Iditarod Nights (18 page)

More nightmare images evaporated, replaced by
a lightness Dillon felt in his shoulders and in his psyche.

It was Claire who answered the young mother.
"No, ma'am, just taking a walk down memory lane."

"Did you use to live here?"

Her instant frown told Dillon she was aware
of the apartment's history. Or maybe she was simply protecting her
home. Either way, she wanted them to leave. "No, nothing like
that," he said. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"Well, okay then." She moved back a step and
began to swing the door shut. "Have a good afternoon."
Get
lost.

"Thank you." He looked at the number on the
closed door, really looked at it this time, and realized the
peeling stick-on from his nightmare had been replaced with a shiny
brass plate. How had he missed that earlier?

The curtain at the window stirred. Dillon saw
the woman peek out at them. "We better get out of here," he said,
"before she calls the cops."

Claire gave a light laugh, reached up and
kissed him. "Let's go to my place and get out of these wet
things."

***

They left a trail of discarded clothes from
the front room of her apartment to the shower. The hot water felt
good on Claire's chilled skin. Dillon's touch felt better. Love
washed over her as his hands lathered and caressed. No one had ever
affected her the way this man did. She ached to reach him in the
same way. Her earlier hesitation no longer existed as his
weather-roughened hands explored her with such sweetness and open
desire. She longed to comfort him, soothe him, give herself to
him.

She took him to her bed, drew him into her
body and heart, moved with him, raced with him, watched his eyes
lose focus as he said her name and climaxed. She shuddered over the
edge after him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Not just for the sex, but all of it. She
heard it in his voice, felt it in the way he held her. Claire
cuddled against him, every bone, muscle and hair follicle relaxed,
even as her heart still banged in her chest. "You're welcome."

They lay wrapped together for long, sated
minutes. Then she felt his body succumb to sleep, listened to the
slow rhythm of his breathing. She held him and waited for the
nightmare.

She was still waiting as she drifted off.

Chapter 32

Claire opened her eyes to the half-light of
early evening and the smell of coffee. Dillon wasn't in bed. She
pulled on her pink terry robe and found him in the kitchen, wearing
a dry change of clothes and setting plates around a pizza box that
engulf her miniscule dining table.
Another step in his
recovery?
He'd torn off several paper towels and stacked them
next to the plates. The coffeemaker gurgled on the counter behind
him.

He glanced up and smiled. "Hope you're
hungry."

She felt herself blush. "Famished." She took
a seat and looked at the unfamiliar logo on the box. "You ordered
delivery?"

"No. I drove to a little place I remembered
on Halsey and waited in a God-awful long line. So it better be
good."

He had also picked up their wet clothes and
washed the dishes. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Like a baby, until a craving for pepperoni
pizza woke me." He poured two cups of coffee and brought them to
the table, opened the box and sat across from her. "Dig in."

The aroma of spicy cured meat, savory tomato
sauce and melted cheddar made her stomach rumble even as the
significance of the moment had her looking at him. "This is
huge."

"The largest one they had."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." He took a slice and filled his
mouth, groaned as he chewed. Took another bite and wiped the grease
running down his chin with a paper towel.

Claire chuckled at his sensory bliss and
pulled a slice from the box. Hot cheese, salt and a tang of Italian
seasonings hit her taste buds. "Oh," she said around a full mouth.
"Oh, this is good."

"Better than barbequed potato chips."

She grunted. "Not even close." And reached
for a second slice.

"You haven't finished the first one yet."

"Just making sure I get my share before you
wolf it all."

He gave a slanted smile and grabbed another
slice for himself.

They consumed three quarters of the pizza
before pushing their plates aside. Claire made space in the
refrigerator for the box, tossed the pile of used paper towels in
the garbage, and brought the coffeepot to the table. "Refill?"

"Please."

