The Passion Play (21 page)

He leaned against the corner of the counter, his pose casual but his gaze watchful. "Thought maybe you'd like me to head off after dinner, or find something else to do tomorrow. Give you some time to be peaceful."

She considered this, looking back down to the peppers, sifted through the little red pile with her fingertips to see if there were larger pieces hidden. "If you want."

"I can't think of anything I'd like to do better than be here with you, but I'm sure I can manage to amuse myself
some place else for a couple of nights."

"I don't mind. It's up to you."

"You don't mind?"

"I think I can manage to have one overgrown football player cluttering up the house, and not get too stressed." She slanted a playful look at him from under her eyelashes, and he grinned and stepped in close.

"Can you now?"

"I think so." When she raised her face to him he cupped her cheeks and kissed her, warm and friendly.

"That's mighty tolerant of you."

"I think so." She repeated and shrugged, a smug smile playing about her mouth. "Put you to work, make you wash the dishes, mow the grass.

He sighed, and shook his head. "You were right. Spoiled. How the mighty have fallen."

"I told you it would happen."

"You did. I was warned. I can only blame myself." They shared a glance of mutual amusement. "What are you making for dinner?"

"A salad."

"Not
just
a salad?" he said in a tone of mild dismay.

"Among other things.
Relax. I won't let you starve."

"You are aware a salad isn't real food, aren't you? It's the food that real food eats."

"Don't give me that. I've seen you eat salads before."

"Not willingly.
Under duress."

She pointed the knife at him chidingly. "You'll eat it and like it, you hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"That's better. Your
momma teach you to be so polite?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, his drawl deepening.
"And my Dad."

"They taught you to do as you're told?"

"Dad always said the way to a happy household is obedience in the small things, and the way to a respectful household is to stand your grand on the big things."

"So salad is a small thing, then."

"Oh, it's borderline. It really is borderline. But you make a mighty fine salad, with all the tasty bits in it. I reckon I can tolerate your salads. Give you your way."

"That's very kind of you."

"I aim to please."

They talked and teased their way through the preparation of dinner and then the eating of it. It was true: having his company was very enjoyable, now she had settled into it. She was not so
self conscious around him anymore. He never criticized her, for one thing. Disagreed sometimes but without any hint of disapproval. And he listened. Wow, how he listened, like he was endlessly fascinated with her. It went to a woman's head, to be the subject of such attention from a man like him. He seemed aware now she needed quiet time to herself, sometimes, and while usually when she had a guest she would persevere politely past the point where she was wishing them gone, he had a way of finding something to do outside for half an hour in the spill of light from the windows, sowing seeds into pots or cleaning and sharpening tools, giving her even just a few minutes of quiet reflection. He would cuddle up to her on the sofa and read, with the classical music she preferred playing softly in the background. If she disappeared somewhere else in the house it was a while before he would come and chase her down.

How did he know to give her that space? So she welcomed him instead of driving him away. Was it cunning or instinctive?

After dinner she went to the bathroom to wash her hands, and on the way back she stopped by the open door of her craft room. After a moment she reached out and switched on the light so the cheerful colors and patterns of the space leapt into life, orderly and welcoming.

The albums were still there. Soon she would face them. Soon-

No. Now! She would do it now, and not be afraid of them.

She walked across the carpet, sat and took the first one down. It was heavy and thick, and creaked a little under her hand, where the bindings strained. She laid it on the desk and opened it, leafed through until she found the very first shot of Dan, taken by a college friend. She sat near him, looking so young, delicate next to his big frame, gazing up and him with wondering eyes. His body leaned towards hers. She had loved that photo once, the candid nature of it,
the evocative body language. That was the mood she had tried to recapture so many times, in other shots she set up.

She had never quite managed it.

She stared at the photo, then reached out with one hand and took hold of the very sharp cutting knife. Slowly, deliberately, she sliced through the edge of the page closest to the spine, released it from the book. When it was free she considered it. Each of the pages in the album was carefully embellished in coordinating colors and themes, small works of art.

It was a little painful to put it into the trash. Yet she did not want to see that photo again. It only made her wince, now.

She set to work to cut out the rest.

Forty minutes later Luke found her there.

"Hiya. What are you up to?" he said from the doorway.

"Oh. Sorry," she said, reaching for a tissue to wipe her eyes. "I got caught up in something. I won't be much longer."

"Are you okay?" he asked, and she could hear him coming closer over the carpet.

"Yes.
Of course. Just looking at some old stuff."

He was at her shoulder now and she wished she could snap the book closed, but could not find it in her to shut him out so abruptly. She let him look, though it made her squirm inside. It was a picture taken at a party of her and Dan standing close together, wine glasses in their hands, caught in a rare moment of conversation.

"Ah," he said, and for a long moment there was silence. "You're missing him." It was not quite a question.

"God, no!
Of course not. No, I'm feeling sorry for that girl in the photo. Sad for me. I remember that party. I didn't enjoy it. Dan knew everyone through his work, and I knew barely anyone, and he spent most of the night circulating while I chatted to strangers with whom I had nothing in common, and pretended I was having fun. That's what it was like, so much of the time. Oh, I got to know his people after awhile, and I got better at the sort of superficial friendships that are the norm in those circles. I do have a couple of genuine close friends - Tanya and Siobhan. But it wasn't me. All those years wasted, doing my best to be everything that was expected of me. I'm sad. And I hate," she continued on a pettish note, "to just throw these away. It took me hours to make these pages. Hours and hours. He was not worth it."

