A Time to Mend (21 page)
But they were
married.
She’d vowed to make her marriage work. It would never resemble her parents’ ugly version of housekeeping.
But what was she supposed to do with the enormous emptiness inside of her?
Petros traced his thumbs across her cheeks, catching the trickle of tears, and gazed into her eyes.
She shivered, not from the cold air but from the effect of Petros. He touched her at some closed-off place in her heart. No one else had ever come near to finding that place, let alone unlocking it. But Petros held the key. It was in how he made her believe in herself, in herself as a woman. When he spoke affirming words and so obviously desired her, indescribable hope flooded her soul.
Max made her feel . . . inadequate.
“Claire,” Petros whispered. “I say it one more time: please, please come home with me. Come to Greece.”
“I—I can’t.”
To her immature, idealistic, proud mind, there were all sorts of reasons why she couldn’t. She would succeed where her parents had failed. She would not succumb to affairs or alcohol or other coping mechanisms they’d used. For a time with Petros, she had lost sight of her vow to Max—that she would never divorce. Now she returned to that promise, believing it was the right thing in some cosmic way. And while she might have lofty thoughts, she wasn’t stupid: rebound-ing with a stranger whose native language she did not even begin to speak spelled a worse disaster than pressing on with Max.
She had to tell Petros good-bye. He would take the key to her heart with him, and she would survive, as she always had, before the man from Greece showed her a more beautiful way.
Suddenly Petros kissed her again, deeply this time. Claire lost herself to him. When his lips touched hers, she imagined them on the trumpet’s mouthpiece, coaxing, persuading, and seducing. Trills and melodies resulted, breathtaking, powerful, unimaginable. She felt infused with life and beauty and all that was real.
In that moment, it was all that mattered.
L
ater they warmed themselves in front of a fire, sitting on a lush car-pet and sipping hot chocolate. The condominium belonged to one of his adoring fans, a vacation rental she owned on the coast. The woman had made it available to the trumpeter who, in her opinion, desperately needed a few quiet days alone.
Claire said, “Are you sure she won’t show up here?”
“She is at least seventy-five years of age.”
“That does not make you any less attractive,
Apollo
.”
“Stop!” He clapped his hands to his ears.
“Apollo, Apollo.”
“Do not call me that! La, la, la!” he sang loudly to drown her voice.
She laughed. He truly disdained the pet name a reviewer had tagged onto him after his first solo with the symphony. “Apollo! Greek god of music! Of light! Of poetry!”
Petros disrupted her banter with kisses—playful ones at first, in between laughs, then slower ones that promised an intimacy they were unwilling to receive from each other.
They lingered there, lying in front of the fire, enjoying the rare opportunity of complete privacy.
“Claire.” He nuzzled her ear. “It is time to go.”
Max could be home by now. He could begin to miss her . . . after a while. She doubted both prospects.
Petros caressed her chin, holding her face directly beneath his. “It is time to go.” His tone was resolute.
But she knew he read her eyes. He knew she would stay the night.
And she knew he would not let her.
“Petros, you are infuriatingly honorable.”
He gave his head a slight shake. “I am kissing a married woman.”
“You understand what I mean.”
“I understand that I love you and that you are not free. But I will wait.”
“How long?”
“As long as you want me to wait.”
L
ady. Hey, lady!”
Claire felt a hand on her arm and turned.
“Are you okay?”
She blinked and realized she was doubled over and clinging to the pier’s rail. Tears streamed in rivulets from beneath her sunglasses.
A fisherman stood beside her.
“There’s a bench over there.”
She followed to where he pointed and sank onto a roughhewn bench that faced the water. A moan rose in her throat. She noticed then the pain in her stomach.
That winter afternoon at the beach had been the last time she and Petros met privately. The symphony and his fans needed him. The staffing business grew busy; Max needed her in the office more. She ripped up the phone number and address of a place she would never see in Greece.
Her guilt grew as well. When all was said and done, she was no bet-ter than either of her parents, was she? They’d cheated on each other. They’d hurt each other with a vengeance. She’d done exactly the same to Max, complete with sealing back up that deep place in her heart.