A feeling of rightness settled over Claire as
she poured him coffee, her knotted, restless anxiety gone. It
struck her that the missing element she'd struggled with earlier in
the day had been herself. The Madison case was solid, but the
defense attorney had checked out. She'd give Maggie a call in the
morning and move forward.

"Did you know Dad and Helen have been
writing?" she asked, returning the pot to the counter.

"It's all she talks about. She's going to be
mad as hell when she finds out I came here without saying
anything."

Claire pictured Dillon confronted by Helen's
daunting bosom thrust in anger and smiled. "Believe it or not,
Dad's talking about another visit to Alaska."

"Tell him the sea ice is melting."

She let out a hoot of laughter. "He'll be
relieved to hear it."

"This is nice," Dillon said as she rejoined
him at the table. "You and me."

"Yes. It is." She sipped her coffee, the
question of their own uncertain future together pushed to the
forefront of her thoughts. "When's your flight back?"

"I don't have one."

Her coffee mug paused mid air. "What do you
mean?"

"I didn't buy a return ticket." He reached
out and set her mug on the table, then took her hand. "I love you,
Claire. If living in Portland is what it takes to have you in my
life, I'm willing to stay."

It was sweet of him to offer. Totally
unnecessary and impractical, but sweet. She'd fallen in love with
an Alaskan man. He may have come from Portland, but the Last
Frontier was in his blood as much as it was in hers.

"This isn't where my sled is parked," she
told him. She didn't remember who said it, that a musher's home is
where their sled is parked. Hers was in Alaska. She knew that much
for certain now. It may have happened when she looked up and saw
Dillon standing in her doorway this afternoon. Her heart told she'd
known it much earlier. It didn't matter.

He released her hand and sat back. "What
about the law firm? Your career?"

"The firm will survive without me. As for my
career..." She shrugged. "I can practice law pretty much anywhere,
if that's what I decide I want to do." Though at the moment it
didn't hold any appeal.

"You've been thinking about this awhile."

"Just the part about hating it here. The rest
I'll take a checkpoint at a time."

He smiled a little, but she saw the
hesitation in his eyes. "I won't lie to you. I'm not over it
yet...the past."

A warning. Giving her the chance to change
her mind. She knew he was closer to being over it – the trauma –
than he gave himself credit for. The bar, the dogs, the support
group, coming to Portland and owning his fear. All of it added up
to a hell of a healing process. She felt a stab of resentment that
he would try to put the entire load on himself.

"Your past doesn't scare me."

She told him then, about the promise she'd
made to her mother. Because he had a right to know. Because she
needed him to realize they both had emotional baggage to deal with.
His may be heavier, but hers was no less significant. "You know as
well as I do, we can't escape our pasts. It's what we learn from
them that matters."

"What have you learned?" he asked.

"Mama was right. I'm pretty damn strong when
I need to be." This made him smile. "And so are you."

"It's easier with the right people around
me."

"Agreed."

"Will you marry me, Claire?"

Her pulse stumbled, then raced. "What? I
mean...that's quite a leap."

"Am I wrong to think you love me?"

"No. God no. I do love you."

"But marriage scares you."

"Yes. No. I don't know." She laughed at
herself, fussed with the front of her robe. "Being proposed to in a
robe over coffee and take-out pizza isn't exactly what I had in
mind...if I thought that far ahead at all." Which she hadn't.
Marriage?

"I don't want to push you into anything
you're not sure of."

She stopped fussing. "I'm sure I love
you."

"That's a good start." He came around the
table, drew her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"I'll give you candlelight and champagne, if those things will make
you happy."

She draped her arms around his neck. "You
don't drink, remember?"

"I didn't say I'd join you. Even when I was
drinking, I couldn't stand the bubbly stuff. And for the record, I
like you in a robe."

The look in his eyes, the slant to his smile,
sent a rush of heat from the top of her head to her toes. Her
bare
toes. A light laugh escaped her. "I don't need
candlelight and champagne." She brushed her lips across his,
whispered, "This is perfect," and kissed him. Intimate. Lingering.
She felt his body respond, his heart rate pick up. "I guess you do
like me in a robe."

