Never Say Goodbye (14 page)

“Because I didn't know. Anyway, I don't think she planned to tell
me,
either, but as she was leaving she happened to overhear Reverend Young and me talking. The guy who was supposed to give me a ride got sick, so she stepped in and offered to take me home.”

“You're kidding!”

“You said that already. And no, I'm not.”

“Well, go on,” she said impatiently. “How did you end up at her condo?”

“When we got to the flat, there were emergency vehicles all over. The building had been evacuated, and she offered me her guest room.”

“Wow!” Karen breathed in awe.

“Yeah, wow.”

“You know, this is all too much to be coincidence,” she said thoughtfully.

“That thought did cross my mind.”

“It looks like your prayers are being answered. Make that
our
prayers.”

“Looks that way. But do me a favor, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Keep praying. Because now that I have my foot in the door, literally and figuratively, one wrong move could blow the whole thing.”

“Keep the faith, Scott. I don't think the Lord would have brought you this far to slam the door in your face.”

“I hope not. But one thing I've learned, Karen. Never take anything for granted. And always be prepared for the unexpected.”

J
ess turned to squint at the illuminated dial of her bedside clock and groaned. Two-thirty. In four hours she'd have to get up. And so far she'd had virtually no sleep.

Restlessly she turned on her side and scrunched her pillow under her head. She hadn't heard a sound out of Scott since she'd closed her door for the night, so she couldn't blame her sleeplessness on a noisy house guest. No, it was the house guest
himself
who was keeping her awake. If she didn't sleep all that well on a
typical
night, she might as well throw in the towel tonight, which was about as far from typical as they came, she thought wryly.

With a resigned sigh, Jess swung her legs to the floor and stood, hitching up the shoulder on her oversize T-shirt as she stretched wearily. Maybe a cup of herbal tea would help her doze, she thought hopefully. Four hours of rest wasn't enough, but it would be better than nothing.

Jess moved to her door and cracked it slightly, listening intently. Silence. She glanced at the guest-room door. Closed. Scott was obviously asleep. Lucky him, she thought enviously as she opened her door and padded quietly down the hall.

Normally she made her tea the old-fashioned way, in a kettle, but tonight she settled for the faster and quieter microwave. As she waited for the water to boil, she glanced around the spotless kitchen. True to his word, Scott had washed their dinner dishes. She peeked into the laundry room. His personal items were gone, so apparently he'd cleaned up those, too.

Jess removed her mug from the microwave and dipped her tea bag in the hot water, mulling over all that had happened in the past eight hours. If anyone had told her this morning that Scott would be spending the night at her condo, she would have laughed in their face. And yet here he was, sleeping only a few feet away.

Jess drew a shaky breath and wandered into the living room, stopping in front of the photo of Elizabeth. It was slightly out of position, and as she reached for it she suddenly knew that Scott had also held it in his hands tonight. What had gone through his mind? she wondered with a bittersweet pang as she sank into an overstuffed chair and tucked her feet under her. Had he thought about all that might have been, as she so often had? Of the two of them watching their daughter grow? Of brothers and sisters joining the family? Of school plays and piano lessons and soccer games? Of first dates and graduations and, eventually, weddings? Of stolen romantic moments that kept the love be
tween the two of them young and vibrant? Of grandchildren, who would add sunshine and youth to their days as they grew old together? And in the end, of looking back on a long life together and finding contentment and satisfaction in the circle of love they had created that would go on long after they had departed this earth? Had he thought of all those things? she wondered. And if so, had his stomach knotted painfully—as hers always did—making him feel physically sick to know that they would never be?

Suddenly Jess realized that tears were streaming down her face, and she reached up to wipe them away, hugging Elizabeth's picture to her chest. She set the mug down, then let her head drop back on the chair, struggling to control the feeling of bleakness and desolation that always swept over her when she allowed herself to think about the “what ifs.” It wasn't a healthy thing to do. She knew that from counseling, so she rarely indulged herself. But the emotional events of today, the fact that the man who had destroyed her dreams was sleeping a mere few feet away, made it impossible not to think about what might have been. And to wish, vain though it was, that they could go back in time and start over.

