The Witness (28 page)

“You’re worried about what’s happening between us. Is that right?”

Relieved to begin, she took a breath. “While I find you attractive, and I enjoyed having sex with you, I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.”

“You already have.”

“I—what?”

“This is a relationship, Abigail, so you’ve already engaged in one.”

“I didn’t intend to. I’m not willing to continue to engage in a relationship.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m flattered by your interest, and I’ve enjoyed our conversations. However, my work requires a great deal of time, and complete focus. I prefer not to be distracted, and believe you require a more amenable and socially oriented companion.”

He took a sip of wine. “Did you practice that?” He pointed at her. “You did.”

Every inch of her body stiffened with mortification. “I fail to see why the fact that I wanted to be certain I articulated my thoughts and opinions clearly is amusing to you.”

The arctic tone of her voice did nothing to dim his grin. “I guess you’d have to be standing on my side of the room.”

“That’s just another way to say point of view, which is your rationale for a great deal.”

“Yeah, it counts a lot to my way of thinking. Abigail, I figure you had to work on that little speech awhile, because most of it’s just bullshit.”

“If you’re incapable of having a rational discussion, you should go.”

Wineglass in hand, body angled back to the counter, he remained as
relaxed as she was rigid. “You weren’t planning a discussion. You were going to orate your practiced speech, then I was just supposed to mosey along. If you want me out, Abigail, then I think you’re going to have to tell me what’s bothering you, what you’re afraid of, and what you feel.”

“I said I wasn’t interested.”

“But you’re not being truthful. I don’t want to be with a woman who doesn’t want to be with me. So if that’s the case here, tell me, give me enough courtesy and respect to explain it, and I’ll grill up the steaks. We’ll have a decent meal, and I’ll go. That’s about as fair as I can make it.”

“I told you. My work—”

“Abigail.”

There was a world of patience in the word, and it lit a fire under her.

“Why doesn’t anything go the way it’s supposed to with you? Why can’t you respond logically? I can’t have a discussion with someone who refuses to be rational.”

“At the risk of setting you off, from where I’m standing I’m being about as rational as anyone could.”

“Then stop.”

“Stop being rational?”

She threw out her hands. “I can’t think!”

“Answer this. Do you have feelings for me?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I take that as a yes, qualified. Why don’t you want to?”

“I don’t know what to do with them. With you. With this. I just want it to be quiet again. I just want my routine. I think that’s reasonable.” Her voice pitched toward panic again, but she couldn’t stop it from rising. “It’s not quiet when you’re here, and everything’s off schedule and unpredictable. I can’t even go to the market because then I’m walking with you and talking to your mother and playing with a puppy, and your mother’s offering me peach sun tea. I just want to be left alone. I know how to be alone.”

“Let’s get some air.”

“I don’t want air!”

“Honey, you’re shaking, and you’re having trouble getting your breath. Let’s just take a minute, get some air, settle it down.”

“Don’t take care of me! I’ve been taking care of myself since I was seventeen. I don’t need anyone.”

Brooks unlocked the back door. “Come on, Bert.” And, taking Abigail’s hand, pulled her outside. “If that’s the case, then it’s long past time you had someone willing to look out for you now and again who gives a goddamn. Now, fucking breathe.”

“Don’t swear at me.”

“Breathe, and I won’t have to.”

She pulled away from him, leaned against the porch post. Tears came along with the breath, so she pressed her face to the wood.

“You want me on my knees, that’s the way to do it.” Rubbing his hands over his face, Brooks dug for composure. “Abigail, if I’m responsible for making you this unhappy, you’ve got my word I’ll leave you be. But I wish to God you’d let me help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know?”

She turned her face toward his. “Why do you care?”

“I’d say you haven’t had enough social interaction or interpersonal relationships if you don’t understand why anyone would.”

“You’re making fun of me again.”

“Not this time.” He didn’t touch her, but his voice was a gentle stroke over raw nerves. “I’ve got feelings for you. I haven’t sorted them all out yet, but I like having them.”

