Saving Sarah

by Nan Reinhardt

  Right now, victory was sweet as she gazed up at him, her fingers twined with his and a tiny pulse fluttering above her collarbone. “I was trying to scrape grout off the landing.” She indicated the putty knife with a brief nod. “I think someone had it on the bottom of their shoe. I’ve already done four steps and I can see a little more on the lower steps. I guess I should’ve taped the staircase with paper after we sanded.”

  “We can do that. I think there’s a roll of paper down in the dining room. Unless you think it’s too late to bother.”

  “It is. I need to get this stuff scraped off tonight because the guys are coming tomorrow to start sealing the floors. Chris and I are going to run the shop vacs over all the hardwood in the place and then damp mop everything before we leave.” Her voice was calm even though her hand trembled as she curled her fingers in his.

  He bent down and dropped a kiss on her tousled hair. “Why don’t I order a pizza and pitch in? Three of us working will get stuff done quicker.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  Tony cut short her protest with a quick touch of his lips to hers. “I want to,” he said simply as he dropped her hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  * * * *

  “God, I’m beat.” Chris stuffed a painter’s cloth into the huge box by the front door before dropping onto the bottom step, his head sagging against the newly painted wall. “It’s after midnight,” he said with a glance at his watch.

  “Get your filthy head off that wall,” Sarah scolded good-naturedly before frowning. “Maybe it was mistake to have the painters in first. Everything looks amazing, but what if the floor guys scuff up the paint?”

  “And what if the painters had spattered paint all over the newly poly-ed floors?” Chris sat up straight and grinned. “Look, you had to pick one or the other. Frankly, I’d rather touch up scuffed walls than scrape and sand these floors again.”

  Sarah chewed her lower lip as she turned a complete circle in the high-ceilinged foyer that gleamed with fresh paint the color of buttermilk. She’d chosen the soft pale color for all the walls in the house and a slightly darker shade called Oats and Honey for the woodwork, which they’d chosen to paint instead of refinish. Julie and Carrie had agreed that washable paint would be easier to maintain, plus the lighter surfaces lent an airy ambiance to the whole house. They weren’t trying to register with historic landmarks, so keeping the hardwood floors was true enough to the era of the house. Color would come in with whatever they could find the way of art, rugs, furniture, and accessories.

  “Okay, this is the last of them.” Tony sauntered in with another huge box of drop cloths and set it by the front door. “Shop vacs are stowed in the mudroom and Chris here has volunteered to empty the buckets and rinse and wring out the mops and hang them up.” He stared pointedly at the young man, who rose with a weary sigh and saluted.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Chris headed for the kitchen.

  “Make sure the back door is locked and that you get all the dirt out of the laundry tub.” Tony called after him.

  Sarah’s heart swelled at the sight of her deputy, clad in a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt over slightly baggy jeans and sporting a backward baseball cap over his salt-and-pepper hair. Ordinarily, she’d be the first to tell any male over fifteen to spin the damn cap around right. However, on Tony, the look was all him—natural and easy. Nothing at all like the men she’d known in Georgia, who were always immaculately dressed in designer suits or expensive casual golf or tennis togs.

  Wait. My deputy? When had she started taking ownership of Tony Reynard in her mind? That was dangerous territory, although watching him fold the flaps on the boxes of drop cloths made her heart speed up at the memory of his warm lips on hers earlier. That kiss was every bit as delicious as she’d fantasized it would be. She wanted more, but the thought of more made her stomach clench and an acid taste rise in her throat.

  “We should probably take that leftover pizza with us,” Tony said, stretching like a big lazy cat when he finished with the boxes. “Once Greg starts the floors, we’ll be banned for a few days while they dry. Did they say how long we’d have to stay away?”

  Sarah turned away to stop herself from staring at his brawny form. “Why do you wear your hat backward?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you wear your baseball cap backward like a kid?” The question came out snippier than she intended, but she needed to get her mind off his hands and his lips and how much she wanted them on her again. Back in some measure of control, she faced him and said in a gentler tone. “I’m curious.”

