The Glass Butterfly (29 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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Tory dropped her gaze, fearful her eyes had reddened. “Iris knows everyone, it seems.”
“She brought her cat in to see me. I guess that puts me in her circle.”
Tory looked up again when the sting of her eyes had subsided, and she gave him a smile that almost felt steady. “You're one of the refugees.”
He nodded. “So I'm told.”
“Me too. At least, I was on Thanksgiving.”
He lifted his glass to her with his quiet smile. “It's good to see you, Paulette. And I meant it—you look lovely.”
“I haven't worn a dress in a long time.”
“You're one of those women who looks good in anything. I've always wondered how you do that.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she was saved from having to reply to the compliment by the appearance of Zoe in a swirl of red fabric and the clink of a dozen silver bracelets on her arm. “You must be Dr. Menotti! I've been waiting to meet you!”
Tory, relieved Zoe hadn't called Hank “Dr. Precious” or some other creative name, introduced them. Hank shifted his glass to shake Zoe's hand. Betty appeared to be introduced, and to flutter her eyelashes at Hank. Soon after, Iris announced dinner and everyone streamed into her dining room.
The long table was set with Portmeirion china and a half dozen pillar candles in red and green. Tory faltered briefly when she saw that place cards were at every plate, but it turned out Iris had seated her next to Hank. As he held her chair, she sank into it with gratitude for Iris's thoughtfulness. Nosy and bossy her landlady might be, but she was also sensitive and kind.
Suddenly, with Hank beside her and a festive table spread before her, Tory was ravenous. The baked salmon, rice pilaf, roasted beet salad, and fresh rolls were delicious. She filled her plate, and before she knew it, had emptied it all. She sat back, one hand on her stomach, marveling at how much she had eaten. “Oh, goodness,” she said. “I stuffed myself.”
“Good to see you eat,” Hank said.
Startled, she laughed. “No one's said that to me in years!” she exclaimed. “If ever.”
“That's something a lonely person would say.” He touched her hand where it lay on the table. “Everyone needs someone to care whether they eat or not.”
She smiled up at him, liking the way the candlelight gleamed on his cheekbones. His eyelashes were dark and thick, a striking effect on so masculine a face. She said impulsively, “Does anyone worry about whether you eat, Hank?”
He leaned closer to her, his elbow touching hers. “Not lately.”
“Does that mean you're lonely, too?”
He shifted to face her. “Not right now,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched in that way she was coming to recognize. “This is very nice, I think.”
“It is.” She glanced around the table, and Zoe caught her eye with a saucy wink that made her laugh again. “Iris throws a mean party. I think she likes getting people together. It's like—her mission, or something.”
“We would call it her charism, in church language.”
“Would you? What a lovely word that is.”
They were quiet for a moment, comfortable together. Hank finished the wine in his glass, and set it down. “You should let me cook you dinner one night,” he said. “I make the best spaghetti
amatriciana
you've ever had.”
“That sounds wonderful. You do seem like someone who could cook.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well, my kitchen is a bit small here, but I manage. I live over the clinic, for now.”
“Do you?” She was about to say something about knowing what that was like, living in the same place you work, but she caught herself.
The conversation around them was a steady stream of noise, encasing the two of them in a bubble of privacy. Hank pushed his plate away, and turned in his chair to face her, one elbow on the table, the other hand on the back of her chair. The posture was both masculine and protective, and it made Tory's breath catch in her throat. Bemused, she watched the candlelight flicker in his eyes, and she felt something soften in her middle, something that allowed her to relax her spine, to lean ever so slightly closer to his warmth.
“Tell me how things are going with your clinic,” she said.
“Good,” he answered, nodding. “I've been busy.” Then, wickedly, “Shirley says hi.”
“She does not!”
He laughed, and she felt his wine-scented breath on her cheek. “No, she doesn't. I try not to talk to her about my social life.”
“I do think that's best,” Tory said, with mock sternness. “She'll be handling your social appointments, too!”
He grinned, and propped his chin on his hand, keeping his eyes on her. It occurred to her that everyone was treating them as a couple. That they were behaving like a couple. A little thread of guilt over that wormed its way through her. She couldn't be doing that, could she? Not with—not when Jack thought she was—
At just that moment, Hank said, “Paulette. I told you my story, but you haven't told me yours. How did you become one of Iris's refugees?”
Tory's heart skipped a beat. She had a sudden, vivid vision of Ellice Gordon's black gun, the flat look in her eyes as she recited what she knew about Jack.
Oh, no . . .
Tory's hand, lying on the table next to the fork she had laid down, began to tremble, and her voice shook when she said, “Hank, I just—I don't know—”
He leaned back, not abruptly, not dramatically, but just enough to break the circle where she had felt, for a moment, safe. Connected. He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was even. Too even. It chilled her, despite the warmth of the room. He said, “Never mind. I shouldn't have asked.”
She dropped her hands to her lap and twisted her fingers together. “I can't talk about it,” she said in a little rush. “I want to, but I can't.”
He withdrew his arm from the back of her chair, and reached for his water glass. “I shouldn't have pushed you.”
“I—no, Hank, you don't understand.” She glanced sideways at him, at his unsmiling face, the shuttered expression that had come into his eyes.
“No, Paulette,” he said quietly. “I don't. But there's no reason I should.”