She shook her head. “It’s just a chemical reaction.”

“So you’ve said. I took chemistry in high school. Sucked at it. Am I making you this unhappy?”

She wanted to say yes, because she believed he’d go and stay away. But she couldn’t lie when he looked in her eyes. “No. It makes me happy when I see you. I don’t want to be happy because of you.”

“So being happy makes you unhappy.”

“I know that doesn’t sound rational, but it’s accurate. I’m sorry I behaved that way.”

“Don’t apologize.”

He dug into his pocket, came up with a folded blue bandanna. “Here you go, now.”

Despising herself, she sniffled. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to ask you a question. If you’re not ready to answer, say so. But don’t lie to me. Is this about a husband, ex-husband, boyfriend, something on those lines, who hurt you?”

“No. No. There’s no one like that. No one’s hurt me.”

“You got hurt all over you. Are you saying no one physically hurt you?”

“Yes.” Calmer, she dabbed at her eyes with the soft, faded cloth, then stared out at her greenhouse. “I can take care of myself. I don’t have husbands or boyfriends or relationships.”

“You’ve got one now—the relationship.” Stepping over, he took her chin in one hand, brushed at the drying tears on her cheeks with the other. “You’re going to have to put that big brain of yours to work on how to deal with it.”

“I’m not like other people, Brooks.”

“You’re unique. Why shouldn’t you be?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

How much could she tell him? If he understood, just enough, maybe it would end it.

“I want my wine.”

“I’ll get it.” Before she could comment, he’d stepped back inside. She took the moment to align her thoughts. No point in wishing for more time to prepare, she told herself.

“I don’t need you to do things for me,” she began, when he came out with their wine. “It’s important to me that I do for myself.”

“The wine? Seriously?” He took his own to the porch steps, sat. “Manners are important, too. Simple courtesies. My mother’s a very capable, independent woman, but I’d’ve gotten her glass of wine. From what I’ve seen, what I know, you’re as capable as they come. That doesn’t mean I can’t do you a courtesy.”

“It’s stupid.” A little lost, she looked down at the cloth, turned it in her hands. “I hate being stupid. And it wasn’t what I was going to say, anyway.”

“Why don’t you sit down here and say what you’re going to say?”

She hesitated, then signaled to Bert that he could go into the yard, and sat.

“I am capable of most things, but I don’t believe I’m capable of maintaining a relationship.”

“Because?”

“When my mother decided she wanted a child, she researched donors.”

“So she wasn’t involved with anyone.”

“No. No one she wanted to procreate with.”

Procreate, Brooks thought. That was a telling word.

“She’d reached a point in her life where she wanted a child. That’s not accurate,” Abigail decided. “She wanted an offspring, and she had very specific, very detailed, requirements for the donor. My mother is a very intelligent woman, and naturally she wanted to produce an intelligent … offspring. She required high intellect, good health, including family medical history. She had physical requirements, in appearance and body type, stamina.”

“I get the picture.”

“When she’d determined the donor, she scheduled the conception date, through artificial insemination, to correlate with her own personal and professional calendar. Naturally, she arranged the finest prenatal care available, and I was born through a scheduled cesarean section, and proved very healthy, of the proper weight and size. She had, of
course, already arranged for a nurse, so I was given excellent care, and tested and examined regularly to be certain my development was strong.”

The birdsong, so happy, seemed out of place, as did the sudden jeweled whirl of a hummingbird toward a pot of scarlet dianthus.

“Do you know all this because you found out, or because she told you?”

“She told me. I always knew. The knowledge was part of my education. Education, along with my physical health, were priorities. My mother is exceptionally beautiful, and she had some disappointment in that while my features are pleasing enough, my coloring good, I didn’t reach the level in appearance she’d hoped for, but I made up for it with intellect and motor skills and retention. Overall, she was very satisfied.”

“Oh, baby.”