  His brow furrowed. “It’s a seeing thing,” he said, pulling the hat off and running his fingers through his thick hair before replacing it correctly. “The brim shadows the floors in here and I wanted to make sure I mopped up all the dust. And when I drive the boat, I need to be able to see the water and everything around me.”

  A frisson of disappointment shot through Sarah as the hat hid Tony’s eyes. Without a second thought, she crossed to him and reached up to switch the cap back-to-front again. “Leave it. I like to see your face. It’s a nice old face.” The last words came out in a whisper.

  Tony’s smile lit up his toast-brown eyes and he brought one hand up between them slowly, cautiously. “Yours is just fine too,” he said, his voice husky as he stroked her cheek with one finger. “Even all covered in sanding dust.”

  She needed to explain. Before things went too far between them, she had to tell him why they could never… “Tony, I need to tell you—”

  “Shh.” He touched her lips for a brief second and shook his head. “Not right now.”

  “But—”

  “We’re good, okay?” He dropped his hand and pressed his lips to her forehead as Chris called from the dining room.

  “Hey, you want me to bring the pizza from the fridge? Greg said we aren’t gonna be able to get back in here for at least a week.”

  Tony stepped back and gave her a grin. “And there’s the answer I was seeking.” He headed for the dining room. “Yeah, find a grocery sack and let’s take anything that might not last for a week.”

  Sarah stood still for a moment, savoring the memory of Tony’s lips warm on her skin. Wishing she could take her imagination beyond kisses without feeling physically ill or unbearably sad or being terrified of where every touch might lead.

  Maybe Jules was right. Perhaps she should bring the sex thing up with Dr. Benton.

  What a hideous thought. Nonetheless, the idea niggled at the back of her mind because, dammit, she wanted Tony. There was no question about that. Yet, every time she thought of making love with him or making a life with him, despair washed over her. Overwhelming sadness made her cringe at his touch.

  This morning, she’d had what Julie would call an “ah-ha moment”—one that she needed to face, because if she didn’t, she’d never know another moment of happiness. Damn. Damn. Damn. Her heart pounded and her mind raced. Okay, this was not the time to take that crap out and examine it.

  “Hey lady, get in here and tell us what you want from the fridge.” Tony’s deep voice hailed her from the butler’s pantry, rescuing her from her own train of thought.

  Shaking her head, she scurried to the kitchen. “Guys, we need to make sure we take the trash bag out, too. Otherwise, it’s going to stink to high heaven when we do get back in here.”

  Tony met her at the door of the pantry with the kitchen trash bag, already tied up and ready to go, clutched in his hand. “Great minds,” he said with a grin that set her pulse racing.

  You have no idea, my friend. No idea at all, Sarah thought, deciding right then and there what her next session with the therapist would entail.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chewing her lower lip, Sarah slouched on the sofa in Dr. Benton’s office, watching rain drip down the window that overlooked Grand Traverse Bay. The therapist didn’t say a word as she sat patiently in the armchair across from the couch, legs crossed and a notebook a
nd pen on her lap. Over the weeks, Sarah had come to genuinely like Dr. Benton with her designer pantsuits and her blonde-going-to-gray hair cut in a cute bob. Today’s suit was the color of ripe peaches and she wore it with a breezy peach-and-lime scarf tied in an intricate knot around her neck.

  Her quiet smile engendered trust, something that was in short supply for Sarah. That fact alone made borrowing a car from Carrie to drive up here once a week a little bit easier. As they sat in silence, Sarah speculated idly if psychiatrists took a class to learn that inscrutable smile. The therapist at the shelter in Chicago had mastered it as well.

  “I’m going to have to buy a car,” Sarah said, then frowned, realizing that she was wasting her time today. Cars were not at all what she’d prepared to discuss. She hated unproductive sessions, not only for herself, but for Dr. Benton, too, although the good doctor never seemed to mind when she couldn’t open up.

  “You haven’t done that yet?” Dr. Benton uncrossed her legs and then re-crossed them the other direction.