Claire propped her feet against the low bar of the rail and hid her face in her lap.
How long had Petros waited?
Her body shook with gut-wrenching sobs. She wished someone would just throw her off the pier.
S
team becomes you, Jenna, my dear.” Erik chuckled, his hazel eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Little curlicues churning from both ears.”
“Shut up.” Jenna glared across the table at her brother.
“Ooh. Daggers flung from the eyes. That’s attractive too. Kevin will be charmed.”
“I said shut”—she picked up her water glass and calmly dumped its contents into his Bloody Mary—“up!”
“Hey!” He sopped the red overflow with a napkin. “That was totally uncalled for.”
“I don’t think so. Felicia is not coming, but Kevin is?” She shoved her chair aside and stood. “You are such a jerk. Oh no!”
At the sight of Kevin on the far end of the patio, she plopped back down. With only one narrow aisle between her and the one doorway, he blocked any escape.
Erik smiled. “You could crawl over the wall. Take the beach route.”
“This isn’t funny. I swear, Erik—”
“Hi, Jen.”
She turned, and her breath caught. Kevin looked good. He looked so good. His eyes locked on hers. His mouth did its lazy, upward-curving thing. He wore a white polo shirt that hugged his shoulders and covered most of his tattoo.
Tattoos
. Plural.
She pressed her lips together.
Erik, ever the gentleman except where his sister was concerned, stood up and shook Kevin’s hand. “Hi. Have a seat. Sorry about the mess.” He moved to the chair nearer the wall, signaling the waitress with a wave of his hand. “Kev, what would you like to drink?”
Kevin sat directly across from her. “Iced tea. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.” Erik smiled as the waitress approached. “Hi, darlin’.”
While they flirted and a busboy cleaned the spilled drink, Jenna pushed back her chair. Being cornered by these guys was definitely not her idea of fun. She wouldn’t be surprised if her dad showed up next.
Before she could slip away, Kevin angled his face beneath the bus-boy leaning over their table.
She read his lips.
I miss you.
Well . . . maybe she’d stay . . . for a bit.
Erik clapped his hands together. “Okay, kiddos, I’m out of here. Unless you need a referee?”
Jenna rolled her eyes.
Kevin said, “We’ll be fine. I think?”
She nodded at him.
Erik got up and playfully slapped Kevin’s shoulder as he stepped behind him. “Watch her closely, my man. She’s feisty today.” He moved to Jenna and leaned over to hug her.
“You will pay for this, you dork.”
“Yes, I already gave the waitress my credit card. Brunch is on me.”
“Erik—”
He tapped her nose. “Just kiss and make up. You two are my last hope that wedded bliss is possible. Felicia sends her love.” He strode off without a backward glance.
Kevin said, “You didn’t know I was coming?”
She shook her head. “You?”
“Nope.”
The waitress arrived at their table. “Wow. Erik Beaumont is your brother! So what was it like growing up with San Diego’s favorite news anchor?”
Jenna hated that sort of question, especially from cutesy, fawning young females. Of course, they were the only ones who asked them. “He was and is and always will be a dork.”
She laughed. “Spoken like a true sister. Are you two ready to order?”
Food was the last thing on Jenna’s mind. She let Kevin choose first and then said, “Ditto.” He usually managed to eat whatever she didn’t.
They tiptoed around the subject of wedded bliss and talked about everything else until the server set before them platefuls of bacon, eggs, and Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. In silence, she ate a few berries. Kevin dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
At last she laid down her fork. “How are you?”
“Tired of gutting it out and pretending that I’m okay without you. How are you?”
“Tired of being angry.”
“Come home?”
She tapped her fingers on the table. “Wait. You’re skipping over the apology part.”
“Are you going to eat your waffle?” He switched their plates, poured syrup, and forked a bite. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that part.”
She watched him chew and swallow.
“The way I see it, Jen, is we’re a team. I’m there for you. You’re there for me. I don’t have to ask permission to throw the ball, because you know me. You know I’m going to throw and you know where.”
