Don't Tempt Me (17 page)

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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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“We could come back here every summer,” he spoke more solemnly, “if you were my wife.”
“Sloane—” she began, only to be interrupted.
“I want you to marry me, Justine. Nothing can change my feelings.”
From the far recesses of her mind the subject of marriage sent a chill through her, intruding abruptly on the warmth of the closeness they shared. She remained silent for long moments, as her hands slipped from his chest and she lay back on the bed. When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed.
“It's unfair to discuss this now.”
“Why?” Sloane loomed suddenly above her, his dark eyes filled with challenge. “Why shouldn't we discuss it
now? These few days should have shown you what it would be like.”
“That's exactly it,” she argued. “These few days have shown me how much I love you. But these days have been spent in a kind of fantasy. This life, this cabin, these woods aren't the real world as you and I both know it. The real world for us is back in New York, in the city, with our respective work and offices. I've fought a long time to get where I am, Sloane. You have to understand that.”
His jaw moved in, tensing. “I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying. But I'm beginning to lose patience.”
“Patience? Is that all it takes to make a marriage work? You may have climbed Mount McKinley, but, from what I've seen, it takes a lot more stamina, a much longer haul to make a marriage work—really work.”
“And you're not willing to try?” His lips were thinned, his muscles taut.
“It's not just me to consider,” she began, then stopped herself in shock at the confession she'd nearly made. Carefully she chose her words. “I've seen what a poor marriage, even a mediocre one can do to children. And I'm sure you want children.” Her green-eyed gaze speared him with undue intensity.
“In time. But that's not the central issue. I will never marry purely for the sake of having children. I want the happiness that would come from spending the rest of my life with the woman I love. And I love you, Justine.”
His reasoning was too sure, his words too close to her heart. If she listened any longer, she might well give in. And
that
she could never do.
In time
he might want children. Well, she reminded herself, there was to be one in six short months—not much time to work the bugs out of a new marriage. “I can't,” she whispered in misery, scrambling from the bed and searching for her clothes. “You ask too much.”
Sloane said nothing, merely lay back on the bed and
threw a strong forearm across his eyes. Justine's heart ached in anguish, yet she knew what she must do. Dressing quickly, she dashed outside, fleeing the lair of the Silver Fox. As she sat on the dock, waiting for him to join her with their bags, the war raged on within herself, heart against mind, until her stomach churned. It was only a sharp pain in her side that gave her warning that, if she did not pull herself together, she might lose it all.
Sloane didn't broach the topic again, yet it hung between them as an impenetrable wall. Conversation was light, nearly nonexistent, as the small float plane returned them to Fairbanks, where his private jet awaited them. The long flight to New York seemed even longer this time, though there were no diversionary lunches in Atlanta to slow them. It was only as they circled Kennedy International Airport that Sloane approached her. He looked strangely haggard, considering the pure relaxation they'd indulged in during the past few days. And the air of defeat about him carried only a hint of the pride she'd grown to love.
“I think that I've reached the end of my tether, Justine,” he began softly, sitting stiffly beside her in the empty aft cabin of the craft. “You know that I love you and that I want to marry you. If you still refuse me, I would rather we sever the entire relationship.”
Her heart lurched; her stomach turned. It was inevitable, yet no easier to accept. Eyes rounded in green-glazed apprehension, she listened.
“It might be better if you gave your notes, your proposals, to another member of the firm. I think that the work would be better accomplished without the tension that would exist between us.”
Tears blurred the image of her hands, knotting themselves in her lap. “So I'm to be fired?” she whispered, appalled at her resort to half humor.
“In a word, yes. Your work on this expedition has been
exceptional. Let's just call it … a difference of opinion. Irreconcilable differences. Is that better? A divorce before the marriage. That's what you've assumed all along, isn't it?”
Justine raised her head to argue, but Sloane's back was to her, long strides taking him forward to the cockpit. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she was less successful with the tears. As the plane touched down on home turf, she knew it was over. Had she planned it all along? Was Sloane right? But she would never know. He had left her himself. It was too late. Placing dark glasses over her eyes, the same ones that had kept the glare of the arctic sun from scorching her, she gathered her things and left the plane, his love, and a future with Sloane—all behind.
If only her own love, that abiding love she felt for Sloane, were as easily cast off. In the days that followed, Justine was haunted by it. It imprisoned her heart, suffusing her life's blood with torment, loneliness, frustration. It permeated her every activity—followed her to work, then home, to dinner or lunch or sleep. Even the thought of the child she carried was no solace; for, to her surprise, there was still little sign of her pregnancy. She was as slim, perhaps slimmer, than ever; somehow, the pregnancy seemed unreal, a hoax.
The results of her weeks as a member of the CORE International team were dutifully passed on to Phillip Marsh, the lawyer designated as her replacement. Much as she knew that the transfer was for the best, the psychological separation was but one other thorn in her side. In the firm's understanding, thanks to Sloane's diplomacy, she had withdrawn from the case for valid logistical reasons, mostly pertaining to her own work and its demands. None of her colleagues knew the truth.
