Bound to the Greek (19 page)

‘What happened?’ he finally whispered. Eleanor shook her head, her eyes still clenched shut.

‘It was her heart. It had a defect and it just?stopped. Like a clock winding down. Nothing else was wrong. She was perfect in every way. But when I went for my six-month check-up, there was no heartbeat.’ She drew in a ragged breath. ‘They said it happens sometimes with the Dopplers, they can’t find the heartbeat. They told me not to worry? yet.’ Jace squeezed her hand harder, and Eleanor squeezed back, holding on, needing him now as her anchor. ‘So I had an ultrasound. I saw her there on the screen, all curled up, unmoving. Silence.’ The room had echoed with it. She drew in another breath, the sound a desperate gasp. ‘So I had to be induced. Like labour. Like birth—only, it wasn’t. It was the hardest, loneliest thing I’ve ever done.’

‘Was your mother there? Or a friend?’

‘No. My mother was in California on a business trip and couldn’t get back. And my friends were in college. This was totally out of their realm.’

‘So you went through it alone? Eleanor, I’m sorry.’ His voice was rough, his hand still clenched over hers.

‘The thing that kept me going was knowing I would at least see her. Hold her in my arms. That would have to be enough.’ She turned to him, her hand slipping from his to rest on his chest in an act of supplication. ‘And I did, and she was beautiful, Jace, oh, God, she
was
?’ And then the tears she’d been holding back for far too long finally fell, streaming down her cheeks in hot, healing rivers as Jace held her and rocked her silently.

Finally, after an eternity, she drew in a gulping breath and tried, if not to smile, at least to seem calm. And she did feel calm, now. ‘I’ve never told anyone that before.’

‘No one?’

She shook her head. ‘It was easier not to. But you—you deserve to know.’

‘Do I?’ Eleanor heard the bitter note of recrimination in his voice. ‘What a bastard I was. You never—never should have had to go through that on your own.’

‘It’s okay—’

‘No,’ Jace said savagely, ‘it’s not okay. I’ll never accept that it was.’ He clasped her hands, still resting on his chest, in his, and gazed at her with tear-bright eyes. ‘Forgive me, Eleanor, for what I did. For what I assumed. And most of all for how I failed you… in so many ways. I don’t ever want to fail you again.’

Eleanor nodded jerkily. ‘I forgive you,’ she whispered, and this time she meant it and believed in it with all of her heart. When he’d asked in the park it had been too soon. She hadn’t been able to let go, and Jace hadn’t known enough. Now it was real. Now it was true.

Now it was good.

She rested her head against his chest, exhausted, emotionally drained, yet still sated and, surprisingly, happy. She knew
there was more to say, and she felt then she had the strength to say it. Just not now. Not yet.

Jace gathered her in his arms, resting his chin on top of her head, and Eleanor felt as if she could happily stay like that all night or, even better, for ever.

He’d had no idea. No true idea of all the pain and heartache and grief he’d caused. Still holding Eleanor in his arms, Jace closed his eyes in bitter and desperate regret. He’d known he’d hurt her, but he’d had no idea of how much. No wonder she couldn’t trust him.

Except now he thought she did, and the realisation terrified him. He wasn’t ready for that kind of trust. He didn’t know what to do with it.

He was afraid of failing.

What good are you? What use?

Jace closed his eyes. Gently he stroked Eleanor’s tear-dampened hair, awed by the courage she’d shown in so many amazing and unbearable ways. She still had the sweetness of the woman he’d known ten years ago, but now with it she possessed a strength that humbled him.

Jace’s heart contracted and he felt a tightness in his throat as Eleanor curled her body into his in an act more intimate than what they’d just done. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his nose, and with a satisfied little sigh she slept.

When Eleanor awoke Jace was gone. She stretched sleepily before feeling the empty space next to her in the bed, feeling it in her heart. Her whole body went rigid. Where had he gone? Did he regret last night? She thought of all the things she’d done?
said
?and closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear it if he regretted it.

‘Good morning.’

She bolted upright, the sheet falling from her naked body. Jace sat in a chair across from the bed, his laptop opened
on the coffee table next to him. He wore only a pair of jeans and his hair was a little mussed.

‘Good morning,’ Eleanor answered. She slipped back down under the sheet.

