Thorns of Truth (20 page)

As far back as he could remember, Eric had known she was out there, that woman. Somewhere. He hadn’t known when or where they would meet, but he’d had a hazy idea of what she would look like: dark and long-limbed, with strong features and a streak of wildness. The details weren’t important. It was her
essence
he carried in his head like a keepsake worn with handling. The only thing he’d known for sure was that when he saw her he would recognize her instantly.

And he had. The night of Brian McClanahan’s party. A perfect stranger, yet someone he’d known all his life. From the moment she sat down next to him—tall and dark and lovely, with her shoulders braced for an evening she clearly wasn’t looking forward to, and her cheeks flushed with that story about being caught in traffic—which he suspected had been exaggerated—Eric had been certain: this was the woman he was destined to marry.

Rose just didn’t know it yet.

She wasn’t
ready
to know.

Soon,
he thought. With luck, and a little of God’s grace.

Eric had never belonged to any church, and the notion of some heavenly father guiding his every move evoked an unpleasant image of himself as a puck in the magnetic hockey game he’d owned as a kid. His God was more meat and potatoes—work hard, do the best job you can, and the boss just might reward you.

Now, gazing up at the moon wrapped in haze like a milky blind eye, Eric, for the first time in years, found himself praying.

Just this one thing, God, that’s all I ask.

A moment later, he was striding along the esplanade toward West Street—where finding a taxi this time of night, he thought, might prove difficult enough to make him regret playing the Good Samaritan—quickening his step as it occurred to him that Rose might still be up, that it wasn’t too late to call when he got home.…

Eric’s taxi was turning off the West Side Highway onto Twenty-third when he remembered: Rose would be anxious about Mandy. Instead of calling, why not just stop by?

He glanced at his watch. It seemed hours since he’d left the party, but Eric saw that it was only a little past eleven. Not the time of night for a social call, but this wasn’t exactly social. Besides, at the party, they’d had almost no time together; quite frankly, he missed her.

He’d been to her place once—last Friday, when she’d invited him in for a drink before dinner. Now, climbing out of the cab in front of her brownstone, Eric was relieved to see a light on upstairs—in the living room, where they’d sat sipping sodas, while Mozart played on the stereo.

Talking about nothing in particular, while Eric had thought about nothing but making love to her.

Now he wondered if she’d resent the intrusion. See it as some ploy to get her into bed. As if that were all he wanted from her …

Before Eric could change his mind, a curtain drew back … and a second later, the porch light switched on. Four stone steps led to the front door, which stood wide open, with Rose silhouetted against the light, nothing but a thin cotton robe between her and the warm breeze ruffling its hem.

“I saw the taxi pull up,” she said. “I thought it might be Jay. He called to let me know he and Drew were going out after the party. But he should be home by now.”

“I suppose I should have called, too,” Eric apologized.

“As you can see, I was just getting ready for bed.” Her tone was almost comically prim; it was that smile of hers, like something warm to drink on a snowy day, that gave her away. She added, “But come in anyway. I could use the company.”

Upstairs, the living room was dim, the only light streaming from the kitchen beyond. He remembered it as cozy, but now her place seemed forlorn somehow. Filled with mementos that brought to mind a shrine. This time, Eric noticed the masculine touches—the leather club chair, the nineteenth-century mariner prints, the brass ship’s compass on the wall by the bookcase. And the photos, of course—everywhere, framed photos of her family, featuring a stocky older man with a keen gaze that in every shot was fixed lovingly on Rose.

There was music playing low—something lyrical and sad. Schumann? He didn’t stop long enough to ask. Rose was already motioning him into the kitchen, making room for him at the round oak table by scooping a stack of books and papers from one of the press-back chairs.

“I’m toasting a bagel,” she told him. “Want to share it with me?”

She looked so delicious herself—face scrubbed of makeup, her hair standing up in wild dark scribbles—that it was all Eric could do not to show her then and there, just what, exactly, he was hungry for.

“Got any cream cheese?” he asked.

