by Mia Sheridan
She’d attempted lightness, but Clara could see the pain in Myrtle’s tightened features, the weariness around her eyes that was surely from the worry she’d been expending on Jonah’s behalf.
Gratitude flooded Clara for the second time in less than an hour, and she wrapped her arms around Myrtle, hugging her tight. Myrtle returned the hug and then nudged her along, giving her a sad smile as Clara turned toward the place she figured Jonah would be.
She’d never walked the path through the slave cabins in the light of day and, though she had another burning purpose for being there, she couldn’t help but to look around in wonder as she walked, seeing this place as it might have been a hundred and fifty years before as slaves came and went, walking this very same dirt path as they headed for the fields, or returned home at the end of a day of hard labor.
Sadness descended upon her, a desperate wish to change things she could not change for people she did not know. Things long past, people long gone. Except Angelina, perpetually trapped, and wishing to be set free in death as she had never been in life.
“Why are you here?”
Clara turned toward his voice with a small intake of breath. He stood against a gnarled tree next to a patch of wild violets, his stance casual at first, but she saw his hands clenched by his sides, knuckles white. And his face, his face was uncovered, the last of the day’s dwindling sunlight finding him through a break in the trees.
She allowed herself a moment to look upon him as a whole. Uncovered. Bared to her. Finally. He had no idea how beautiful he was, scars be damned. He was hers and her love for him swelled in her chest so that she had to take a deep breath to keep from rushing to him.
Gossamer mist rose from the ground and lacy strands of moss draped from the trees, shifting gently in the breeze and creating a dreamlike quality to the woods around them. His lair, indeed, she thought, her heart skipping a beat. And God but she hoped he’d let her stay.
Clara stood taller, stealing herself. “I came to apologize again, not via text, but to your face. You don’t have to accept it, but you can’t ignore me this way.”
He raised the brow on the uninjured half of his face. “No, you make it pretty tough to ignore you, even when I want to.”
That hurt her, but she held her head high. “I wouldn’t have had to come uninvited if you’d have answered any of my calls or texts.”
“I didn’t want to be pushed, Clara.”
“Jonah.” She moved toward him, reaching, and seemingly instinctively, he drew his face back, turning it. Her arm dropped by her side. “Please accept my apology. Please know that I would never do something to hurt you on purpose, or to break a promise.”
He regarded her for a moment and then moved closer. “I saw the way you looked at me. That moment when you first saw me, told me everything I needed to know.”
His voice sounded dull, dead, but a muscle ticked in his jaw, once and then again. He tilted his head. “You told me once that you pictured me as I was, because you had nothing else to go on. How do you feel now that you know this was the face that was above you as I fucked you in the dark?”
He was being crude in order to rattle her, to push her away. Okay then, she’d be honest. “Of course I pictured you as you were. I had nothing else to go on. Now I do. And I like what I see, every scar. Even more because it’s you. Not as you were then, but as you are now. It only took me a moment to merge the two. But you, you haven’t managed to do it over eight years.”
Jonah laughed, and there was both a cruel edge to it and a note of desperation as though he were forcing himself to be cold, and it was costing him. “This”—he motioned toward his face—“is really what you want? You want to see this face looking down at you?”
God, why was that so hard to believe? His scars were extensive, yes. The burns he’d sustained made her cringe internally, not because they were ugly, but because she wept inside considering the pain he’d endured.
“Yes, actually. I never gave you any reason to think I didn’t. You misread my reaction, Jonah, I told you that. And I think inside you know it or you wouldn’t have been concerned about me pushing you into anything. I’m here, aren’t I? Back again, willing to risk appearing a fool. You’re the one pushing me away. Maybe you don’t want to look at me. Maybe you enjoy picturing someone else. Maybe you prefer the darkness, Jonah, because you don’t like what you see when you look at me in the light.”
He stared at her, his body frozen, his expression momentarily baffled. “You think that?”
“I have no reason not to. I’m here, offering myself to you, and you’re rejecting me. What else should I think?” She was bluffing. He’d only ever made her feel beautiful. But maybe turning the tables on him this way would make him see how ridiculous he was being. “Maybe you wouldn’t have looked twice at me in your previous life. Maybe you’re settling for me now because you think I’m all you can get, but you’d rather keep the lights off when you’re with me.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” he growled.
“Really? Were there many girls who stopped by your gate then? Lots of other choices?”
“Clara, stop. I see what you’re doing.”
“Do you? What am I doing? Telling the truth?”
“You know that’s not true. You know I want you.” His words were spoken harshly, that same muscle in his jaw ticking.
“Do you? You weren’t ready to show your face, sure, but with the lights off, who were you seeing? One of those perfect society girls you used to date? The ones I saw when I looked you up? Were you picturing one of them, Jonah? The curvy redhead maybe or—”
“Stop it. I want you far more than I ever wanted any of them.”
Present tense, Clara thought. Good. But not enough. “Prove it.”
They stood staring at each other for a frozen moment and then another as Clara’s heart sank in her chest. There were sounds around them, she was sure of it, but all she could hear was the rush of her own blood in her ears. She had thrown the ball into his court and now, if he wasn’t going to respond, she was going to have to be willing to walk away. Jonah continued to watch her, still and tense. Unmoving.