‘I didn’t want to disturb your sleep,’ Jace told her, giving her that wonderful crooked smile, ‘but I couldn’t leave you either.’

‘You couldn’t?’

‘No.’ The word was a confession, and it was enough. Eleanor didn’t want to test or examine anything; she just wanted to trust. Finally. She smiled, shyly, and Jace stood up, stretching out one hand towards her.

‘Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving.’

‘So am I,’ she admitted and slipped from the bed.

The morning was touched by magic. When they came into the kitchen breakfast had already been laid and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room, although Agathe was nowhere in sight. She had, it seemed, anticipated their every need and then tiptoed quietly away.

After a lazy hour or two of eating and talking—Eleanor couldn’t believe how relaxed she felt—she decided she needed to do a little work at least.

She stretched and regretfully pushed away from the table. ‘I should start planning this party.’

‘We have time.’

‘Jace, your father’s party is in ten days. It takes time to order things, food—’

He shrugged, reaching for her hand. ‘We still have time—’

‘I need to think of a theme,’ she insisted even as she let him slide his fingers along hers, his thumb finding her palm and brushing against it in a way that made her whole body faint with longing. ‘I was wondering,’ she continued, still determined to do some work, ‘if you have any photos or things from your childhood. We could put them around—’

Jace’s fingers tightened on hers for a tiny second. ‘Why? This isn’t my party.’

‘No, but we’re celebrating your father’s life. Memories are important—’

‘Are they?’ he asked with a strange little smile and withdrew his hand.

Eleanor frowned. She knew Jace’s relationship with his father must have been difficult at times; he’d indicated as much, especially in regards to his alleged infertility. Yet this was his
father,
and he was throwing a party for him. Would a photo or two really be unwanted? Resented, even?

Jace’s face had gone strangely still, even blank, and Eleanor was left with the feeling that he was wearing a mask, just as she’d felt when he’d danced with her at the party. Except this was a different mask, a colder, crueller one, and she had no idea what emotion?what person?hid underneath. Even after last night and everything she had shared, she suddenly wondered if she still knew Jace… at all.

She pushed the thought away, not liking it. ‘Do you have any better ideas?’ she asked, lightly, and Jace shrugged.

‘There is a box of old photographs up in one of the spare bedrooms. My sister Alecia had them and she didn’t have room in her new flat, so she brought them here one visit. You can take a look through them, if you like.’ He rose from the table, his face still ominously blank. ‘If you’re going to do some work, so should I. I’ll see you at lunch?’ Although it was a question, Jace didn’t give her time to answer. Eleanor watched him stride from the room without a backward glance, and she felt his withdrawal—emotional and physical—like a coldness creeping into her bones and stealing over her soul.

She sat in the kitchen for a few minutes, listening as a door in the distance clicked firmly shut. She thought of all the things she’d said last night. What had Jace said? What had
he
shared?

Uncomfortably, painfully, she became aware of how one-sided last night had really been… how one-sided everything had been. It seemed
she
was the only one starting over.

Sighing, trying to push away her growing sense of
discouragement, she decided to find the photographs. She was used to immersing herself in work to stop the hurt. The fear. She could do it again, even if she was tired of it. Even if she didn’t want to.

Upstairs she walked along the silent corridor, poking her head in empty bedrooms, peering in darkened cupboards until she finally came across a wardrobe filled with cardboard boxes. Hesitantly she pulled one out; a faded photograph fluttered to the ground and Eleanor stooped to get it. She studied the picture: five darling, dark-eyed girls, and a laughing little boy who had the same crooked smile she knew—and loved.

Loved. The word caught her by surprise. Did she love Jace? Did she know enough about him to love him? Eleanor tried to study the question from an objective, analytical standpoint, and failed. How could you be objective about love? She knew her heart raced when she saw him. She knew how treasured and cherished she felt in his arms. She knew how happy he made her feel, and how he always could make her laugh, even when she didn’t want to.

Was that love? Was it real? Could it be enough?

There were so many things she didn’t know about him. His secrets. His hopes. His fears. His favorite colour.

Purple.

Her lips twitched and a smile bloomed on her face, stirred in her heart. Perhaps she did know him enough. Perhaps you didn’t need to know someone’s whole history to love him. And, Eleanor thought as she opened the box she pulled out, perhaps she could find out some of the things she didn’t know. Yet.

She spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon gazing at a lifetime of photos. Birthday parties, Christmas dinners, lazy summer days on the beach, from round-cheeked babies to curly-haired toddlers, the scraped knees of early childhood to the gangly insecurity of adolescence. She saw Jace’s early life documented in snapshots, from a laughing little boy to a solemn-eyed youth whose
expression looked… haunted. Gazing at those photos, Eleanor guessed Jace must have been about fifteen. He would have already had mumps. He would have learned of his own infertility. She could see the struggle and the sorrow in every taut line of his adolescent face.

And yet the man she’d known in Boston, the student she’d fallen in love with, had been young and laughing and seemingly carefree. Had that been a façade, just as it had been the night of the party? A pretence, to cover the pain? She knew all about that.

‘I see you’ve found them.’

Eleanor’s head jerked up and she saw Jace lounging in the doorway. From the long shadows slanting across the floor, she figured she must have been in this room for hours. ‘Yes,’ she said. She glanced down at the photo of Jace she was still holding: a snap of him as a teen, his father standing behind him, his hand heavy on Jace’s shoulder. Neither were smiling. ‘Yes, I did.’

Jace ambled into the room. ‘Let me see,’ he drawled, reaching for the photograph. Eleanor gave it to him wordlessly. As Jace took it his face tightened, his eyes narrowing, and Eleanor’s heart ached. She thought of how much that photo revealed, and yet how much it didn’t say. How much she still didn’t understand. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said as his gaze flicked over the photo before he handed it back to Eleanor. ‘You might not want to put that one on display.’

Eleanor put it back in the box. ‘Jace… tell me about it.’

‘It?’ he repeated, the single word not inviting questions.

Still Eleanor persevered. ‘Your family. Your past. Your father.’

Jace hesitated, and Eleanor held her breath.
Tell me,
she implored silently.
Open up to me like I opened up to you.
That was what love was. To know and be known. Then he gave her a cool little smile and turned back to the door. ‘There’s nothing really to tell. Agathe’s made dinner. You haven’t eaten all day. You must be hungry.’

And leaving her with more questions?and more disappointment—than ever before, he left the room.

Jace walked quickly from the bedroom, from Eleanor. He felt restless, edgy, even angry. He didn’t like the thought of her thumbing through those photos; he didn’t like what they revealed. He didn’t like Eleanor asking questions, wanting answers. What answers could he give? How could he tell her the truth? He didn’t want her to know about his father’s disappointment, how
he
had been such a disappointment.

He didn’t want to be a disappointment to Eleanor.

Sighing, Jace raked a hand through his hair. Everything had been going so well. They’d both been so relaxed, so happy. Why did a few meaningless snaps have to ruin it? Why did these old feelings of fear and inadequacy have to swamp him, rushing through him in an unrelenting river as he looked through those photos, as he remembered every tiny sigh and little remark his father made, each one wounding the boy he’d been so deeply?

He wasn’t that boy any more. He wasn’t even infertile any more. Yet here he was, still mired by feelings of fear and inadequacy. It came to him then in a startling flash of insight that he wasn’t just afraid of hurting Eleanor; he was afraid of being hurt himself.

That was what caring—love—did to you. It opened you up, it left you open and exposed, raw and wounded.

And yet it was—it could be—the best thing to ever happen to him… if he let it.

He just didn’t know if he could.

As he retreated to his office, burying his thoughts and his fears with paperwork and business deals, he wondered if perhaps the past couldn’t truly be forgotten. Perhaps you could never escape the old memories, fears, failures. Perhaps you couldn’t start over after all.

By the time Eleanor had cleaned herself up and arrived downstairs for dinner, any remnant of the darkness and anger she’d
felt from Jace upstairs had vanished. Instead he was his usual relaxed, carefree self, smiling readily, chatting easily, pouring her wine—yet Eleanor didn’t trust any of it.

Now her mind seethed with questions, and they made her heart hungry and restless. Why was Jace holding back now, when she’d given him nearly everything? Was he regretting the night they’d shared, the secrets
she’d
shared? She still felt painfully conscious that he hadn’t shared anything, that he was keeping himself distant and remote and
safe,
and it scared her.