Don't Tempt Me (18 page)

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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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The suggestion brought an unbidden smile to her sober face. “You don't have to do that—”
“I know. But I want to. It's nice to have someone … special … to take care of.”
She clasped his hand as tightly as her siphoned strength would allow. “What
you
need, my brother, is a wife and children.”
“I've got time,” he retorted with a mischievous smile. “After all, I'm not
quite
as old as you.”
His words were meant in jest, yet she looked up with pitiful sorrow at him. “I'm feeling very old right now. I know it's ridiculous—I'm only twenty-nine. But I'm not sure what I want anymore. And it's very disconcerting.”
“It's been a bad day for you. Get some sleep,” he urged softly, leaning forward to kiss her strawberry-blond crown, “and we'll talk more about it tomorrow.”
 
True to his word, Tony had cleared his day of all commitments, and after seeing Justine comfortably settled and covered on the couch in her living room, he brewed some hot tea and joined her, folding his ample build into the armchair opposite. “There,” he declared with satisfaction, combing his fingers through the auburn hair that had fallen across his forehead in the course of his ministrations, “you look better now. Comfortable?”
“Comfortable.” Her hand was steadier as she sipped her tea, then looked across at the young man whose features were so very similar to those she had looked at every
morning of her life. The comfort of his presence was new to her; instinctively, she wondered about his feelings on the matter. “What are you thinking?” His frown was enigmatic.
“I was thinking how much I would like to see you smile. You look as though you have nothing in life to look forward to … and I know for a fact that that isn't true.”
The smile she tried to produce was meek. Her night had been filled with thoughts of loneliness and desolation, of remorse and self-doubt, of Sloane and the child she'd lost. “Things look very bleak right about now,” she murmured, looking down at the whiteness of her hands against the hunter green of her quilt. “I suppose … in time …”
“You have to
do it
yourself, Justine. For as long as I've known you, you've never been one to sit back and wait for things to happen. You have to decide what you want … then go after it.” He hesitated, calculating her strength, then made his judgment. “What about Sloane?”
Nonchalance was impossible; her head shot up. “What about him?”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes.”
“Then
he
should be here with you, not me. Why didn't you have Susan call him from the hospital?”
“He never knew about the baby. I saw no point …” Her voice died off as she sought diversion. But it wouldn't come. All thoughts led to Sloane.
“He loves you?” She nodded. “He wants to marry you?”
“He did,” she whispered, her gaze searching the room, seeing nothing at all. “I believe he's given up on me now.” Tears pricked her lids. “It's for the best. I could never marry him.”
“I've asked you this before, Justine,” he began, leaning forward in earnestness, “and I'm going to ask you again. Why not?”
“Because … it wouldn't work. Marriage doesn't work. If I am temporarily unhappy now, it would be that much worse … once the honeymoon was over. It would be like … jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”
Tony shook his head vigorously. “You're all wrong. You've decided beforehand what it might be like—you've decided beforehand what life, for that matter, is going to be like. You see what you want, Justine. You have selected for viewing only that which reinforces your own beliefs. And you're dead wrong!”
He had her undivided attention, was the recipient of the stunned gaze she held on him. “How can you say that, Tony?
You,
of all people? Weren't you at all affected by your
own
childhood experience?”
“You know very little about that, Justine.” With utter solemnity he sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “You know, since the first time we met, when my father told me to look you up—remember? You were a junior at Sarah Lawrence; I was a lowly high school sophomore visiting the east for the first time.” He smiled wanly at the memory. “From that first time you never asked me about details. I always wondered why.”
Sensing that he was on the verge of the truth, she offered her own explanation. “It was none of my business. It wasn't my place to question you.”
“No, no, Justine. That was an excuse. You must have wondered. It would have been only natural. Well”—he softened his tone to allow for compassion—“I think you were always afraid to learn that I may have had a very pleasant childhood.” He held a hand out to stem her protest. “I don't mean criticism, Justine. I would have done the same myself. It would have been easier to believe that your father—our father—was a bastard.”
Her breath came more quickly as Justine listened. She knew it all had to come out, and she hadn't the strength to resist Tony's stark determination. Apprehension held
her speechless; unbidden curiosity held her captive of his every word.
“Well, he wasn't. He was—is—a very wonderful person.”
“You're prejudiced.”
“Yes.” He nodded, and she wondered whether Tony was a younger version of that very man under discussion. “But the fact remains that he is a warm and generous and loving man.”
“Is that why”—her deep-seated bitterness made an impromptu appearance—“he never contacted me after he and my mother were divorced? Is that why he left me alone, to be shuttled back and forth to the least fortunate relative? Is that why I've been totally on my own since I was eighteen?”
“He was hurt—” Tony began in explanation, only to be interrupted by her cutting cry.
“So was I! Where was he then?” Drained by her outburst, she collapsed against the couch and laid her head back, eyes closed. But she listened; she listened as, with quiet insistence, Tony told the story she had avoided hearing for so long.
“Timothy O'Neill is a very proud man. He had nothing when he met your mother. They talked of things they could build together—with his mind and her money. They never talked of love; it seemed secondary to them. When they married, it was a merger, with each party contributing his share in hopes of a great success. Unfortunately, there was a personality clash early on. Though they lived together as man and wife for a time, they never felt any warmth for each other.
You