Clara’s shoulders dropped, though she lifted her chin. “For a man who used words for a living, your silence speaks volumes, counselor.” Her voice emerged as barely more than a pained whisper though she knew he heard her by the clenching of his jaw. She paused for another beat and then with an aching heart, turned back onto the path that led out of the wooded area.
There was a loud exhale of breath and then sudden movement behind her and before she could turn back, Jonah’s hand was on her arm, and he spun her toward him as he crushed his mouth to hers. Yes, yes, yes! Her heart thrilled, expanding with joy. He wasn’t going to let her walk away. She reached up, wrapping her arms around him, gripping him to her. She’d hoped she would push him to touch her, to kiss her, for she knew he would turn away if she tried to take the lead, and he needed not only to be told but to experience the fact that she wanted him just as much with nothing between them.
She wanted all of him, and she wanted to show him. But she hadn’t expected quite so much . . . hunger. He walked her backward until something touched her calves and a short grunt of fear burst from her as she fell backward into the unknown.
But his hands were on her, guiding her as she fell, her backside hitting something smooth and solid. A bench. Yes, she thought she remembered a wooden bench off to the side.
He was above her now, his mouth still devouring hers as he braced one knee next to her hips, holding the nape of her neck as she kissed him back just as fiercely.
He came over her and she lay back on a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a plea. This kiss was born of desperation, of hurt, perhaps of a sprinkling of anger too, and she didn’t care. All she cared about was that his lips were on hers and there was nothing between them anymore. She was sorry she’d hurt him, sorry he’d felt betrayed, but she
was not sorry it had led to this. Us. You and me. Face to face, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“You like this, Clara?” he growled, lifting his face so she could look at it closely, pressing his hard body into hers.
She brought a finger up and ran it over the slope of his cheekbone, over the ridged skin of his jaw, her thumb running along the frown of his bottom lip.
“Yes,” she whispered, bringing her lips back to his.
For a moment he didn’t kiss her back, but then all at once, his tongue lapped into her mouth and he let out a tortured groan, weaving his fingers into her hair and pulling her even closer as though attempting to meld their bodies.
Clara gripped him back, wrapping her legs around his hips and lifting herself toward him, a silent plea. He moaned and then pressed his groin to hers, pinning her there.
He nipped the skin of her throat and she pulled his hair, both of them panting as their mouths met and then moved to some other needy patch of skin: his ear, the base of her throat, his fingers as she sucked them into her hot mouth, and he made a raw sound of lust that shot straight between her legs in a warm rush of wetness.
He took a nipple in his mouth, pulling at it through the material of the sweater dress she was wearing, and she tipped her head back, gasping in pleasure.
She was delirious with it, delirious with him, as he brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her as he lifted her dress, lowering her underwear. And then she heard the sound of a button being unsnapped and the drag of a zipper and a few moments after that, he was pushing inside of her, the slickness of her arousal, easing the way.
“Oh, Jesus. Clara. Clara,” he murmured. She ran her fingers through his hair, kissing the scarred side of his forehead. He paused, breathing harshly against her throat for a beat before beginning to move.
“Yes,” she said again. “I like this. You.”
The mood between them changed, softened, and his movements became less frantic, his kiss slower as he glided steadily in and then out, the controlled strokes inflaming her and driving her pleasure higher . . . higher, until she tipped over the edge, crying out his name a moment before he shuddered inside of her.
He pulled away from her then, disengaging, not looking her in the eye as he fastened his pants and then dragged her underwear up her thighs and lowered her dress. He looked at her then and there was something in his gaze . . . possession maybe? But mixed with a sort of sorrow.
“Jonah.”
He sat beside her on the bench as she sat up and for a moment they both stared into the trees, the shadows of dusk gathering.
She looked at him in profile, the damaged side of his face the only part she could see in that moment, and still he was beautiful. As beautiful as that photo she’d first gazed upon on the library monitor what seemed like a thousand years before. More beautiful maybe, because the scars she was looking at spoke of the fact that he’d tackled a man with a gun in his hand and a bomb strapped to his chest while everyone else was running away.
It spoke of his suffering, but ultimately of his heroism, his care and concern for others, his soul, and God, she hoped those scars would speak of his triumph.
“I would have looked twice at you,” he said. “Then. Now. In any lifetime, and under the brightest of skies.” His voice was low, soft. Sad. She took his hand in hers and he tilted his head, glancing down at their laced fingers. “I’m sorry for the things I said, for being cruel.” He blew out a slow breath. “I do forgive you. But I can’t live a life you want me to. Or one you deserve,” he said softly. “Especially”—his words fell off as if he’d decided against saying whatever he’d been about to say—“especially the way it would be, Clara. You have no idea.”
He turned his head then, showing her both sides of his face, the man he’d once been, and the one he was now. “Do you want people shuddering when we walk into a restaurant together? Staring? Whispering? Saying ugly things?”
“It’s you who can’t handle that, Jonah. Not me. You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter.” She let go of his hand and ran her finger along the ridges of his damaged chin.
