by Kylie Brant
She reentered the room and handed him a beer, one he’d stocked her refrigerator with himself. She waited as he twisted off the top and dropped it in her outstretched hand. Then he brought the bottle to his mouth and tipped it, his eyes sliding shut in appreciation for the icy taste. Her lips curved, and she lingered, watching him. She liked to see him like this, comfortable and relaxed, or as relaxed as he ever seemed to get. It was little enough to do for him, after all he’d done for her.
“When did you get home? This afternoon?”
He took another healthy swallow before answering. “Early this morning. Drove all night.”
“And...” she prompted. Sometimes it was as if words were as precious as nuggets of gold to him, he used them so sparingly. He had always been more open with her than with anyone else, but that wasn’t saying much. Whenever he went away for a few days, it was like he closed up again, and she had to start over, coaxing him to talk to her.
He reached up to tug on a strand of her long dark hair. “And,” he mocked, “it was a routine run to Dallas. Complete with endless summer road crews, detours and a blown tire outside of Georgia.”
“Yikes.” She grimaced and then laughed. “Sounds like every trucker’s nightmare. Bet you’re glad you’re not assigned to drive the long runs for the company very often.”
“Yeah.” He released her hair, and his expression blanked again. “Real glad.” He changed the subject, watching her through hooded lids. “So. What have you been up to lately?”
“I finished that piece I was working on when you left. Do you want to see it?”
“Of course.”
She fetched it from her bedroom and handed it to him. The seconds he spent studying the intricately worked pottery seemed to stretch interminably. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a schoolgirl waiting while her teacher read her English assignment. Finally his pale gray gaze lifted to hers.
“It’s good, Ellie. You’re good.”
His simple, sincere words filled her with a quick burst of pleasure, the use of his name for her warming her as much as his praise. He was the only one who called her “Ellie,” the name growing out of a joke when they’d first met. “I’m glad you like it. It’s yours.”
His face went still. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. C’mon, Sullivan, what’s the matter? Afraid it won’t go with the rest of that bachelor decor of yours?” she teased, crossing to the love seat and sitting down.
“You shouldn’t be giving these pieces away. They’re worth money. I keep telling you, these would sell.”
She leaned back on the love seat comfortably. They’d had this discussion before and knowing Sully, would again. He believed in the dripping water-on-a-stone methodology; for a man of few words, it was amazing how often he repeated some of them. She valued his opinion for what it was, an expression of faith of one friend in another. And they were friends, had been for years. She knew without asking that he had few others.
“I was thinking of you when I threw it,” she replied honestly, referring to the term used for shaping the wet clay. “I made it for you.”
His eyes slowly left the piece in his hands and lifted to hers. She held his gaze, feeling a flush crawl up her cheeks. She wondered if anyone besides the artist would see the similarity in the piece of pottery and the man before her. She’d carried an image of him in her mind for weeks, so as to best design something that reflected him. Narrow at the bottom, the piece gradually broadened to the top in sleek, masculine lines. It embodied strength rather than beauty, solidity and endurance. It had seemed strangely intimate while she’d worked on it, as if she’d invaded his very personal boundaries with the constant thought of him.
“I’m honored. Thank you.”
Her smile bloomed in response to his gruff words. He refused to listen to her gratitude, so she’d thanked him with the only talent she had, and the knowledge lay unspoken between them. She didn’t know what she would have done without him six months ago when the world had tilted on its axis, and thrown her life a-kilter.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes were sharp, she thought ruefully, at least when it came to her. Her voice was easy when she answered. “I was just thinking of my long road to freedom.”
“Regretting that you didn’t try to get Carter back?” The casual tone, the expressionless face, couldn’t mask the sharpness in his gaze as he waited for her answer.
She shook her head, smiling slightly. “Not ever. There’s something about walking into his office and finding him with his pants unzipped and his pretty associate’s head in his lap that tends to void the unto-death-do-us-part stuff.”
He studied her carefully, but she knew there would be no trace of shadows in her eyes. If there were, he’d have seen them. She’d never learned to mask her emotions well, and her efforts would be pitiful when confronted with Sully’s piercing gray regard. He had a way of stripping away pretenses to discern the true feelings beneath. Although it was Carter who worked as a county prosecutor, she’d often thought Sully would have made a formidable one himself. Faced with that stoic presence, criminals would be likely to blubber out their crimes.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t suggested this apartment.”
He shrugged. “It was next to mine, it was empty and cheap. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” she echoed softly. But it had been. For a woman who had gone right from her mother’s tiny house to a college dorm room, then to being the wife of a man like Carter Robinson, it had been a very big deal. She’d had nowhere to go when she’d left her husband. Even now the memory of that helplessness, that utter sense of despair, was enough to make her chest go tight. She’d had no money, because Carter had controlled that. She had no friends, because they had been carefully selected by her husband, as well.