  “No, I haven’t really needed one in the village. I have Chris and everything is pretty much within walking distance.”

  “Chris is the young man hired to be your”—she quirked one brow—“escort? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?”

  “All those things.”

  “And who hired him again? The local deputy?”

  Sarah nodded. “Still, I should have my own car. I can’t keep borrowing Carrie’s or asking Chris to drive me places that aren’t related to the shelter. Do you know somewhere to get a good used car?”

  “There are several places here in the city. My Prius came from the Toyota dealership on Garfield.” Dr. Benton flipped a few pages in the notebook and perused her notes.

  “Do you have a separate notebook for every patient?” Toeing off her canvas espadrilles, Sarah tucked her legs up under her on the sofa, and scowled again. Dammit. She couldn’t seem to get down to business, which surprised her. Normally, she made a point of getting her money’s worth out of her visits by coming prepared with an issue she wanted to discuss. Sarah was nothing if not practical, and she’d decided up front that if she was going to pay a shrink, it was going to be for more than a prescription for antidepressants. Besides, from the first visit, she’d been mostly comfortable talking to Dr. Benton. Usually after her sessions, she left the office feeling a little less burdened. But today, the words simply wouldn’t come forward.

  “Yup, everybody gets a notebook.”

  “Then what? After the appointments, you transcribe everything to an electronic file?”

  Dr. Benton nodded. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “Why don’t you use a tape recorder?”

  “I used a digital recorder for a while. However, it intimidated some patients. Besides, the notebook and pen give me something to do with my hands.” Dr. Benton chuckled.

  “Nice for you.” Sarah scoffed and stretched her hands out in front of her. “I have to sit here staring at my fingernails and wondering if I’ll ever get them clean again.”

  “I can give you a notebook if you want one,” the doctor offered. “Although that might distract you from talking to me, which is why you’re here.”

  “What’s the most notebooks you’ve ever filled with one patient?”

  Dr. Benton tucked the pen into the black-and-white marbled composition book, closed it, and folded her hands. “We’ve got a lot of avoidance going on here today. What’s up, Sarah?”

  Sarah sighed, started to speak, then closed her lips tight. Finally, she said, “Have you ever noticed how one thing in life may seem to be completely separate from something else, then somehow it turns out they’re actually connected?” That came out way more convoluted than she intended, but she was fairly certain Dr. Benton would unravel it. Otherwise, why was she here?

  “Yes, I have.” That therapist smile appeared and Dr. Benton’s gray eyes twinkled. “Would you like to expand on that?”

  Suddenly, Sarah’s heart rose to her throat. She swallowed as tears pricked her eyes. “It’s sex,” she choked out and heat flushed her cheeks. “Oh, dammit.”

  “Okay. And what’s the other thing?” Dr. Benton asked quietly. “The unrelated thing?”

  “I–I’m not sure.” Sarah reached for the tissue box on the table beside the sofa as tears rolled down her cheeks. “But I think it might be…Macy.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes.” Sarah buried her face in her hands and gave into the tears, weeping and gulping great deep breaths. Her heart ached—literally. Pain sat on her chest like huge stone, and once again as the master of compartmentalization, she wondered whether she might be having a heart attack. Rocking back and forth, she crossed her arms over her breasts as if the gesture might hold the agony at bay. It didn’t. She continued to rock and sob while Dr. Benton sat still as a mouse, watching and waiting.

  When she could finally breathe again, she met the psychiatrist’s concerned gaze. “Jesus. I really am a goner, aren’t I?” She swiped at her cheeks with a fresh tissue, tossed it into the wastebasket next to the sofa, and reached for another.

  “Oh, I’m fairly sure there’s hope for you,” Dr. Benton said. “Make the connection for me, Sarah.”

  “You’ve probably figured it out.”

  “Maybe. I need to know that you have.” Dr. Benton opened her notebook. “Are you having sex with someone?”

  Sarah barked a short laugh. “Not hardly. Not when I want to puke damn near every time he touches me.”

  Dr. Benton simply raised one perfectly plucked brow.