Luke bent, and carefully pulled a handful of pages from the trash basket. Even there she had stacked them neatly, unable to ignore
the compulsion to be tidy. "Why throw them away? Why can't you just cut the picture out, and stick another one in?"

"I can't do that," she said blankly.

"Why not? They're real pretty. I wouldn't throw them away if I were you."

"They're all made up to match the photos. See." She pointed to the topmost one in his hand. "The
colors all match, and the text goes with the topic of the photo."

"Yeah, but look at this one. All those words have to do with snow and winter. Take the photo out and you can just put another one in with snow and winter. You want to get real crafty you could go ahead and take new ones that are similar, but with someone else. See, you want to use this red one here, you put on that cute little red hat again-"

"I don't even know if I still have that hat."

"You should have one like that. It's great. I'll get you another one. Then we set up the camera with a timer and roll around in the snow a bit and there you go.
Better than ever."

"That would be so awkward. And fake." And like it was with Dan.

"You only say that because you've never played in the snow with me. Real fun all the way. You just wait. You're in for a treat. Here, hand me that knife."

She passed it to him dubiously, and watched him lay the multi-layered card down on her cutting mat. He sliced into it. "Careful!" she yelped. "You'll go right through and ruin the other side."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "A moment ago it was in the trash, and now you want me to be careful with it?"

"If I'm going to salvage them it has to be done right. Just cut deep enough to take the photo and its support layer. See?" she took it from him and demonstrated with a much shallower series of slashes, then held up the freed photo and waved it significantly. Then she tossed it in the basket, flipped the page and excised the one on the other side. It went into the trash.

He held out the next page to her, and she took that one and dealt with it the same way. Letting the photos go was easier, though there was still that wrench as she looked at each again.

"I hate that I got it so wrong, you know?
Such a huge mistake, to stay for so long, and ignore my feelings."

"If it was someone else, you'd tell them to forgive themselves, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"You can be that kind to yourself, too. You deserve some compassion. You did everything you knew how to do.
That's all any of us can expect of ourselves."

"I won't be that foolish ever again. I've learned at least one valuable lesson. I don't know myself as well as I thought. And I'm no judge of character." She pulled out another tissue from the box, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "Look at me there, so ignorant, so naive."

"You were trusting. The reality is the most trustworthy people are the most trusting. Of course they are. They can't imagine others doing bad things because they would never act that way themselves. It just shows what a trustworthy person you are."

"It's small comfort-"

"I wouldn't change you. I like you just the way you are, trusting, trustworthy and all. And I'll tell you another thing. If I was lucky enough to be in here with you, be part of these pictures, this life, I wouldn't do anything to screw it up. Not a thing. You'd never have to cut me out. So don't go making this all about you and how wrong you were. This man here," he dug a thumbnail deep into the image he held, scarring the picture of Dan's smoothly smiling face, "was not worthy of you. You don't need to go changing. You just be yourself and choose someone who's worthy of you."

She kept her head down, refused to meet his eyes, tears still leaking slowly from hers to trail down her cheeks. His words were kind but they did not touch the hard core of her that still throbbed with pain over her marriage. No, she was not healed, not right, not
herself. She could not depend on her own feelings when she was so broken inside, if at all. Emotions were not truth.

Liking Luke too much, wanting him too much, trusting him too much did not mean it was right. Her marriage had shown how deeply wrong she could be. There was a reason why people spoke against rebound relationships. She was not competent to be involved with him. Even this strange pseudo relationship they had felt like a danger to her, and at the same time the good feelings of it a drug she wanted too much to withdraw from.

She looked at the photos of her and Dan and thought of Luke and cut and cut and cut and wished his solid presence at her shoulder did not feel like such a bulwark, so needful for her peace. It was not good but she could not help it.

It took a long time. Twelve years was a great deal of a lifetime, and many photos. But eventually she was done, he patiently passing them to her one at a time, examining some silently himself, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder when she cried harder over some forlorn memory. He went and got a second chair to sit with her. When they were finally done the pictures were heaped up around the basket in uneven piles. She looked at them grimly.

"I want to burn them," she announced.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lift his head, examine her face, and then he nodded. "Sure. There's a spot outside that would be safe to light a fire. Or we could just do it in your fireplace."

"No, you're right. Outside. I don't want them in my house anymore."

"I'll get a bag to carry them."

They took the pieces of thin card outside and piled them into a heap, and she found a box of matches in the kitchen.

Standing there, under-dressed in the cold wind, she shivered, hesitated. Not because she doubted her choice. This was right. This was letting go of something that had become poisonous in her mind. Perhaps
some day she would be able to forgive him as Tanya had recommended, but for now she needed him out, and the door firmly closed on him.

She lit the first match. It blew out in her hand and she had to light a second one and carefully shield it close by the pile. She lit a third and fourth, tucked them under the edges of paper, left them there to catch and burn.
Slowly at first, but spreading to become a merry small bonfire. She gathered up several pictures that had blown and scattered, and fed them back to the eager flames.