He lowered his eyes, so much shame still obvious in his drawing away from her. She wanted to weep for him. She wanted to shake him until he saw sense.
And it was suddenly clear to Clara why he still carried so much pain with him regarding his damaged face. He’d mentioned several times the way people had looked at him directly following the bombing, the horror in their gazes. He’d brushed it off, said he’d deserved it, but Clara realized now that those looks, the rejection that had come along with them when he had needed love and understanding so very much, had hurt him deep down in his heart and soul.
The scars he wore on the outside were only skin deep. It was the scars he’d sustained within that still pulled the tightest. They hadn’t healed, not all of these years. Not only that, but he’d built a life on those internal scars, told himself a story about himself based on every flinch he’d received, every day since.
“Jonah,” she whispered and he met her gaze. “It’s you who doesn’t realize that you should hold your head high and wear those scars like the courageous battle wounds they are. I would walk proudly into any restaurant with you. And you would keep your eyes on me, not anyone else. On me, Jonah. And who cares if people stare? Those scars you’re so ashamed of are proof that you threw yourself at a madman while everyone else ran away.”
“I told you, I didn’t do that on purpose.”
He was lying to himself, but fine, she wouldn’t argue the point further if he wanted to insist running toward a madman holding a firearm was an instinctive act, something anyone would have done when no one else did. She would make a concession there for more important points.
“Was it an accident that you patrolled streets in order to make people feel safe? Did you do a dozen other good deeds that they spoke of on the news because you simply stumbled upon them? You helped a woman get surgery for her son when she was unable. Or was that done without thought as well?”
“No. But I was covered up. And throwing money at people isn’t brave.”
Clara released a frustrated sigh. God, this man was stubborn. And he was going to stubbornly hold on to the ridiculous lies he’d been subsisting on. Maybe even, in some sick way, they were comforting to him. An excuse. Rejecting them would mean he’d have to be willing to walk past that wall of his and out into the world again.
“No,” she said, choosing to ignore his statement and instead answer the question she’d posed on her own. “You did it because those scars you’re so ashamed of caused you to suffer, yes, but also to learn and to grow and to use your pain for good.”
He stared off into the last of daylight fading beyond the horizon, his expression unmoved. “You should go. It’s getting dark.”
Clara’s heart constricted, pain rising inside of her but she pushed off the feeling of desperation. Mrs. Guillot had been right. She would find peace in the knowledge that she’d given it her all, tried her very best to convince Jonah that she was not ashamed of him and that he must find a way to hold his own head high. But if, in the end, he insisted on pushing her away, it would be up to him to find his own peace. Without her. Because he would never accept his face before he accepted his soul.
Clara pressed her lips together, looking off in the same direction as him for a moment, her heart feeling as if it were cracking down the middle. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about what Mr. Knowles told you? The phone . . .”
He was quiet for a moment before he finally said, “No. And I don’t feel like talking about it.”
That might have hurt Clara most of all. They’d been intimate, yes. He’d made love to her only minutes ago. But since they’d met, he’d been her friend, her deepest confidant, the person she talked everything through with. And she’d felt like she was that same person for him. And now to be shut out of his thoughts, his world, was like a blade to her heart. He’d said he forgave h
er, but maybe that wasn’t completely true. “You can trust me, Jonah.”
He let out a sound that was something between a laugh and a moan. “Maybe you shouldn’t trust me, Clara. My own brother couldn’t.”
She watched him for a moment. Yes, that had to wound him deeply. Maybe he wouldn’t talk to her, but she’d been thinking about the whole situation for several days now, and she had something to say to him about Justin. “Your brother—”
“Clara.”
“No, Jonah, I’ll leave because you want me to, but I’m going to say this first. I went through that folder your brother put together about the Chamberlain family history, each note he made, each thought he jotted down, and I feel like I gained insight on the kind of man he was. Just a little but enough to say this.”
Clara took a deep breath. “Your brother should have shared what he knew with you, instead of being vague. But he didn’t because he believed you would blow him off unless he had concrete evidence. Was he wrong?”
Jonah stared out at the trees, quiet for so many beats, Clara didn’t think he’d answer her. “I don’t know.”
“You feel betrayed by everyone, and the rest of them deserve that and more. But your brother, Jonah, he had your best interests at heart. He was a man, like you, trying to make good choices, trying to do right by the people he loved, trying to be the opposite of your father who’d hurt him as he’d hurt you. His choices weren’t always the right ones, but anything bad that happened because of them was not intentional. He wasn’t perfect, and I think all of these years you’ve pretended he was. You’ve put him on a pedestal and created some sort of saintly caricature in your mind. He wasn’t saintly. He was just a man. Just your brother. But I believe with all of my heart that he loved you, and he’d want the best for you now.”
Clara stood and watched as Jonah’s hand trembled and came up off of the bench where it had lain. He was going to reach for her. Hope ballooned and then burst when it dropped back onto the wood. His eyes remained downcast.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, and she could hear the regret in his tone, the sorrow. And it increased hers because it didn’t have to be this way if only he’d see it. “I’m sorry I stole the magic of this place from you.”