She hunched in when he put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“You’re just going to have to swallow that one.”

“I’m telling you this so you understand my basic genetic makeup. My mother, while satisfied with me on the whole, never loved me or wished to. She never accepted I might have my own goals or desires or plans. Hers, for me, were again very specific and detailed. For a very long time I thought she didn’t love me because I was lacking in some area, but I came to understand she simply didn’t love. She has no capacity or aptitude for love, and no skills at displaying affection. Factoring genetics and environment, I also lack the capacity. I may not have the skills for relationships, but I understand emotions and affection are primary needs in developing and maintaining them.”

Brooks thought, What a load of crap. But he structured his response more carefully. “Let me get this straight. Because your mother’s cold, selfish and appears to have all the finer feelings of a sand flea, you’re genetically predestined to be the same.”

“That’s very harsh.”

“I can be harsher.”

“There’s no need. When factoring both genetics and environment, what’s often termed nature and nurture—”

“I know what the hell it is.”

“Now you’re angry.”

“That’s a mild term for it, but not with you. Let me ask you something else. If you’re so genetically incapable of love and affection, how come you love that dog, and he loves you back. And don’t try to pass it off as training.”

“We need each other.”

“Need’s one part of it. If he got hurt or sick and couldn’t function as a guard dog, would you get rid of him?”

“Of course not.”

“Because it would be cold and selfish and downright mean, and you’re none of that. And because you love him.”

“He’s a dog, not a person. There are people who feel strongly for and about animals, and don’t have the same feelings for or about people.”

“You feel something for me.”

With no helpful answer, Abigail stared down into her wine.

“What about your father?”

“Donor.”

“Okay, what about the donor? If she didn’t tell you specifically who he was, you found out. You’re too smart to let that slide.”

“She wouldn’t give me his name or certain details. When I was twelve I … accessed the information.”

“She kept files.”

“My conclusion was—is—she felt it important to keep track of his health, any potential problem areas. So yes, she kept files. I hacked into them.”

“At twelve.”

“I’ve always had an interest in computers. He’s a physicist. Very successful and respected. He was in his early twenties when he donated, several years younger than my mother at the time.”

“Does he know about you?”

“No. It’s not done.”

“You could have contacted him.”

“Why? Why would I disrupt his life, his family? We have a biological connection and nothing more.”

“He has a family.”

“Yes, he married at thirty-one. At the time I accessed the information, he had one child and was expecting another. He has three children now. I’m not one of them. I’m the result of a donation.”

“Is he still married?”

“Yes.”

“So he can develop and maintain a relationship. You’ve got his genes, too.”

For a moment, a long moment, she watched the flight of the hummingbird—that sapphire blur—until it whizzed out of sight.

“Why would you want to be with someone whose skills and aptitude for personal connections are stunted?”

“Maybe I like the idea of watching them grow, and being part of it. Then there’s the fact I’m hung up on you. Factor those together.”

“There are other reasons I shouldn’t let this continue. I can’t tell you what they are.”

“Yet. I know you’re on the run from something, something that scares you enough you need that dog, all this security, all those guns. Whatever it is has you behind locks, actual and metaphorical. When you trust me enough, when you figure out that needing help isn’t the same as being weak and needy, you’ll tell me. But for now, I should fire up that grill.”

She got to her feet when he did. “How much of your interest in me is wondering what’s behind the locks?”

She needed honesty, maybe more than most, so he’d give her honesty. “It started out that way. I still wonder, partly because a cop always wonders. But mostly now? When you opened those locks, even a little,
Abigail, you got me. You got me,” he repeated, taking her hand, pressing it to his heart.

She looked at her hand, felt that strong, steady beat. And let herself go, let herself lay her cheek there. When his arms came around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and the emotions rose so fast, so hard and fast. To be held like this on a cool spring night by someone who cared.

It was like a miracle, even for someone who didn’t believe in them.

“I still don’t know what to do with this, with you. With any of it.”

“Let’s see how it goes.”