“Well, Justine,” John Doucette welcomed her back to the office when she finally showed up several days after the return from Alaska, “how did it go?”
“Not bad,” she murmured, barely looking up from the mountain of papers and messages that had accumulated in her absence.
“Was Sloane the perfect gentleman? A good boss?”
The mention of Sloane's name sent a shaft of anguish into her. “We managed to get a lot done, if that's what you're asking. I believe that the project will make a solid impact on the problems that exist in the state.”
As John questioned her for details, she gave them without
a fight, feeling too drained emotionally to muster either protest or banter. And, she forced herself to relax; as long as her colleague stuck to the legal issues involved, there was no problem. Unfortunately, he did not. After a few moments of relatively passive conversation, he eyed her speculatively.
“You sound different. As though you left some of that spirit back up there in Alaska.” Despite the sudden clenching of her fists, he persisted, voice lowered yet direct. “I did some checking on the arctic fox while you were gone. He's adapted well to his environment, they say. Ears are shorter; less susceptible to frostbite—that type of thing.” Justine felt the churning in her stomach begin anew. “And, the arctic fox, it seems, is the mildest, most well behaved, most pleasant of all the wild dogs.”
“John”—she broke into his monologue with thick-tongued haste—“would you mind stopping that. It's lost all its humor.”
His gaze took in her pallor, the slight quiver of her lips, the haunted cast to her dull emerald orbs. “So have you, Justine. Are you all right?”
Her breathing faltered with a deep inhalation. “I will be,” she spoke very softly, “once I get back to this work. The whole pile of it”—she gestured to the mess on her desk, clutching at the most logical change of subject—“has gotten me down.”
“If there's anything I can do …” For the first time since she'd known him, John seemed truly sympathetic. His sincerity brought a faint smile to her lips.
“I doubt it, John. But … thanks for the offer. It's nice to have … friends … to count on … .” Quickly she lowered her eyes to her work, missing the subsequent look of puzzlement which flickered over the other lawyer's features before he finally turned and left her office.
Gaze still downcast, she contemplated his newest gems.
Mildest. Most well behaved. Most pleasant
. All these things
Sloane had been during their stay in Alaska. And adapted to the environment—that, too. Her memory groped eagerly at the image of his broad-shouldered frame chopping wood, carting pails of water from the lake, stoking the fire in the old wood stove. Then, with a lower slump of her shoulders, she realized that she would never know this magnificence again—and the familiar pall settled over her. The Silver Fox—how very much she missed him!
With Labor Day come and gone, Justine threw herself headlong into the many cases she'd taken on, the only antidote she could find for her rattled nerves. But what had always worked in the past was now less effective. The addiction had grown too strong, having been built slowly and with gathering strength during the Alaska trip; cold-turkey withdrawal took its toll. Instead of feeling diverted by her work, she merely felt tired. Instead of exhilaration, she knew exhaustion. Instead of gaining strength as the days passed, she grew weaker and less enthusiastic about the law in particular and life in general.
Ten days after her return, she saw her doctor for a regular checkup. Her hopes lay here, in the child within her, in the possibility of hearing a heartbeat, in the need for encouragement that the doctor might provide. The waiting room of the office was filled with other mothers-to-be, each one glowing, each one jubilant in comparison to the lethargy she felt. The doctor took one look at her and confirmed the worst of her fears.
“You look terrible, Justine!” In his early forties, he was a good friend of Susan's from the hospital and the natural choice for Justine to see for the prenatal care of her child. “My God, aren't you sleeping?”
“It's been … harder lately … .” She avoided direct touch with his gaze, knowing how transparent hers would be. His examination was intimate enough.
“Frankly, I'm concerned about you,” he began after his examination when she had dressed and returned to her
chair. “You're exhausted. Your blood pressure is low. You've lost weight.”
“The baby? Can you hear anything?” It was her only hope for salvation; desperately, she grasped at straws.
“Not yet. And it's not that unusual. If the baby is small, we may not hear any heartbeat for another few weeks. But Justine”—he leaned forward to stress the urgency of his advice—“you've got to take better care of yourself—for the sake of the child, if nothing else. You're taking the vitamins?” She nodded. “Good. Now, I want you to get rest—bed rest—for the next two days.”
“But I have to go to work—”
“The work will wait! Someone will have to cover for you. You need to be off your feet. You need to sleep.”
A sense of defeat crept through her. Now, she mused, she was to be deprived of even her onetime means of escape. “Shouldn't I be … getting … fat?” she asked timidly.
“Plump,” the doctor corrected gently. “You will. But you have to eat properly. And, I want to see you next week.”
“Next week? So soon?” The sharp loden tinge of her eyes mirrored her alarm.
“It's all right, Justine,” he quickly soothed her. “I just want to make sure you're following my instructions. And, maybe then we'll hear that heartbeat you've been waiting for.” His smile was meant by way of encouragement, hiding a deeper concern. He followed her departing form before lifting the phone.
Justine's return home was met by a very solicitous and particularly officious Susan, who hustled her instantly to bed before setting off for work herself. “Now, I expect to find you here when I get back in the morning,” she instructed firmly, disturbed herself by her roommate's lack of resistance. “See you later!”