Rose made a trip to the refrigerator, and set out butter, jam, a tub of Philly. Handing him a plate with half a bagel that looked more burned than toasted, she sat down across from him and asked, “How did it go with Mandy?”

“She’ll live.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He caught a note of impatience in her voice.

Eric shrugged. “There isn’t much more to tell.”

“What kind of shape was she in when you left her?”

“Out cold.” He spread a thick layer of cream cheese over his bagel, enough to mask the burned edges.

Rose grimaced. “God, just what I was afraid of. Eric, how bad off do you think she is?”

“Bad enough to have her stepmother, and probably half the people at that party, wondering what’s next,” he said.

She looked down and sighed, her hands pressed flat against the table on either side of her plate. “Look, I know this is going to sound horribly selfish. I love Mandy, as if she were my own … but right now, I don’t think I can handle this.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what she needs—for you
not
to help.”

“That sounds so harsh,” she said, somewhat taken aback.

“No, just honest. What’s she been like at work?”

“I hardly see her these days. We’re both so busy.”

“Maybe she’s avoiding you.”

“The thought
had
occurred to me,” she admitted, frowning.

Eric looked at her, seated across from him in her bathrobe, so beautiful, so troubled, and found himself imagining a life of this—late nights with Rose, the two of them ironing out some knot, exchanging views, soliciting each other’s opinion. God, it could be so good. If only she’d see what
he
saw …

Something hard inside his chest cracked open—a seed of hope he hadn’t dared plant until now.

He brushed the back of her hand, lightly, his fingers curled like a question mark. “Speaking of trouble, you want to tell me about what happened at the party?”

“God, was it that obvious?” She cast him a stricken look.

“I don’t think anyone else noticed,” he reassured her. “I just happened to catch Rachel as I was leaving. She looked as if she’d been crying.”

Rose drew back, reaching for her butter knife. “Well if she was, she brought it on herself,” she said with an uncharacteristic lack of sympathy. “Rachel doesn’t want to know how
I
feel. The only one in that family I can talk to is Brian.”

“Is that why he took you home?”

Eric was unprepared for the violent flush that stained Rose’s cheeks, and the suddenness with which she twisted out of her chair. He heard the soft slap of her bare feet against the tile floor as she padded over to the stove. “Want some tea? I have three kinds of herbal.” She put the kettle on to boil. With a casualness that didn’t fool him, not for one second, she replied, “Brian saw how upset I was. He was only being nice.”

Eric knew that Brian and Rose had once been lovers—Rose had admitted as much—but it hadn’t even
occurred
to him she might still be carrying a torch. Christ. Was
that
what this was all about?

He was seized by a jealousy so fierce it seemed to rise from some deep, primal place. When had he ever felt this way toward a woman?
Any
woman?

“I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. With Rachel, I mean.” His voice was the controlled, even one he used when speaking into a mike.

“She accused me of being selfish—a lonely widow clinging to her eldest son. God, how pathetic is
that.
” Rose’s indignation seemed to be acting as some sort of tonic, strengthening her.

Eric didn’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he dared to ask, “Is there some truth in it?”

She stared at him, and he could almost see the blood rising in her, swelling her veins.

“What exactly are you saying?” Her eyes narrowed.

He stared back at her, holding his ground. But when he spoke, it was softly, and not without compassion. “There’s more than one way to mourn,” he said. “Some of us get through it by drinking ourselves into a stupor. Others just hold on, as if letting go of their grief would mean they hadn’t cared enough to begin with.”

Silence rushed in like a tide, nearly swallowing them. Eric could hear the brush of wet leaves against a windowpane, and the soft whistling of the teakettle beginning to boil. Finally, Rose spoke.

“How I mourn my husband is nobody’s business,” she informed him coldly. She was standing so straight he could have dropped a plumb line from her squared-off shoulders. “Not yours, or Rachel’s, or … or the man in the moon’s.”