were the only worthwhile product of the union.”
“How do you know all this? Did my—did
he
tell you?”
“Bit by bit. It was hard for him to talk about it.”
“If there were no feelings of love between him and my mother, why was he so disturbed?” she asked skeptically.
Tony's expression was one of reproach. “There was
you.
The marriage itself meant nothing to him. But he did love you.”
“Yet he gave me up—lock, stock, and barrel?”
“He had no choice. Your mother saw to that. Look”—he quickly qualified his statement—“I have nothing to say against your mother. It was a mistake they both made. And
he
has had nothing bad to say about your mother … ever. Perhaps that was why he waited so long to even discuss it; perhaps he had to understand it himself.” He paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “At any rate, the terms of the divorce were that she had sole custody. Your mother left with you and forbid him to come near.”
The lawyer in Justine broke forth. “How could any court abide by that kind of decision? He could have sued for visitation rights.”
Tony shook his head sadly. “I'm sure you recall how messy the trial itself was. And”—his voice lowered—“the fact that your father had a woman he declared himself in love with
and
… an illegitimate son … didn't help his cause. That's adultery, among other things.”
For the first time Justine thought of the discomfort Tony would be feeling in this retelling of the events of so long ago. With this realization came a gentling of her voice. “Tell me about your childhood.
Was
it a happy one, Tony?”
His smile was nearly apologetic. “Yes. It was. Very happy. I had two parents, each of whom loved me and adored each other. Oh, there were the same minor traumas that all families live with—small illnesses, dubious school grades, inflation. Though we weren't what I would call wealthy, we lived very comfortably. Despite his differences with your mother, Timothy O'Neill was a solid, dependable man.”
For long moments of silence Justine ingested his words. If she had feared them, she wasn't now sure why. The
picture Tony had painted of his parents and home was a lovely one, a comforting one. Yet, she had never been able to face this possibility before. Why?
“He thought of you often, Justine. Every year, come April second, he would go into his den and sit, alone, thinking.”
Justine gasped, her eyes widening and flooding. “My birthday …”
“That's right. Your birthday. He was afraid, though. Justine, you have to understand that he was human. And he was afraid. He was afraid that you wouldn't want to see him, after everything that had happened. That was why he sent me.” He smiled in remembrance. “When I first saw you, I knew you immediately. Then, I went home. Dad questioned me for hours about you. He wanted to know everything.” He sobered once more. “I won't say that he has pined away his life, Justine. That wouldn't be true. He is determined to live life to its fullest—isn't that what we all share?” She nodded as he went on. “But you were never far from his thoughts. You were his own private child. He was—he
is
very proud of you.”
It was all so difficult for her to absorb that Justine found her cheeks damp once more. For years she had hated her father, had pictured him an ogre for not claiming her. For years she had generalized from her experience to others, refusing to hear, to listen, to stories similar to the one Tony had just told. Confusion was compounded as the intensely caring man across the room spoke again.
“And that's why you are wrong to shut yourself off from Sloane. It's obvious how much you love him, Justine, and, from what you describe of his attempts to keep you near him, he must return that feeling. Your parents were
not
the norm; there was
never
any love there, not even at the start. With you and Sloane, it is different. You would be basing your future on a very strong love and you would have a solid frame on which to work. Oh, I'm not saying,”
he continued gently, “that there wouldn't be problems. No two people can live, day in, day out with each other without minor differences of opinion. That's what being an individual is all about. But the coming together—it would be there for you and Sloane. You simply have to want it enough. You have to be willing to fight for it—
if
it means enough to you.”
Fight for it
. His words echoed through her mind in endless reverberation over the next few days. Hadn't she been a fighter—when it came to her education, to her right to go to law school, to her equal opportunity as a lawyer? In those cases she had known the cause for which she fought. But what did she want now? What was she to fight for?
There was no child to fight for; the sinking in of that knowledge left her half-whole and deeply sorrowed. Yet, had she wanted the child for itself or as a mind-link to Sloane? Much as she wanted to believe that the former was true, in good faith she could not. Oh, yes, she had wanted Sloane's child with all her heart; but it was
Sloane's
she wanted, only
Sloane's.
Days and nights of soul-searching brought things into sharper focus. Analytically she examined what she had. There was her career, on hold now, but waiting impatiently for her return. There were her friends, ever solicitous about her “illness” and a diversionary comfort. There was a future of more work, new friends, perhaps travel—yet it all lacked one essential ingredient.
With the return of her physical strength came the strength to admit that she had been wrong. In all her life's plans, she had never allowed for love. It had taken her by storm. Sloane himself had taken her by storm. Now, the presence of love shaded every other aspect of her life. In the time she had known him, in the times they had spent together, in the very depth of love they had shared, she had known a completeness of her character, a true and
utter contentment. Only now that she'd seen what love could do did she see what she had missed before. Only in hindsight did she know the meaning of love. And—in foresight—what then?
Could she agree to marry Sloane and risk an even greater pain than that of going through life without him? As she asked herself this very question, she knew its answer. Its answer was in the ache in her heart, the emptiness in her womb, the deep, deep yearning in the dark-hidden core that cried out for him. For the first time she knew that the pain of facing life without Sloane would be infinitely greater than any other possible source of pain. Therein, her decision was made.

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