The patient stayed in bed that night and the whole of
the following day, insisting on communicating with the office by phone, dozing only occasionally between calls. Her mind was in a strange void, as though waiting for something to happen. It did. That night. While Susan was at work.
It began slowly, gently at first, with a dull ache in her back. The pains were nothing more than a cramp, and she promptly ignored them. There was, she reasoned irrationally, no way there could be anything wrong with her baby. After all, it was all she had left.
Through the night she refused to admit a problem. By morning, however, the matter was taken out of her hands. “Justine! My God! You're positively ashen!” Susan's trained eye took in her friend's tucked-up position on the couch, the hand that lay weakly on her abdomen. “What is it? Cramps?”
Justine sighed and lay her head back against the upholstery. “It's nothing, Sue. Really. A twinge now and then. I'm sure it's perfectly normal.”
But Susan had heard enough. Her hand went instantly to the phone; her voice carried moments later in disjointed phrases to Justine. “Sure, Tom. We'll be there in about … twenty minutes.” The receiver hit its cradle as the nurse whirled into action. “Come on, hun. We're meeting Tom at the hospital. He's going to take a look at you.”
Justine sat up quickly, feeling suddenly faint. “But there's nothing wrong. Honestly. I'm fine.”
“You may be a great lawyer”—the determined Susan had disappeared into Justine's room for her clothes—“but you're
no doctor
and a very lousy patient!” Having returned, she stood before Justine. “Now, will you come willingly, or do I call an ambulance?”
Strangely frightened, Justine allowed herself to be led through the motions of dressing, then found herself in a cab with Susan, and, moments later, at the emergency
room of the hospital, where they were met by a somber-faced Tom, who whisked Justine off.
For Justine, the world and its happenings took on unreal distortion. It was as though, having admitted to herself the possibility of a problem with the baby, she released a floodgate of activity about her. Nurses and technicians came and went; her doctor stayed with her, examining, probing, questioning. The sedative he administered gave further chimerical quality to the happenings. Few things retained meaning; most shimmered above and beyond her. At the mention of Sloane's name, however, her senses cleared.
“Should I call him, hun?” Susan asked gently as Justine was wheeled toward the elevator that would take her into the deeper womb of the hospital. “He should be here—”
“No!” Her voice seemed distant, foreign. “No! Not Sloane!”
“Is there anyone you want me to call?” The elevator door was about to close as Susan bent over her friend for a last moment.
Justine's whisper was barely audible. “Tony. Tell Tony I'm here.”
 
Tony was beside her, sitting on the edge of her bed when she awoke from a doze that evening. His eyes were warm, despite their concern. “How do you feel?” he murmured softly. The lights in the room, a private one, were dim, creating the restful atmosphere the doctor ordered.
Reorientation was something that had taken Justine time during the late afternoon hours as the anesthesia had worn off. Now she struggled to surface again. “Kind of numb. Empty.” Her hand reached out for his, and he offered it, his grip strong and supportive.
“Why didn't you tell me before, Justine? You should have shared this with someone.”
The lump in her throat made speaking difficult. After
a few minutes' wait, it eased. “Susan knew. I … didn't want to … burden anyone else.”
“Burden? Justine, I'm your brother! If you can't rely on me, who
can
you rely on?”
At that instant Justine knew something she had avoided facing for countless years. Blood
did
flow thicker than water—an old adage, but very true. In the moment of recognition, her eyes filled with tears. “Thanks for … being here, Tony.” Her voice broke. “I need …”
Gently, Tony gathered her into his arms, rocking her trembling form as she wept against him. “I'm here, Justine. I'll always be here.” His mind was on another man, as was hers. Through her tears she saw him standing there at the door, tall, straight, silver-haired, and debonair in his finely tailored suit with a trenchcoat thrown over his elbow. But when she blinked, he was gone, a fleeting figment of her strained imagination.
“I wanted the baby so, Tony. You have no idea.” With the quieting of her body came the need for release. Her eyes glistened a deep emerald as she unloaded her heart to this person closest, now, to her. “I never thought—or planned—to have children.” Her breath hiccuped between words. “But, once it happened, it was as though there was no other way to live.” Again, she thought of Sloane, of his child she would never have. “I feel so … alone …” Her eyes filled again; Tony let her cry freely.
A counselor by profession, he knew of her need for self-expurgation. “Tell me about the trip,” he asked, watching her face light slowly in memory. As her body rested back against the pillows, she talked quietly, telling him everything that had happened since she had seen him last, before her departure for Alaska. Details of the last three days of the trip were unnecessary; the glow in her eyes, suddenly clear and sharp and vital amid the pallor of her skin, elaborated fully. Tony knew enough, however, not to venture into a deeper discussion of Sloane, considering
Justine's shaky emotional state. To his dismay the life that had crept into her features during her discourse faded instantly at its end. There was a finality to her silence, a strong depression hovering about her.
“The doctor says you can leave in the morning.” He finally urged her to face the future. “I'm going to pick you up at around ten, then I'll take you home and nurse you for the day.”

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