"And I guess you've changed your mind about
kissing pepperoni breath."

"I'm full of surprises."

"I like surprises. You haven't answered my
question."

Her pulse didn't stumble this time. She
couldn't think of anything more right than sharing her life with
this man. "The answer's yes, Dillon. I'll marry you."

Air whooshed from him. "Hell of a surprise,
counselor." He grinned. "I suppose you'll want a honeymoon."

"Absolutely. I know where there's a cozy loft
over a bar and grill, has a great view of the sunset."

"Sounds perfect," he murmured, and gave her a
kiss that could warm the coldest Iditarod night.

Epilogue

The clouds cleared over night, bringing blue
skies and sunshine the following morning. Dillon parked the rental
car at the curb in front of his childhood home on Tillamook Street.
Unlike the apartment complex the day before, the two-story house
with tan vinyl siding and faux-wood louvered shutters was just as
he remembered. The blue spruce bordering the driveway looked fat
and healthy – a live Christmas tree he helped his dad plant thirty
years ago. Mom's roses bloomed scarlet, apricot and lemon under the
picture window.

A concrete pedestal birdbath planted midway
across the lawn was new. A gray squirrel drinking from the
birdbath's edge saw him get out of the car and bounded off around
the corner of the house. Probably toward one of the many feeders
Dillon knew his mom kept filled in back. He could still hear his
dad grumble about the small fortune they spent on critter feed,
while tossing peanuts to any squirrel brave enough to get within
range of his lawn chair.

A lot of memories stored in this place. Good
and bad. He remembered every spot under every shrub and tree where
he'd buried a pet: Trixie the turtle, hamsters Tom and Jerry, his
mutt Spike, hit by a car in front of the house. Dillon could still
hear the screech of tires as the startled driver tried to stop in
time.

Other sounds filled his head. Shattering
glass. Mom's cry. Dad shouting at him to get out of the house and
don't come back until he was sober. The slam of the door.

Now that he was here, he wished he'd accepted
Claire's offer to come with him. He still couldn't believe she said
yes to marrying him. He'd do everything in his power to keep his
mental shit from spilling over onto her, but it didn't scare him
like it used to. This trip had been good for him. The lady lawyer
was good for him. If not for her, he wouldn't have come to
Portland.

His therapist had advised against it. "You
shouldn't go alone," she said.

"I won't be alone," he told her. "Claire will
be there." At the time, he had no idea if Claire would even see
him, much less want to help. He took a leap of faith and she caught
him.
This is huge
, he heard her say. Yes, it was.
Gargantuan.

And now he was taking another leap of faith,
that his parents would allow him back into their lives, that they'd
give him another chance. That they'd even answer the door. The
front drapes hung open; his parents' Subaru sat in the
driveway.

He started up the walk.

You're not welcome in this house.

His pulse hammered in his chest as he put one
foot in front of the other. He reached the covered porch and
grasped the wood handrail. The third step gave a familiar groan. He
caught the fragrance of damask and peaches drifting from the roses
and paused to pull in a deep breath.

The doorbell had always been quirky, one of
those things nobody ever seemed to get around to fixing. He would
take care of it for them while he was in town, if they let him. His
hand shook as he reached for the brass doorknocker. It thundered.
Once. Twice. Three times.

Long seconds passed. Dillon sensed someone
stealing a look at him through the peephole. The chain rattled
free. The deadbolt snapped. The door pulled inward. Dillon's heart
squeezed at how much his dad had aged. The man regarding him with
wary surprise from the other side of the screen looked shorter,
stooped, his thick hair grayer.

"Dillon?"

"Hi, Dad."
It's good to see you. I'm sorry
I haven't called. How are you?
"I'm six years sober."

His dad nodded – a silent gesture of approval
Dillon recognized. He felt another piece of his life shift back
into place.

The screen swung open. "Welcome home,
son."