  “I thought…I truly thought I was ruined by”—she took a deep shuddering breath—“by all the sick, sadistic crap that Paul did to me. When I left Georgia, I couldn’t imagine ever wanting any man again. Not ever. I haven’t dated in over eight years. Haven’t even had the desire.”

  “So now, you found someone you want to date and possibly have sex with?”

  “I think so.” Sarah turned the tissue box over in her hands, staring at the design on it. Huh. Paisley. Why bother to put this much work into packaging something people blew their noses into?

  Focus, you idiot.

  She blinked. “I–I mean, I’ve met this really great guy and he makes me feel, you know…all tingly again. God, I barely recognize that stupid I-want-to-be-in-love feeling. I’m not even sure that’s what this is. I dunno. I think I want him, but I freaking flinch almost every time he gets close to me.”

  “And how does he react?” Dr. Benton asked.

  “He’s kind and not at all pushy.” Heat rose from Sarah’s neck to her cheeks and she raked her fingers through her hair, irritated at the tendrils that stuck to her damp face. “He’s a smart guy. He knows enough of my history to figure out that intimacy is going to be hard.” She moved to the edge of the sofa. “Here’s the thing, then I’ll shut up and get out of here because I know my time is almost up.”

  “We can take as much time as you need, Sarah.” Dr. Benton sat forward in her chair. “What’s the thing? Tell me the connection between sex with this new guy and Macy.”

  A lump rose in Sarah’s throat again and she swallowed hard against another storm of tears. The words wouldn’t come. If she could only get this out, maybe she could relax with Tony. Look at how much better she was since she started seeing Dr. Benton. Wasn’t this just one more issue to take out, examine, and clear away from her messed-up mind? Why couldn’t she speak? She lost the battle with the tears and flopped onto the cushion next to her, wailing helplessly into a handful of tissues.

  “Sarah, did your ex-husband molest your daughter?” Dr. Benton’s firm voice came through the tempest of weeping.

  Sarah popped up, trembling with the shock of the question. “No! Jesus!” she cried. “No, no. I-I mean, not that I—” Her breath caught in her throat, and she clamped her lips tight together before continuing slowly. “No, not at all.” She shook her head. “No, he never did. She was…she was too happy a child. So open and sweet-natured. And I do believe th
at as much as he was capable of loving anyone at all, Paul loved Macy. He wouldn’t have hurt her like that. I was the one he wanted to control.” She plucked more tissues from the box. “Besides, he was never alone with her. I made sure of that.”

  “Then you protected her. You kept her safe.”

  Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks as she shook her head. “I didn’t. She died.” Sarah bent over, her arms wrapped around her aching middle, crying and chanting uncontrollably. “She died. She’s dead. My baby’s dead. My baby…”

  Suddenly, Dr. Benton was beside her on the couch, her strong arm around her. “Tell me what happened that day.”

  * * * *

  Every muscle in Sarah’s body ached as she ended her story in a monotone. “He got the maximum sentence of sixteen years because the prosecutor proved reckless conduct. He was so enraged that day he didn’t bother to look behind him. The guy next door was trimming the hedge between us and saw the whole thing.” She sighed. “I don’t remember any of it. I spent ten days in the hospital before I…I buried her. He wasn’t there, thank God. He didn’t get bail because, by the grace of God, the judge that arraigned him happened to be the only woman on the bench at the time.”

  “Did you go to the trial?” Dr. Benton moved back to her chair and resumed her relentless note-taking.

  Sarah glanced around at the mess of tissues scattered around her on the floor and on the sofa. “There was no trial. He pleaded guilty, and I didn’t press charges for the battery. There was a chance I’d be called as a witness, though. The prosecutor had a subpoena ready.”

  “Why didn’t they call you?”

  “Apparently, between the neighbor’s testimony and the cops from the scene, they had him. It was quick. There was only the judge. I think Paul knew a jury trial would mean that I would testify and he didn’t want that.”

  “Why didn’t you press charges for what he did to you?” Dr. Benton’s fancy pen flew over the page.