He felt a flash of anger
The man in the moon isn’t going to
w
arm your bed at night,
he itched to reply. Instead, biting down on his frustration, Eric said only, “Sounds like I hit a nerve.”

She stared at him for a moment before replying coolly, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t ask you in so you could psychoanalyze me.”

“You could always ask me to leave,” he calmly pointed out.

She snorted. “Oh sure. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? It would just prove your point—that I’m a hopeless neurotic who can’t stand hearing the truth.”

“If the shoe fits . ..” He smiled, reminding her that he hadn’t been born yesterday; he knew perfectly well what all this bluster was about: Brian. Something had happened here tonight with Brian. Something she apparently felt guilty about. But why? Because of Rachel? Or, as she was implying now, because of Max? Either way, where the hell did that leave
him
?

“I still miss my husband, yes. Is that what you want to hear?” Rose’s expression grew fierce. “I miss him so much sometimes I can hardly stand it. Haven’t you ever felt that way? Haven’t you ever loved someone so much it hurt just to
breathe
when you weren’t with her?”

“Once.”
Are you blind. Rose? Don’t you see it?

She pulled back, regarding him with new curiosity. Finally, she asked, “What went wrong?”

Eric felt the kernel inside him send up a small green shoot.
Nothing. Yet.
Because, damnit, he wasn’t giving up—and he wouldn’t let Rose give up, either, not if he had anything to say about it.

“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

She leaned against the counter at her back, the barest glimmer of a smile touching her lips. “You haven’t eaten your bagel. Shall I wrap it up to go?” She seemed to have forgotten all about their tea, and was oblivious even to the hissing of the kettle.

“Is that a hint?”

“It’s late,” she said. “I should get to bed.”

“I won’t keep you, then.”

Eric pulled himself to his feet, the sound of his chair scraping over the floor tiles causing her bird, asleep under the cloth covering its cage, to stir. He wanted badly to take her into his arms—almost enough to risk what he knew would be the world’s worst timing.

Instead, he walked over to the stove and switched off the burner under the kettle.

When he looked over at Rose, her head was tilted to one side, and she was eyeing him in an odd way—as if daring him. “Go ahead,” she urged sarcastically, “you might as well just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Aren’t you going to remind me that life goes on? That I’m still young, and should think about getting married again? I’ve already heard it from practically everyone else.” She folded her arms over her chest, her robe falling open a bit. She was breathing heavily, and he could see a line of moisture glistening faintly between her heavy breasts.

It was driving him crazy; if he didn’t get out of here, this very minute, he
would
kiss her. And more.

“What I’m offering here isn’t advice,” he told her.

He let his words hang between them, measuring their effect in the hot depths of her eyes. She was the first to look away, and it pierced him somehow, pierced him to the core.

“What I said before, about Mandy?” she replied softly. “I meant it, Eric. I can’t handle one more thing right now.”

There was no mistaking her meaning … and nothing left to say. For now, for tonight, he’d just have to walk away.

Eric found himself remembering a trip to Paris some years back. Wandering through a church cemetery, where he’d stumbled across an ancient, lichen-encrusted headstone. Simple, unadorned—just a woman’s name, and the dates of her birth and death, with a brief inscription above it, so worn it was almost indecipherable:
Tout Mon Amour, Toujours.

All My Love, Always.

He’d been inexplicably moved, unable to imagine the depth of feeling behind that simple expression of a husband’s grief.

Now he understood. Deep down, it must have been what he, too, after years of giving only pieces of himself to women who’d deserved better, had wanted. To love someone that much—a woman in whose eyes he would see the reflection of everything he felt. A love that would endure, even after death.

Chapter 7

R
OSE WAS SWEATING
under her white rayon blouse. Jury selection? More like torture, she thought. The endless drip, drip, drip of the same questions asked over and over. One answer bleeding into the next, as interminable as the last day of school before summer. Even the windowless room in which she sat, down the hall from the main jury pool, reminded Rose of her days at Sacred Heart—the austere counsel table opposite rows of wooden seats bolted to the floor, the atmosphere of cowed intimidation.