All except Sully. Ever since they’d met on the college campus, she and Sully had formed a bond, one that she’d refused to break even when she’d fallen in love with Carter and he’d demanded it. The two men had despised each other from the first, and her efforts to bring them together had failed miserably. She’d learned that it was better to see Sully by herself, occasionally meeting him for coffee or lunch. Refusing to drop her friend had been the only thing she’d ever denied Carter, and each time she’d seen Sully her husband had sulked like a child for days.
Not that she and Sully had always stayed in close contact. Months would go by without a word from him, and then he’d appear on her doorstep again. She’d tried to phone occasionally, but as he’d told her, he spent little time at home. His appearance at the shopping mall had seemed like one more oddity in that curiously fragmented day. She’d left Carter’s office blindly, not even realizing where she was going. Her world had shattered, and she’d had no idea how to go about repairing it.
Her chin rose. She’d never be that helpless again. The years of being Carter Robinson’s wife, with no life of her own, had slowly sapped her of her confidence. She’d grown to doubt every decision she’d made on her own, to secondguess every idea.
She’d accept part of the blame for allowing her self-confidence to erode, minuscule increments at a time. But she’d never forgive Carter for using her trust to deceive her in every way a man could. There were few absolutes in this world, but she thought honesty should be one of them. How peculiar that Carter, with his bright smile and disarming manner, had turned out to be so untrustworthy. Yet Sully, who was more guarded than anyone she’d ever known, more full of secrets, should be so dependable.
She slid a look at the man frowning at her from the recliner. He’d babied her, cosseted her, bullied her. It was he who had brought her to his building, he who had arranged for her to rent the small apartment next to his. He’d loaned her the money, taken care of the paperwork and even called her attention to the gallery’s Help Wanted ad in the newspaper. Two and a half years toward a degree in art history hadn’t been much in the way of marketable ski
lls, but the job, if not high paying, was at least in her field. She was supporting herself, without taking a thing from Carter. She hadn’t wanted anything from their house except some clothes, her potter’s wheel and her kiln.
As if he had read her mind, an uncanny habit of his, he said soberly, “The divorce is going to be final soon.”
She nodded, her eyes steady on his. She knew he worried that she was still hurt by Carter’s actions, maybe even still had feelings for him, but he was wrong, as she’d told him many times before. The sense of betrayal hadn’t faded, however, and the final scene with her husband still rankled. Those two things had been enough to kill any lingering love she’d felt for him.
She’d been a naive nineteen-year-old when she’d met Carter at the University of Miami. She’d been charmed by him immediately, and a little awed—the tall, good-looking president of the law review actually paying attention to her, Elizabeth Bennett, a shy little mouse on a needs scholarship. He’d seemed like a god to her then, she remembered uncomfortably, as if the heavens had showered all their gifts and most had landed at this man’s feet. They’d dated for a year and a half, continuing after he’d graduated law school and gone on to land a job with the Miami prosecutor’s office.
It hadn’t taken much convincing for him to coax her to drop out of college and marry him. She’d been young, in love for the first time, and their life together had seemed tinged with gold. She could always go back to school later, he’d assured her, to finish her degree. But in the eight years they’d been married, “later” had never come. There had been the fancy house to buy, to decorate and then to keep running smoothly. There were his associates to entertain, his clubs to join, luncheons to host. Despite her pleas, there had not been children, either, a fact she was now grateful for. It had taken all the strength she’d had to leave when there was only herself to consider. She didn’t know where she would have found the courage if there had been a child to fight over.
She liked her life now, though by Carter’s standards it would seem meager. Not having things had never bothered her, but she supposed it would have troubled her more if she’d had to ask a child to exchange their opulent life for her current one.
“With the divorce final—” Sully raised the bottle again, his voice mild “—you’ll get your settlement.”
His words nettled her. “I never wanted that money, and you know it. You browbeat me into agreeing to it.”
“He owes you.”
“I won’t spend it.”
“You could use some of the money to get yourself a decent place to live.”
She cocked her head. She’d learned to read between the lines with Sully, because the lines were so infrequent. Did he want her to find a different place, or was he afraid that she would? She couldn’t tell. Although they’d been friends for over ten years, she was very aware that in some ways she didn’t know him at all. “This is a decent place.”
“You’ll be able to afford a bigger apartment, in a better part of town.”
