“Like she was being hurt. You fear losing control, Jillian. You always have. And for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been jumpy about people coming up on you from behind. It makes sense now, doesn’t it?”
The imagery wouldn’t leave her head. Or the horrible equation formed by the child’s mind—if she dropped her guard, if she gave into arousal, she would be the naked woman being hurt.
“So how do I get past it?”
“Understanding is a part, but you know as well as I do that that only goes so far. Past a certain point, you just have to make yourself trust. You have to demonstrate to yourself that the possibility you fear isn’t the reality. With the right man, you could.”
“Gil?” she whispered.
Lois gave her a tender look. “Only you know the answer to that. Whoever it is, you’re going to have to tell him. He’ll need to know what he’s up against.”
“Tell him what, that I’m hopelessly screwed up?”
“You’re not hopelessly screwed up and you know it. You cope better than any trauma survivor I’ve ever seen. But life’s about more than coping, isn’t it? More than doing well at work. Don’t you deserve something more? And doesn’t he? You’ve got Gil operating in the dark right now. He doesn’t know why you’re pulling back. You need to trust him enough to at least tell him that, Jillian.”
“But what if I can’t? What if he doesn’t want to listen, can’t understand? What if he’s already decided that he wants no part of me?”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.”
“And there’s no way you will know until you try.” Lois smoothed a hand down her cheek. “Talk to him, Jillian. You owe it to both of you.”
Gil sat at work, ostensibly staring at his computer screen. In reality, he was staring into space. He’d been doing that a lot since the weekend.
He glanced at the phone again, fighting the temptation to pick it up and call Jillian. Every cell of his body protested at not doing it. He was a person of action, always more comfortable doing. For more than twenty years, the theme of his life had been when in doubt, pick up the phone and start making moves. Usually, that meant pursuing a source.
In this case, it meant calling Jillian.
He’d cheerfully have done it if he’d thought it would do any good but he wasn’t sure it would. What was going on with her wasn’t to do with him and she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to share the issue. Which gave him a choice. He could ignore her obvious wishes and press her, anyway, or he could give her her space and let her decide when to get in touch with him.
He’d gone with leaving it up to her. It had been his only choice, really, he’d reasoned, because if she didn’t open up to him out of choice, they didn’t really have much of a chance, anyway. Now, though, four days later, he was having second thoughts.
In a way, it was just another set of the boundaries she surrounded herself with. They’d talked, sure, but about politics, movies, music, things happening in Portland. Sometimes, she would relax and it was just fun, no picking his way, no mysteries, just feeling good, laughing together. Like the day they’d sailed on the Willamette. But whenever the talk turned to her, Jillian had always adroitly managed to shift it to another topic.
And he understood it but he’d grown continually more frustrated. He wanted to get past the shutters. There was so much strength and compassion to her but then there was the vulnerability that lay beneath, the suddenly frantic woman who’d struggled against him like a trapped bird. He needed to give her time, he knew it, and yet he wanted her so much it was like rocks in his gut.
They’d never gotten around to the promised interview. In some ways, he felt he knew her deeply by watching. In other ways, he wondered if he knew her at all.
And he wondered how you built a relationship with someone who kept you always on the outside.
At the tap on his door, he glanced up to see Mark Fetzer, one of his beat writers. “What’s up?”
“Got a minute?” Fetzer asked. “I’ve got a late-breaking story.”
“We just finished the afternoon news planning meeting.”
“Well, you’re going to want to make space, especially if you’re carrying that Seattle baby-kidnapping story.”
“Why?”
“Robbie Logan’s disappeared.”
Conflict hovered over Doug and Shelly Dolan as they faced Jillian for their weekly session. They sat now at different ends of the sofa, Shelly with her arms wrapped around herself. The tension between them was palpable. “I want to try another implant,” she said. “I know it didn’t work last time but I want to try it again. And Doug doesn’t want to but he won’t talk about why. He says money but that’s not it. He won’t tell me. He never tells me. He keeps it all bottled up inside. He won’t talk to anyone.”
“I talk,” Doug said.
“No, you don’t,” she flared. “I never know what you’re thinking. I feel like I’m the only one who’s going through this. I feel every day like I’m being sliced open but I say something to you and you just grunt.”
“I don’t grunt.”
“You do. It’s like I’m making a big deal out of nothing and you just wish I’d shut up.”
“You want to know what I think?” he burst out. “I want my wife back. I want my marriage back. I am so sick of everything being about making a baby. I want to be out somewhere with you and see a stroller or a pregnant woman and not start worrying about how to keep you from seeing it, or how you’ll react if you do. I want to go through one month without being in a cold sweat when it’s time for your period.” The words tumbled out. “I want to make love to my wife with only the two of us there, not the calendar and the thermometers and the doctors and the invisible baby floating around over it all.”
