Thorns of Truth (16 page)

Rachel regretted her outburst at once. A moment ago she’d felt strong and purposeful, but now she felt weak as a newborn; her legs trembled as if she were on the verge of collapse.
Oh God, what have I done?

Something awful, that much was clear. Rose, her eyes iced over with unshed tears, was roughly pushing away Rachel’s outstretched arm. But if Rachel’s words had been sticks, the ones Rose hurled at her in return were stones, the sharp kind that leave nasty bruises and break bones.

In a trembling voice, she hissed, “I hope you never find out what it’s like to lose a man you love. I
have.
Twice. Max is dead, true … but I lost Brian because you
stole
him from me.”

Chapter 5

R
OSE, STORMING OUT
of Brian’s office, was about to slam the door behind her when a prim voice in her head reminded her that you didn’t go around slamming doors in other people’s homes. Especially that of a friend … a friend who would soon be your son’s mother-in-law. And certainly not with forty people in the next room, many of whom might wonder what the hell was going on.

She slammed the door anyway, as hard as she could.

To hell with Rachel, and her damn party. Rachel had everything a woman could want: loving husband, nice home, fulfilling career. Even a mother who would do anything to make her happy. And now she wanted Drew, too?

Kiss my ass,
Rose swore inwardly, fury burning through her. Rachel was right about one thing: Max was dead. But
she
wasn’t. And, damnit, she would make sure Rachel remembered that.

Rose collided with someone, and the red mist swirling inside her head cleared suddenly. Brian. His hand on her shoulder, steadying her. In the half-light of the hallway, his familiar face swam into focus.

“Whoa … what’s your hurry?” In his free hand, he was holding what was left of a Scotch and soda. She stared at it for an instant, transfixed by the sweating glass, the lozenges of melting ice swimming in the inch or so of pale amber.

Then she tore her gaze away, and looked up at Brian, at the face she’d carried inside her head, all the time he was in Vietnam and for a long while after, like a snapshot of someone beloved who’d died. In a way he
had
died over there, just as she’d feared he would. Because the Brian who returned home didn’t belong to her anymore. He was Rachel’s.

Now all she saw was a man growing older in the best possible way—his angular features more defined somehow, each line and gray hair like a footnote that clarified him in some way. He wore a loose-fitting blazer with a pale-blue shirt open at the collar, and she noticed that the braided-leather belt looped about the waist of his pressed chinos was one she’d given him. He’d kept it all these years. Why hadn’t she ever noticed it before?

“I have to go,” she told him.

“So soon?” His eyes rested on her with the steadiness of someone who’d known her a very long time—and wouldn’t be easily fooled.

“I have things to take care of at home,” she lied. Rose looked down at the toes of her black patent-leather slingbacks, gleaming sullenly in the dim light. She felt like such a hypocrite. For getting all dressed up like this, for going along with the pretense like everyone else. And hadn’t she been enjoying herself, too? Flirting with Eric. Basking in his attention like … like it could really lead to something.

“Where’s Rachel? I thought I saw you two go off together.” Brian looked past her, eyeing the closed door to his office as if he already knew something terrible had happened. “Rose, what’s going on?”

Of course,
she thought.
Brian always could read me like a book. Even when we were kids …

“We talked,” Rose told him, striking a cautious tone. “Look, Bri, I’m sorry. The only reason I didn’t stay home tonight was because I didn’t want to hurt Drew. But it seems I did more harm in coming.”

Brian looked troubled, but not surprised. “I can’t say I blame you.” With a sigh, he stepped around her to set his glass down on the narrow hall table, his back to the office door. “Listen, can we talk about this some more—somewhere quiet, just you and me?”

A wedge of light appeared on the Dhurrie runner behind him. Rose could see Rachel’s silhouette in the doorway.

“I’d like that,” Rose said, just loudly enough for Rachel to hear. She was still smarting from Rachel’s accusations, and, yes, her confrontation with Sylvie too, which, though weeks old, had chafed at old scars, causing them to itch and burn. Maybe it
was
childish, taking advantage of Brian’s offer mainly to strike back at Rachel … but, oh, what the hell.