Jess closed her eyes wearily. Scott seemed intent on making a fresh start. Seemed to believe that it was possible to begin again. But she wasn't as optimistic. They had too much baggage. The hate she'd felt for four years wouldn't turn into love overnight, even if she
was
impressed by the changes in him. Even if she had, in fact, grown to like this new Scott. Nor could she seem to get rid of her own guilt, the thought that
if she'd insisted on driving the night of the accident things might have turned out differently. The one thing they did have going for them, she admitted, was chemistry. Amazingly, that was just as powerful as it had always been. But it wasn't enough to sustain a relationship over the long term. The baggage had to be dealt with, too.

Mark had told her that seeing Scott might help her do that. So she was making an effort. Like going to the retreat today. And hearing Scott talk candidly about his mistakes, his regrets and his hopes
had
helped. She understood for the first time—maybe
let
herself understand for the first time—the pain and desolation he had suffered, which had been no less than hers. And—even harder to admit—perhaps worse. Because
he
was the
cause
of hers. Scott had never been a man who wanted to cause anyone pain, least of all his family. That's why he'd struggled so hard trying to juggle the often conflicting demands of his job and his family. Why he'd seemed so often frustrated. Why he'd turned to alcohol to ease the stress.

And for that, too, Jess felt guilt, she acknowledged. Perhaps if she had been more understanding they wouldn't have begun to drift apart. Perhaps he wouldn't have needed the alcohol. Perhaps the accident would never have happened.

Once more tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. And this time she made no attempt to wipe them away. Mark was very likely right when he'd suggested that she had simply buried her issues instead of dealing with them. But doing so had allowed her to cope, to go on living what
appeared
to be a normal life. Even
if that life was a pretense, it had given her something to cling to, allowed her to stay afloat.

But now she was adrift—and sinking fast.

 

Scott opened his eyes, instantly awake, his heart racing. He stared at the dark ceiling, momentarily disoriented, and tensed, suddenly on guard—a reflex born of an environment where being ready for anything was the only way to survive. But then the events of the preceding day came rushing back, and his coiled muscles slowly relaxed. He was in Jess's condo. And it wasn't just a dream.

For several moments Scott lay quietly, savoring the feeling of freedom, of safety and, most of all, of proximity to the woman he loved. She was just a few feet away, he thought in wonder, swallowing past the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. So many times in prison, when he'd awakened in the middle of the night overcome by a crushing sensation of desperate loneliness, he'd closed his eyes and forced himself to pretend that he wasn't really alone. That Jess was nearby.

And now she was.

Impulsively he swung his feet to the floor, closing the distance to the hall in three long strides. It might be silly, but he just wanted to look at her room. To stare at her door and imagine her sleeping just on the other side, curled on her side, her hair spilling over her pillow, her chin tucked into her shoulder in the endearing sleep position she favored. Often he'd awakened and found her in that pose. And sometimes, in the early days of their marriage, he'd been so over
come by gratitude for the gift of her love that a rush of tenderness would sweep over him as he watched her sleep, so strong it brought tears to his eyes. But as the demands of his job increasingly sapped his energy and attention, he'd become too preoccupied to notice such things. Or appreciate them.

Those days were over, however. Never again would he take such blessings for granted, he vowed.

Scott quietly opened his door and looked down the hall, frowning when he realized that Jess's door was wide open and her bed empty. He glanced over his shoulder at the illuminated dial of the bedside clock. Three in the morning. She had always been a sound sleeper. What was wrong? Was her finger hurting? Had it started to bleed again? The cut had been deep—maybe she should have had stitches, he thought worriedly.

Scott eased his door shut and strode toward the chair where he'd draped his clothes, reaching for his jeans and stepping into them in one rapid, fluid motion. Then he returned to the hall, pulling on his T-shirt as he walked, and quietly made his way to the kitchen, only to find the room dark—and deserted. His frown deepened, and he turned to the living room, which was faintly illuminated by a low-watt lamp. And that's where he found her.

She was curled in an overstuffed chair, a half-empty mug on the floor beside her, a framed photo pressed against her chest. And judging by her even breathing, she was asleep. Slowly he moved closer, until he stood directly above her. Though the light was dim, he could see the evidence of tears on her pale cheeks, the dark
shadows under her eyes, the troubled frown on her face that even sleep didn't erase. His gut clenched painfully and he drew a ragged breath. She looked so fragile. So vulnerable. So alone.