He slammed his hand down on the couch arm. “We’ve been trying to do this for so long that it’s not about us, anymore. Isn’t that the whole reason we wanted to have children in the first place, because we loved each other and wanted to give that kind of a home to a kid? What the hell kind of a home do we have now, huh? It’s baby, baby, baby, all the time. Aren’t we enough for each other?” he pleaded. “What, if you don’t have a baby you don’t want me anymore? Is that all I’m good for?”
He rose and stalked to the windows, hands on his hips, frustration vibrating through him. “It’s supposed to be about us.”
“It is about us,” Shelly said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We’ve got so much to give.”
“Hell, we can’t even give to each other right now. All we can do is obsess over the schedule. And every month I watch you and it just destroys me because there’s nothing I can do to fix it, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. I’m supposed to be a man and I can’t do my part.”
“It’s not you, we know that. It’s me.”
Doug crossed to the couch and folded Shelly into his arms. “Honey, you’re perfect. You always have been. But this baby stuff is tearing us apart and I can’t do it anymore. And I can’t stand by and watch you do it to yourself.”
“We’ve got so much love to give,” she whispered.
“Then let’s give it. I don’t give a damn if it’s got my nose or your eyes. All I want is to be a dad, to watch a kid grow, to play catch, to do the fun stuff and the hard stuff and make a family.”
“That’s what I want, too.”
“Then forget about the fertility treatments and the shots and the schedules. Let’s adopt. Jillian will help us with that,” he said, staring at her almost angrily. “Won’t you?”
She stood by her window and watched them leave the clinic together, walking across the street, Doug with his hand on the small of Shelly’s back. They would be okay, Jillian thought. They’d reached the moment of crisis and come together. There was more work to be done, but they’d get through it.
Because they were a unit.
At the far side of the street, the two of them stopped before their car. Doug opened the door f
or her. Shelly turned to touch his cheek and then suddenly they were pressed together, hugging one another and kissing as though they’d fly apart if they only let go.
And sudden longing knifed through Jillian. That was what made life worth having, that connection, that trust, that absolute intimacy. And abruptly she found herself yearning for Gil.
Tell him, Lois had said.
Three weeks before, Jillian had sat at the rehearsal dinner and decided to make a change. And she’d made one, a little one, but the effects had been ricocheting crazily through her life ever since. What she had to do now wasn’t little and it wasn’t easy. But if she wanted anything to be different, she had to do it.
Which meant picking up the phone.
She turned back to her desk. He hadn’t called. It had been four days and he hadn’t called. Maybe he’d been busy. Maybe he’d been out of town. Maybe he’d already written her off as too much trouble.
And maybe he was waiting for her.
Just do it.
Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the card he’d given her the first day. “I must be nuts,” she muttered to herself. It was Thursday. If he’d wanted to see her again, she would have heard from him. How pathetic to call him up when he didn’t want her. How much more pathetic to bring him a sad tale of woe.
But she missed him, pure and simple. She’d grown used to his company and life without him was less bright. It didn’t matter that he was involved with the paper, she missed the man she’d gotten to know.
And before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the phone and began to dial.
Gil stared at Fetzer, ignoring his ringing phone. “Robbie Logan’s gone?”
“Interesting news, eh? Seems our bright boy didn’t just resign from the Children’s Connection. He’s gone. Disappeared. Into the wind. Whsst.” Fetzer made a cutting motion across his neck.
“And no one knows where he’s at?”
“No one. Including his probation officer, according to my department mole.”
Violating probation. The courts had cut Robbie a deal because he’d helped shut down Charlie Prescott’s babynapping ring. If he really had disappeared without notice and the Corrections Department got wind of it, all bets would be off.
Gil shook his head. “I haven’t heard a word about this. Who’s your source?”
“A department secretary who works ob-gyn at Portland General. Seems she overheard a couple of family members talking last week.”
“You’re sure on this?”
“I staked out his house yesterday and today. No cars in the driveway until his wife came home. Neighbor guy out cutting his lawn said he hasn’t seen him since back in April. According to the court docs, he’s supposed to report to his P.O. monthly by phone.” Fetzer gave a wolfish smile. “Interesting, no? Makes you wonder where he’s gone.”
“Where who’s gone?” a voice asked, and they saw Russ Gleason in the doorway.
Gil cursed mentally. “Robbie Logan. He seems to be out of town.”
“Missing, more like. For at least the last three weeks, as near as I can figure,” Fetzer said with relish.
“A missing Logan.”
“A missing Logan who’s violating probation.”
Gleason’s eyes gleamed. “That ought to sell a few copies of tomorrow’s edition.”
“Russ, it’s not a story,” Gil protested. “If you left town or I left town voluntarily, would it be a story?”
“We’re not on probation.”
“He could be on vacation, visiting relatives, taking a course. There’s any number of reasonable explanations.” But none of them good enough to get Gil off the hook.
“It’s news,” Russ said flatly. “You know as well as I do.”
Gil checked his watch. Five-thirty. Getting close to deadline. “Have you talked to the family?” he asked Fetzer.
“Talked to the wife’s machine,” he replied.