“Why don’t I take you home?” Brian suggested. “We can talk on the way.”

She stared at him. “Now?”

Brian shrugged. “Rachel can manage without me, I’m sure. She usually does.” There was no resentment in his voice, only a kind of weary acceptance.

“I’ll ask Mandy to keep an eye on Jay, see that he gets home okay,” Rose said. Jason wouldn’t be too thrilled, she knew. All his friends were allowed out at night unchaperoned, he was always arguing. It wasn’t fair, she was treating him like a baby.
But life isn’t fair!
she’d wanted to fling back at him.
Was what happened to your dad fair?

“I’ll phone for a car. Ten minutes, meet you at the door.” Brian held up both hands, fingers extended. He didn’t look at all sorry to be leaving. Anyway, the party would be winding down soon. Rose told herself.

A few feet down the hall, the office door clicked quietly shut.

Rose experienced a tiny stab of guilt, immediately swallowed by a wave of righteous resentment. After those awful things Rachel had said, why should she care if Rachel felt hurt? Anyway, Rose was sick and tired of tiptoeing around her precious feelings.…

From the little he’d said already, Brian, she suspected, would see it her way. And she could use an ally. More than that, she could use a friend.

From nowhere, the thought of Eric flashed across her mind.

They’d gone out a couple of times since she’d done his show. No big deal, she told herself. But one time in particular stood out. An evening last week, when she’d been nearly comatose from hours of poring over the fine print in a stack of depositions, and Eric had spirited her off to his favorite Italian restaurant—a funky Village hideaway. They’d sat tucked in a back booth, twirling their forks in plates of linguine, and listening to a group of old Italian men playing bocci ball in the alley outside.

“Do you believe people have the power to reinvent themselves?” Eric had asked. “I don’t mean just correcting a bad habit … but a real sea-change.” Locking his hands together, he’d leaned forward to elaborate. “The other day, a listener phoned in—the husband of that battered wife who did our show. He was on the verge of tears. Said he hadn’t realized until he heard his wife on the air what total bullshit all his apologies had been. Now he’s in counseling. He knows he can’t control his behavior, and he’s trying to find out why. But he swore he wouldn’t go near her until he knew for sure he wouldn’t hit her again.”

“And you believed him?” she’d asked, incredulous.

He’d grinned. “I guess that answers my question.”

“I don’t mean to sound so cynical.” Rose shrugged and sat back. Over the sound system, an old Righteous Brothers tune was playing softly—one that made her feel oddly nostalgic. “I guess I’ve been burned a few times.”

All at once, there had been the warmth of Eric’s hand stealing across the table to close over hers. And his blue eyes that seemed to cast a soft glow in the darkness, resting on her as if he understood exactly why she would find it hard to believe in miracles. She’d told him little enough about Max, and nothing at all about her mother, but nevertheless, he seemed to know intuitively everything that was most essential about her.

They’d talked on the phone, too—nearly every night, in fact. Eric was a good listener; she could bounce things off him—stuff about Jay and Drew, problems she was having at the office—and he didn’t give advice unless asked. Rose would lie in bed with her eyes closed and the lights off, the sound of Eric’s voice soothing as a touch.

In some ways, it was better than having him beside her. She found his real, physical presence too disturbing—exciting in a way that inflamed her to the point of irritation. This way, she wasn’t risking anything. And she could walk away at any time, no hard feelings. However much a friend he was turning out to be, she mustn’t let herself forget, not for one second, that Eric was no substitute for Max. She mustn’t confuse loneliness and need—and, yes, desire—with the kind of love she and her husband had shared.

Even so, in her present state—raw, every nerve exposed—Rose found herself wishing for a dose of Eric’s good sense and galvanizing sympathy. As she headed back into the living room, she found herself automatically scanning the crowd.…

She spotted him at once, perched on an arm of the sofa, a coffee cup balanced on one knee. He was chatting with Marie, who appeared genuinely disarmed for a change. In her rayon pantsuit that had to be at least five years out of date, her shoeblack hair tucked behind her ears, Rose’s sister was almost glowing.