Scott thought about the Jess he had known in happier days—strong, vibrant, in love with life. Certainly the strength was still there. She couldn't have survived these past few years if it hadn't been. But she'd paid a price for her survival. There was an unnatural tension about her, a nervous energy that spoke of long-term stress. She now seemed more focused on making it through the day than on
enjoying
the day. And her vibrant personality was now subdued, her joy replaced by a deep, abiding sadness that whispered even at the edges of her infrequent smiles.

Hardest of all to bear was the knowledge that he was the cause of her distress. And his heart wept yet again for the havoc his misguided priorities and tragic lapse in judgment had wreaked on the woman he loved more than life itself.

Suddenly Jess's eyelids flickered open, and she looked up at him sleepily, momentarily confused. “Scott?”

For a second he was disconcerted by her unexpected awakening. But he recovered quickly, forcing his lips into a smile as he squatted beside her. “Bingo. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” he asked unevenly, his eyes only inches from hers.

Her vision suddenly cleared as the last vestiges of sleep vanished, and she straightened up abruptly. Her rapid movement caused the neckline of her T-shirt to slip and the hem to creep up, giving Scott a quick
glimpse of a creamy shoulder and a long length of shapely thigh. She gasped and made a frantic grab for both ends of the garment, dropping the picture in the process.

Scott bent to retrieve it, struggling to control the surge of longing that left him suddenly way too warm. She, on the other hand, seemed cold—or, more likely, nervous—he noted when he turned back to her. She was visibly trembling, one hand clutching the neckline of her T-shirt, the other pulling the hem as far down as it would go. He set the photo back on the coffee table and headed across the room toward the couch to retrieve a throw, which he silently draped over her—for both their sakes.

She snuggled under it gratefully, covering every possible bit of exposed skin. Only then did she look up at him, and when she did her mouth went dry. How could a man with uncombed hair and stubble on his face look so appealing? she marveled. With an effort she tore her gaze from his face and let it drop lower. He wore the same T-shirt he'd had on at dinner, she noted, and his jeans had obviously been hastily pulled on, sans belt. He hadn't even bothered with socks or shoes, she realized, staring at his bare feet far too long before she found her voice. “Th-thank you.”

“My pleasure.” The rough, whiskeylike quality in his voice drew her gaze back to his. “So what are you doing up at this hour?”

“I—I couldn't sleep.”

He sat on the ottoman in front of her and rested his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. “Something you ate?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “No. I—I just don't sleep very well anymore.”

He frowned. “Since when?”

“For a while,” she hedged.

“Since when, Jess?” he persisted, gazing at her intently.

She sighed. Why hide it? “Since the accident.”

He let his breath out slowly. “Almost four years,” he said quietly. “No wonder you always look so tired. How much sleep do you get?”

“I don't know. Five, maybe six hours a night.”

He glanced at his watch. “Or less.” He looked at her worriedly. “That's not enough.”

“It's as much as you ever got.”

“I don't need as much sleep as most people.”

“Even so…why are
you
up? Three o'clock is late even for you.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don't know. Strange place. Strange noises. I'm a pretty light sleeper now.”

She looked at him curiously. “That's a switch. You may not have needed
much
sleep, but when you did sleep it took practically an earthquake to wake you.”

At the intimate reference, his lips quirked briefly into a smile, but when he spoke his voice was sober. “Prison does strange things to you. You learn to be on alert pretty much all the time.”

“Why?”

He looked at her silently for a minute. “Let's just say that it's not a very nice place, Jess. Or a safe one,” he said quietly.

She stared at him, suddenly feeling sick. As open
as he'd been in his talk at the retreat, there were obviously a lot of things he hadn't revealed. Bad things.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Hey, I survived,” he said reassuringly. “It's over. And good came out of the experience, for which I'm grateful. Now it's just a matter of putting the bad behind me.”

She gazed at him, and the wistful look in her eyes tugged at his heart. “How will you do that?”

He drew a deep breath. “By focusing on the good,” he replied simply. “One thing I learned, Jess. You can't forget the past. God knows, I tried. I'd still like to erase the memory of the bad days in our marriage, of the accident, of the trial, of prison. But I can't. It's part of me, both the good and bad. And that's true for everyone. So eventually you have to accept the past, learn what you can from it, then leave it behind and move on.”