She was feeling dizzy when he drew back.

“Don't stop,” she whispered and, sliding her hands into his hair, she returned his kiss. Nothing went wrong this time either, not the mating of lips or tongue or breath—until his arms began to shake. She didn't protest when he lowered her to the sofa and kissed her there, or when he lowered his mouth to her throat, or when he cupped her breasts with his hands. Her moan had nothing to do with protest.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered back.

“Is it good?”

“Very.” She felt incredibly alive. After being twelve years without, she
was stunned. The sensation was stronger than she had imagined. Perhaps she had forgotten. Perhaps memory had been replaced by a new reality. Perhaps, like Victoria hearing more without sight, her breasts had become more sensitive to make up for a numbness below. The thing was, below didn't feel numb. Oh, it wasn't the same as she remembered. But it felt incredibly full.

She was thinking that the fullness was special and that she wanted to see where it led, when Griffin drew back. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead damp, his eyes the deepest blue she'd ever seen. She started to laugh.

Those eyes went wide. “This is not a laughing matter.”

She cupped his cheek and ran her thumb over the barest shadow of the bruise he had gotten his first day in town. He was totally dear. “I'm sorry. It's just that you warned me back in October. You said your eyes were dark blue during sex. I mean, this isn't sex, not really, not in that sense, but they are.”

“Why isn't this sex?” he asked.