Rose felt her temperature rise as she began making her way toward him, and a pulse in her belly start to throb. It didn’t matter what she told herself, or how often she said it, the fact remained she couldn’t be anywhere
near
Eric without feeling like a teenager in heat.

I’ll just say goodbye.…

Rose was halfway across the room when her attention was diverted by the sight of Mandy, seated alone in a corner by the bookcase. She, too, held a coffee cup, but the careful way she was lifting it to her mouth made Rose wonder if it was coffee Mandy was sipping, or something stronger.

Now, watching her stepdaughter’s arm float up to brush something clumsily from the front of her kelly-green dress, Rose thought:
She’s drunk.

God, not again.
When had she
ever
seen Mandy leave a party without being at least tipsy? Once or twice she’d even mentioned it to Max, but he’d always dismissed her concern. None of the junior partners billed more hours than Mandy, he’d point out. In the ten years she’d been with the firm, she’d taken no more than a handful of sick days. If Mandy had a problem, wouldn’t it have shown up at work?

Rose thought about how lately Mandy was almost never in her office. She’d chalked it up to a killer schedule, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Did
her stepdaughter have a problem?

Suddenly Rose wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know. One more thing on her already heaping plate was more than she could handle right now …

“It stopped raining.”

Eric’s voice. Rose turned, finding he’d slipped through the crowd to meet her halfway. Her heart began to beat even faster. Damn. There ought to be a law against guys like him, she thought. Men who could set you on fire with a glance. He was looking at her that way now—as frankly sexual as if he were gazing up at her from a pillow, sandy hair rumpled, his blue eyes nearly making her forget there were other people in the room.

He wants me, too.
She’d known for some time—how could she not?—but there was a difference between simply knowing something and actually
feeling
it. Rose shivered, feeling damp between her breasts … and her thighs.

She was thankful for the excuse to look away, toward the windows; it had indeed stopped raining. “I won’t be needing my umbrella, then,” she said.

“You’re leaving already?” He sounded disappointed.

“As soon as I can arrange a ride home for Jay.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I was going to ask my stepdaughter, but I don’t think she’s in any shape.”

She watched Eric glance over at Mandy, slumped in her chair wearing a blank, stupid look. He nodded in understanding.

“I take it this isn’t the first time,” he observed mildly.

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“I’ll see that she gets home safely.” Eric made the offer casually, as if he were merely helping her on with her coat.

Rose was pierced by a gratitude that was disproportionate, she knew. But oh how good, just this once, to have someone pick up the slack.

“I’d hate for you to go out of your way,” she protested, even so.

“It’s no trouble.”

“Well, then … thank you.”

“No need. It wasn’t so long ago that
I
was the one being poured into taxis,” he told her. “I don’t like being reminded of those days … but I don’t want to forget them, either. It’s what keeps me honest.” His faint, enigmatic smile held a trace of something hard, like a precious mineral mined at great expense. “She’ll be in good hands, don’t worry.”

“I know,” she said.

Rose kissed his cheek lightly, catching his scent, which for some reason she associated not with objects or other smells, but with memories that had nothing to do with him: sleeping in on Sunday, and nibbling buttered toast; hot summer days at the beach, and skinny-dipping. She stepped back, feeling foolish and vulnerable, a locker-room joke: the lonely widow desperately seeking a man to fill the gap.

Excusing herself before she could give in to the tears pressing hotly behind her eyes, Rose quickly made her rounds. In the end, she decided she was being silly about Jason, and gave him money for a taxi. Jay was right—he wasn’t a baby anymore.

She was slipping her raincoat on in the foyer when Sylvie, whom she’d been avoiding, caught up with her at last. In her lavender dress that floated about her slender calves, she seemed almost as ethereal as the Japanese lanterns she used to string across her patio on summer nights. Rose, stirred by mixed feelings that bumped against one another like rude passengers on an elevator, reluctantly took the hand Sylvie held out—a hand as cool and weightless as a ghost’s.

“I couldn’t let you go without at least saying goodbye.” Sylvie’s voice was warm, assured … making Rose wonder for an instant if she’d only imagined that awful afternoon just last month. Until Sylvie asked hopefully, “Perhaps we could get together for lunch, or tea, sometime next week?”