“Okay, I’m lost. What does football have to do with apologizing?”
“We both tanked the play. You weren’t in place to catch my throw. Probably because you didn’t understand the game plan.” He took another bite.
She waited in silence again for him to continue.
“Remember when we got engaged? My hitch was almost over, but I said the Marines were my family, that I would always be available to serve with them.”
She shrugged a shoulder.
“Well, I did say that, exactly, and you said you were proud of me, proud of my patriotism. You said I was a hero. Like a dunce, I figured that meant you understood. I guess I should have explained more. Visiting the base hospital isn’t what I was talking about.”
“Kevin! We’re married! There is a game plan to marriage, and it means you don’t make major life-changing plans without discussion.”
He shook his head. “It means we love each other so much we sup-port any decision made for the good of others.”
“So our being physically together is not a priority.”
“Right now it is—”
“Until you go overseas!”
“And then I’ll need to know that you’re holding down the fort at home. Jen, wives have been doing this for centuries.”
“Men go to war, and women wait.”
“Yeah, for the most part. I mean, there are some women who go.”
She shoved back her chair. “Well, this one’s going before that waffle ends up on your head.” Picking up her handbag, she stood.
“There you go, quitting again.”
“You’re the one who quit
us
.” She strode away, nearly collided with a waiter, and hurriedly wound her way across the patio. Inside the restaurant she made a beeline for the exit, fighting back hot tears and a string of invectives.
“Ma’am!” Their cutesy waitress popped alongside her. “So does your brother have a special friend?”
Jenna halted near the front door. “What?”
“I’m sorry. You’re in a hurry, I can tell.” She thrust a piece of paper at Jenna. “This is my phone number. I thought maybe if he doesn’t have a girlfriend . . .”
Erik. This was all his fault. If he’d left well enough alone, Kevin might have gotten desperate enough to call her and apologize rather than sit in a public place and talk about football.
She raised her hand, refusing the woman’s paper. “I’ve got a better idea. I’ll give you his number.” She smiled. “It’s unlisted.”
M
ax.”
At the sound of Neva’s voice, Max looked up from the Sunday newspaper and smiled. “Hi.” He folded the business section and rose from his seat, a low-to-the-ground armless lawn chair.
“What is this?” Her wary tone and creased brow above the sun-glasses surprised him.
“What’s what?”
“This.” She gestured at the blanket spread on the grass and the picnic basket beside it. “You said, ‘How about a walk at La Jolla Cove?’”
He shrugged. “You got something against food? I found some pâté and Brie and those little crackers—”
“Where’s Phil?”
“He couldn’t make it. Have a seat.” He sat.
She sat in the other chair and crossed her legs and her arms. Her shapely body was easy to admire in the sleeveless blouse, shorts, and sandals. Her body language was easy to read.
“Neva, what’s wrong?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He chuckled. “You’re being rather cryptic.”
Her glossy lips thinned into a straight line, and she turned toward the ocean.
He was beginning to think this was not such a good idea.
Women
. “You didn’t have to come. It’s Sunday afternoon; you probably had something else to do—”
She swung back to face him, her eyes flashing. “Of course I had to come! You’re my friend. Your wife left you, and three days ago you told her you were done trying to fix the marriage. That translates into ‘I could use some help.’”
“I’m sure that’s why I called you. I’m sorry if I presumed too much—”
“Max! We’re at one of the most romantic places in the county, in this park overlooking a gorgeous ocean and coastline. You’ve brought my favorite snacks. Phil is not in the picture. My radar just went wild with blips. What am I supposed to think?”
“Picnics are fun?”
She flung her hands in an “I give up” gesture. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“What do you want to go on?”
“Now who’s being cryptic?”
“All right, all right.” He laced his fingers together and tried to put order to his vague thoughts.
Claire would probably call them feelings.
It had all been Phil’s idea. He’d suggested the best remedy for let-ting Claire go her merry way was to start relating to women on some-thing besides a business level. He said, “Who better than Neva?” Everyone knew she was crazy about Max. Why else had she never succumbed to Phil’s charms?