“Then we hold until you reach someone,” Gil said.
“We’re gonna get scooped,” Fetzer protested. “This is news.”
“A story like this could wind up getting the guy tossed in the clink if we’re not careful,” Gil reminded him.
“Not our problem. It’s his choice.”
“I say run it and print any clarification on Saturday,” Gleason said.
“It’s my call, Russ.” Gil resisted the urge to rub his temples. He wanted, more than anything, to kill the story, but his only reason for doing so would be his feelings for Jillian.
The two halves of him were at war. One believed that his job was to inform, that there was honor in his work. The other, through Jillian, had begun to see the human cost of what he did. Except that if he didn’t run the story simply because of his feelings for the Logans, he’d be betraying readers and the best part of himself.
And if he did run it, he was desperately afraid he’d be losing Jillian forever.
The hell of it was, Fetzer and Gleason were right. The Gazette needed to carry the piece. There really wasn’t any choice at all.
Gil exhaled slowly and nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. “Write the story. If you get confirmation from somewhere, we’ll run it. But I don’t want speculation and I don’t want a witch hunt, Mark. We’re not the tabloids. We play it clean.”
Fetzer winked. “Just call me Squeaky.”
The silence of the office after they’d left seemed incongruous to Gil, given the magnitude of the decision he’d just made. It seemed as though he should have heard the roar of walls tumbling, ceilings falling in.
Instead, his cursor blinked serenely on his computer screen.
He had to call Jillian. He had to tell her. At the very least, he owed her that, and he owed it to himself. Taking a deep breath, Gil picked up the phone and dialed.
“Jillian Logan.”
The sound of that calm, cool, measured voice had him squeezing his eyes shut. To think he’d been worried about them before Fetzer had stuck his head in the door. What they’d been up against then was nothing compared to now. He gave a mental curse. “Jillian, it’s Gil.”
“Gil.” He heard pleasure and nerves in equal parts. “You got my message?”
“Message?” he repeated, and realized his voice mail light was blinking. “No, I didn’t. I’ve been in a conference. Listen, we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.” No pleasure now, just nerves. “That’s what the message was about. I was hoping we could get together tonight, if you’re not busy.”
“I’m not. When do you want to do it?”
“As soon as you like. I’m leaving now.”
“Now works for me,” he said, his mouth dry. “Want to meet at my place, say, fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll see you then,” she said.
He could picture her in her office, cool and tidy. And he hung up the phone with a feeling of doom.
Chapter Thirteen
Jillian rode the elevator up to Gil’s floor, watching the numbers light one at a time. She clutched her purse, her palms damp. It was the moment of truth. She just had to walk in and do it.
But what had seemed obvious and straightforward when she’d been talking to Lois was now almost overwhelming as she left the elevator to walk down the hallway and stand before his door.
For a long moment, she just focused on the paint, at the gold and burgundy stripes on the wallpaper beside it. It would be like going off the high dive when she was a kid: easy to contemplate, terrifying when she was up on the board, but over quickly so long as she just made herself start walking and took the leap.
The fatal pause was what would kill her.
Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.
He’d been pacing for a good five minutes when the knock came, pacing because he couldn’t stand still.
Because he dreaded the discussion to come.
Gil opened the door to see Jillian, dressed in one of her quiet, tidy business suits, a teasing hint of cream-colored lace in the vee of the necklin
e, her hair twisted up on top of her head. She almost vibrated with tension, strain hovering around the corners of her mouth. After four long days, he ached to touch her but there was too much between them. There were things he had to say.
Instead, he stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”
She walked inside, her movements abrupt and too quick. Anxiety rolled off her in waves. “Thanks for making time to get together.”
“Happy to do it,” he said. It was like they were talking about a business meeting, for Christ’s sake, instead of a discussion that could destroy everything. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head.
“How about a seat, instead?” He went over to the couch and, after a moment, she followed.
And then there was no more excuse to delay. “We need to talk,” he began.
“Yes,” she said, “we do.”
“There’s something you should know,” he said, but she shook her head.
“Please.” Her voice was tight with strain. “Let me go first.”
“Jillian, I have to tell you something.”
Her attempt at a smile didn’t quite make it. “Shh.” She put her fingertips against his lips. He could feel her trembling. “Please?”
“But—”
“There are things I need to tell you, too, and if I don’t start, I’m going to lose my nerve. Just let me talk.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Afterward, you can say whatever you like.”
Like had nothing to do with it. It was honor, pure and simple. But with her gazing at him in entreaty, looking as though she was holding herself together with pure nerve, what could he do but say yes? And helplessly, he nodded.
Jillian took a deep breath. “Things got a little strange the other night. And you asked me about what happened but I just wasn’t…” She shook her head. “I wasn’t in a place where I could talk about it. It’s funny. I counsel people all day about dealing with their feelings and their pasts, but when it comes to me—” she lifted her shoulder “—I don’t always do so well.”
Always A Bridesmaid (Logan's Legacy Revisited) Page 15