Winter's Daughter (17 page)

It was harder to tell him about the years after that. She wasn’t sure why she did. There was just something about the way he sat so quietly, a comforting presence in the darkness, not demanding or judging, simply listening. She kept thinking about his words:
You can trust me. I’ll never hurt you.
She didn’t know why she believed him, but she did.

"I don’t know if you can understand this," she said after a little silence, turning to look at him for the first time. He waited for her to go on, and after a moment she did. "The thing about virginity—" she felt his start of surprise "—is that the longer you keep it, the harder it is to let go of it. At least that’s the way it was with me. I saw so many of my friends, and the way they were hurt by it—by sex, I mean—the regrets they had, the loss of self–esteem. And I was determined that wasn’t going to happen to me. Making love was going to be something special, and it wasn’t going to happen until I was ready. That’s why I didn’t make love with Dan, I think. Even though I loved him, I knew I wasn’t ready for that kind of relationship, you know?"

She flicked Dillon a glance, half fearfully, and found he had turned and was looking at her now. Taking a quick, sharp breath, she faced forward again and went on. "Anyway, if you get past the age of rebellion and experimentation and you’re still a virgin, it seems like—I don’t know—something you have to make excuses for. Guys don’t want to deal with an inexperienced innocent, I guess. And then there was the way I felt about it. I still wanted the first time to be— special. I still wanted to be in love. Of course—" she gave a high little laugh "—the way I am, I fall in love every other week. But somehow, whether it was because of the way I still felt about Dan, or because there was so much I wanted to do with my life, nothing ever seemed to develop into a real relationship. Either I’d meet somebody else absolutely fascinating—for a little while—and off I’d go, or he’d get tired of being held at arm’s length while I tried to make up my mind to go to bed with him. I could have, so many times. But after waiting so long—"

"Tannis," Dillon said, his voice sounding rusty, "if you’re trying to apologize for still being a virgin, don’t."

"But I’m not one." she said flatly. "Not anymore."

"I see," he said, and waited. Finally, he prompted her. "What happened, babe?"

She swallowed. "I met Dan again." She heard the sigh of an exhalation. Glancing at Dillon, she saw he’d put a hand over the bottom part of his face. She smiled thinly. "Yeah, I know. It was about a year ago. I ran into him at a seminar in San Diego, of all things. We started talking about old times, and wound up having dinner together. I had a bit too much to drink, I guess—I was probably nervous, seeing him again after so long. We danced. I don’t remember much about what happened, but eventually we, um, ended up in my room together."

She stopped. Dillon didn’t say anything. After a moment she coughed carefully and went on. "It was everything I’d hoped it might be. The feelings were still there—for me. And I thought they were for him too. I thought—"

"It’s okay," Dillon said, touching her hand.

"He didn’t—" She took a deep breath, and this time, by making her voice low and breathy, she was able to slip it past the lump that lurked in her throat. "He didn’t actually tell me he’d made love to me only as a sort of—I don’t know,
revenge
for my rejection of him all those years ago. He wasn’t that brutal. Just cold. And final. He told me it had been a mistake. He was in love with someone—about to be married, in fact—and that he took full responsibility for what had happened between us, that both of us had had too much to drink and had gotten carried away with memories of old times. Well, you can imagine the rest. In short: Hey, it’s been nice seeing you again, Tan. So long."

She scrunched down in her seat, brushing angrily at her eyes. "
Damn.
It was such a shabby little scene, you know? I’ll bet it’s happened to millions of other women—men, too, probably. I don’t know why I’m making such a fuss about it. But—
darn it."
She put her hand over her eyes.

"But it hurts," Dillon said softly.

"Yes. It did hurt. At the time I thought I was going to die. First it was so wonderful. I’d never felt that way before. And then—"

Dillon put the car in gear so abruptly it startled her. She sniffed and sat up straight. "Where are we going?"

"I don’t know." She caught the flash of his lopsided grin. "I just needed to do something, know what I mean?"

"Yes," she said, instantly contrite. "Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lay all this—"

"Don’t be sorry. I asked you to, remember?" He threw her a rueful glance. "Any suggestions? We never did have our coffee?"

"Well," she said, clearing her throat, "would you like to go to my place? We’d have to stop somewhere and get the coffee though."

"That would be fine. I’d like to meet your sister."

Warmed by the sound of his voice, Tannis laughed, a little uncertain, a lot relieved, like someone who has emerged from a dreaded ordeal unscathed. "I didn’t say my sister’s place. I said
mine.
It’s not far from here."

He looked wary but intrigued. "Okay."

Tannis touched his hand. In a voice still hoarse with emotion, she said, "Dillon? Thanks. You’re an unexpected friend."

His head swiveled toward her slowly. The look he gave her this time was long and enigmatic. And then, without saying anything, in a gesture that hinted of possession and passion and loving restraint, he caught her hand and carried it to his thigh. He held it there while he drove, pressed tightly against his firm, resilient muscle. Something about the set of his profile and the rigidity of his silence made Tannis wonder if she’d said something to hurt him.

"I’d planned to bring you here eventually," Tannis said.

As she moved away from him across the rooftop, a cold wind lifted the tendrils of hair from her neck and found its way inside her coat. She drew it more tightly around herself and shivered, then laughed and held up the pair of high–heeled shoes that dangled from her hand. "I just didn’t expect it to be tonight. These weren’t exactly meant for climbing fire escapes. Brrr! It really feels like winter tonight, doesn’t it? But then, it’s always windy up here. That’s why nobody sleeps up here in the wintertime. Right now I have it pretty much to myself most of the time. In the summer, though, the street people like to come up here in the evenings—the regulars, anyway, the ones who know—"

"’—Every lock that ain’t locked when no one’s around,’" Dillon quoted dryly.