“If I were able to tell you,” she said, whispering now, speaking too fast, too urgently, “I would. If I were going to tell anyone, it would be you.” His eyebrows rose, but she shook her head. “Hank, it's just not—” She had been going to say “safe,” but she caught herself. Even that was giving away too much. She finished weakly, “It's just not possible.”
“Forget I asked,” he said.
Her throat tightened so she couldn't answer. Someone spoke to Hank on his other side then, and he turned away from her. She saw Iris get up to clear the table, and she pushed her own chair back to go and help, her feet dragging, the swish of her pretty green dress around her ankles no longer giving her pleasure. The bright colors of the decorations, the glimmering candles, the gay music all had lost their luster. She collected plates, smiled automatically, accepted an apron from Iris as she went to the sink to rinse dishes and set pots to soak. She helped serve tiny dishes of peppermint ice cream with Christmas tree cookies, but when she sat down before hers, she couldn't eat it. She felt Hank's eyes on her from time to time, but he didn't say anything more.
 
Tory was startled, as the front door opened for the first of the departing guests to go to their cars, to see snow on the lawn and in the street. It fell in shimmery flakes that reflected the red and green lights from Iris's front window. The shrubs and lawns glittered under the streetlights.
“I didn't know it could snow here,” Tory said to Iris.
“Sometimes,” Iris said. “Won't last, though. Never does here on the coast.”
Tory retrieved her jacket from the coatrack, and dug her car keys out of the pocket. She thanked Iris, and was surprised to find herself in the older woman's embrace, Iris's lined cheek pressed briefly to hers. She felt oddly violated, as she had when she found Iris in her house, but she knew that wasn't fair. She managed to smile, and not to pull away too soon.
When she reached the front step, she found Hank waiting for her. She said artlessly, “I'm glad you're still here.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you?”
She put her hand on his arm. “Of course I am. I was hoping to wish you a merry Christmas before you—we—”
“I'm going to follow you home,” he said. “The snow will make the streets dangerous.”
“There's no need, really. I'm used to snow driving.”
“Are you?” He smiled, but it wasn't the easy smile he had bestowed on her at the dinner table. He said in an offhand way, “Well, just the same, Paulette. The snow here is really slippery, because of being so close to the ocean.” When she still hesitated, he said, “Look. You don't have to talk to me. Just let me follow you, for my own peace of mind.”
Tory nodded, mute and embarrassed. He walked her to the Beetle, held the door for her, and then went to his own car and got in. She started her engine, backed out of the driveway, and waited for him to pull out behind her before she turned her car for home.
His headlights followed her steadily back to the cottage. She turned in, shut off her motor, and climbed out. Hank pulled in after her, but only, it seemed, to back up, to turn back to the road. She hurried up to the driver's side of his SUV, her pumps sliding dangerously on the icy driveway. He stopped, his engine idling, and slid down his window.
“Hank,” she said. She bit her lip, searching for something to say. “Hank, I—come down to the beach with me. With us, I mean. Me and Johnson. I know it's late, and a little cold, but . . .”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “It's freezing,” he said.
“I know. Johnson has to go out, though, so I . . .”
With deliberate movements, he switched off his engine. He reached into his backseat for a thick parka before he opened the door and put his long legs out. “Get the dog,” he said, smiling at her. “But you'd better change those shoes.”
Johnson, released after the long evening, leaped over the doorstep and out into the yard, where he paced the inside of the fence, glancing back impatiently as if to see what was keeping Tory. Hank stayed with him while she slipped out of her dress and into warmer clothes. When she emerged, the three of them walked out through the gate and down to the beach. There was no snow here, but the wind from the ocean was as cold as Tory had ever felt it. She walked close to Hank, not taking his arm, but glad of the warmth, and the shelter from the wind his height gave her.
They strolled for a time, not speaking, listening to the waves wash against Haystack Rock. Johnson ran in exhilarated bounds, making big circles around them. When they reached the rock, they stood in the lee of it, out of the wind, and watched the dog sniff the tide's edge.
Hank said, “Christmas Eve tomorrow. Hard to believe it's here already.”
“It always seems to come too fast.”
He said, “A very different Christmas this year, I think. For both of us.”
She glanced up, and met his intent gaze. That half-forgotten feeling trembled in her belly again, and she put her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, pressing it against his sleeve, his eyes on her face. “Hank,” she said. “You're really—I mean—” She broke off, shaking her head. “This is like high school,” she said. “I was never any good at it then, either.”
“It's not like high school for me,” he said, laughing. “I went to a seminary school.”
“Oh, my god. I never thought of that!”
He turned her hand, and held it in both of his. “So we're a little awkward. Let's try anyway.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I just wanted to say how glad I am that I met you. How very nice you are.”
He chuckled, dropping her hand, putting his long arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close enough to press his cheek against her windblown hair. She leaned against him, closing her eyes. His chest was warm, and his hand on her shoulder was strong and sure. She wished she could hold this moment, preserve it like the gold butterfly frozen forever in sea-green glass. She wished she didn't have to open her eyes and remember who she really was, why she was here, what dread hung over her.
It was Johnson who broke the mood. He trotted up to them, bumping their legs to get their attention. Tory opened her eyes. The dog smiled up at her, winding around the two of them, smearing them both with cold wet sand. Hank released Tory, and she, laughing now, said, “Johnson, stop it!”
“I think he's trying to tell us to get out of the weather,” Hank said.
“It's a good idea.” Tory patted the dog, and her hand came away covered in sand. “Come on, Johnson. Let's get you inside and toweled off.”

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