He knew she was chattering to fill up the silence, but he didn’t feel like making it easier for her. Damn her, so she thought she had him all tucked away into that safe little slot marked "friend," did she? A sense of frustration and futility chilled him more than the wind, and made him curl his hands into fists and thrust them deep in his pockets. He’d never known anyone so fearful of intimacy, nor anyone with so many ways of warding it off. He’d already learned that Tannis’s disguises were clever and varied; now he was discovering the most impregnable of all her defenses.

Friendship. The value of friendship—Don’t want anything to spoil our friendship.
How noble and sincere it all sounded. But it merely threw up walls around her. And it handcuffed him completely. The control was in her hands; she’d given him a set of rules, and any attempt on his part to break them would be taken as a violation of the trust and sanctity of the
friendship.

And the funny thing was, she was a psychologist. He was almost certain if he asked her, she’d tell him she firmly believed that a loving, intimate relationship should be based on a solid friendship. He didn’t think she had any idea she was using friendship as a way to avoid intimacy. As a child she’d felt secure in friendships, and she’d brought that security with her into adulthood. It had worked for her so well. With one exception.

It hadn’t worked for her when she’d needed it most. The one time she’d opened herself up to intimacy, she’d ended up getting clobbered. Bleakly Dillon wondered whether she’d ever trust enough to let her guard down again.

Tannis’s laughter was a light, brittle sound that set his teeth on edge. "Yes," she said, "the street people do seem to know all the city’s nooks and crannies, the ones that have been around awhile anyway." Hugging her coat around her, she walked slowly to the waist–high wall that bordered the edge of the roof and stood there, gazing out over the city. "Do you know what the homeless people see from up here?" Her voice drifted back to him on the bitter wind. "Come here—"

"Out there," Tannis said when he joined her. She indicated the suburban sprawl with a movement of her head. "On warm summer nights you can stand up here and hear voices of people in their backyards—children splashing in their swimming pools, husbands and wives bickering about whose turn it is to take out the garbage. You can smell food cooking on outdoor barbecues.

"And some street people don’t mind being up here instead of down there. They wouldn’t live in one of those houses even if you gave it to them free of charge. Sometimes I think it must seem to them like living in a cage."

And you feel an affinity for them.
Dillon watched stray curls blow around her face and neck. He understood her better now, but his understanding brought him no comfort. His jaws felt tight as he asked her, "What about the ones who don’t prefer being up here—or out there, on the streets. Or in abandoned cars in vacant lots."

"The children, you mean." She turned to face him, her chin rose defensively.

"Yes. The children. Tannis, why didn’t you tell me about them? Why haven’t you done anything about them?"

"I have done something! I take them food—"

"You know what I mean. We can’t help everybody out there, but for God’s sake, a whole family of children? There are organizations. I could have—"

"That’s what you think. There aren’t any organizations to help illegals. Except to help them out of the country." She was breathing hard, her anger flaring quick and hot.

Dillon rubbed a hand over his face and let his breath out slowly. "Illegals." He swore softly. "Is that what they are?"

Just as quickly as it had erupted, her anger died, leaving her oddly defenseless. "I think so," she whispered. "I think they must be."

"You think? Haven’t you talked to them?"

"Well, yes and no. My Spanish isn’t very good. But I think they must be illegals. They’re all so frightened."

"Where’s the father?"

Tannis shrugged. "I don’t know that either, but whenever I ask, they seem even more afraid. I think maybe they got separated at the border or something. Dillon, what if he’s looking for them? How will he ever find them?"

"Tannis," he said grimly, taking her arms, "you’ve got to take me there. My Spanish is very good. Please, let me talk to them." Sensing her wariness, he moved his hands up and down on the sleeves of her coat, acknowledging some irony as he added, "As a friend?"

"Oh, Dillon, I’m sorry." Contrite, she reached impulsively to touch him. Her hands felt warm on his wind–chilled jaws. "I should have trusted you. You’ve been so wonderful. I know you’re my friend. I guess if I can trust anybody, it’s you."

"Thanks," Dillon said sardonically, gently but firmly pulling her hands away from his face. There were some things his flayed emotions weren’t up to dealing with right at that moment, and her touch was at the top of the list. "First thing tomorrow morning we both pay a visit to that vacant lot. But right now I’d like to get off this roof before I freeze to death." He looked down at her hands and, aching with longing, enfolded them in both of his for one brief moment. "Your hands are so warm," he said, feeling choked. "Aren’t you cold?"

"Oh, not really." Her tone was blithe and airy as she stepped ahead of him onto the fire escape. "I don’t mind the cold. I guess I must be a true winter’s child."

As he followed her down those iron stairs, as he listened to her chatter away beside him in the car, and finally, as he said a chaste and "friendly" good night to her at her sister’s door, Dillon was thinking that loving a winter’s child might turn out to be a bleak and lonely business.

Tannis sat on the rusted, dirty fender of a stripped–down car body, peeling an orange while a dark–haired child leaned against her leg and watched the movements of her hands with great, famished eyes. Tannis’s eyes were on Dillon, who was standing a few yards away talking to the child’s mother in earnest, staccato Spanish.

Dillon.
His friendship seemed like a miracle to her. Yesterday she’d felt uncertain and off balance about her feelings for him; today she felt secure and once again in control. And more. For the first time in years she could think of Dan without pain. She was really and truly free of him, and she knew she had Dillon to thank for it.

He really is a special person, she thought, watching him as he focused his attention on the homeless woman, bending his head in order to hear every word she spoke, touching her arm in a gesture of reassurance. The sight of him filled Tannis with a strange effervescence, a kind of light but expanding pressure that made her straighten her body and square her shoulders in order to make room for it. And when it overflowed, she had to break into a smile.