“I don’t want to leave you.” The words didn’t come out exactly as she’d planned. Their gazes met, and for once the habitual cool remoteness was absent from his. Instead, it was pierced with a hot, unidentifiable emotion, one that sent an answering arrow of heat straight to the pit of her stomach.
“I mean, I’m happy where I’m at,” she added hastily, and watched, fascinated, as his eyes shuttered once again, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined his reaction. Although the words that had first tumbled off her tongue had dismayed her, there was more than an element of truth in them. The bond between Sully and her had been immediate ten years ago, and had strengthened in the six months they’d been neighbors. She took comfort from their relationship, and she wasn’t anxious to have it change. If this was a topic Sully returned to, it would do him no good. He may have been instrumental in helping her regain confidence and her self-respect. A natural consequence was that she wouldn’t always agree with him, either.
“I may have a few regrets in my life,” she said, a note of finality in her voice, “but they don’t include ending my marriage or living here.” She tilted her head, and studied the man before her with real curiosity. “How about you, Sully? What are your regrets?”
Her question hit him with the force of a fastball to the midsection. The bottle in his hand paused imperceptibly, then continued its journey to his lips. He drank deeply, as if he could wash the taste of the lies from his mouth. But the lies that were a part of his relationship with Ellie were too firmly rooted in the past. And honesty seemed to have no place in their future.
Regrets. In the darkest hours of the night, they seemed to make up the greater part of his life. It was only with the coming of daylight that they could be successfully pushed back into a dark corner of his mind, where they would lie in wait to renew their stranglehold the next time his guard was down.
He lowered the bottle and contemplated the label. “What makes you think I have any?”
She lifted a shoulder, a careless, graceful movement. “We all do, don’t we? I know I often find myself wishing I’d gotten a degree before I got married. Do you ever wish that?”
“That I’d finished college? No.” It was a relief each time he was able to offer her a small slice of truth. It hadn’t been a degree he’d been after, at any rate, when he’d posed as a student on the campus where they’d met. “College life wasn’t for me.”
She was watching him with that serious quizzical expression he knew too well. She wasn’t going to leave the subject alone. She had a philosophical side to her, one that could carve just a little deeper than he was comfortable with.
“But sometimes one choice we make can affect the rest of our lives.” She grimaced. “Like meeting Carter did for me. If you’d gotten a degree, your life might be different, too. You wouldn’t be driving a truck, for example.”
The condensation on the bottle had dampened the label. Sully sent his thumbnail under the edge and carefully loosened it His tone was bored. “What’s wrong with driving a truck?”
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. She was aware that he was being deliberately obtuse. The trouble with their tenyear friendship was that she knew him better than anyone else. And yet not at all.
“Nothing is wrong with driving a truck. As long as you’re happy doing it. I’m just saying that one of our choices can limit or expand all our future ones. That’s what causes regrets.”
Another movement of his thumb, and he had half of the label free. He didn’t need the lecture on regrets. He could have filled volumes with his personal knowledge of the subject He slowly raised his gaze and studied the woman before him. The one who symbolized one of the biggest regrets in his life.
Her long dark hair framed her face, inviting a man’s hand to push it back over her shoulder, to linger and stroke. His fingers clenched more tightly around the bottle.
“We make choices and then we live with the results,” he said flatly. “What good is looking back?”
She made a face. He knew she rarely agreed with his terse, often cynical views. How could she? Sometimes he marveled that a person as trusting as she had managed to survive this life with that aura of innocence intact. It gave him all the more reason to want to protect her. All the more reason to keep their two worlds from colliding. Because that would be a regret he could never live with; if somehow she was threatened by the ugliness he immersed himself in daily.
Tact was a quality that he lacked, but one she had in abundance. As if aware of the dark turn his thoughts had taken, she seamlessly shifted subjects. “You didn’t by any chance bring me a souvenir from Dallas, did you?”
“What’d you want, one of those little hats and a set of six-shooters?”
“You didn’t even think of me, did you?” she accused good-naturedly. “Lucky for you, I’m going to let you make it up to me.”
“I’m scared to ask.”
“You can order takeout for us tonight.”
He didn’t smile, bu
t his mood lightened a fraction. When he was with her, it was easy to forget and far too easy to pretend. She was a brilliant splash of color in his dreary, sepia-toned world. He was man enough to appreciate her, but not a good enough man to leave her be. So he continued his balancing act, one that allowed him to get so close and no closer.
“Pretty slick the way you worked that in.”
She attempted to look modest. “Thank you. I thought so.”
“What are you hungry for?”
“Pizza?”
“And just how many times have you eaten pizza this week? Or other carryout?” Her silence was all the answer he needed. “Forget it. You have to eat decently once in a while. We’ll prepare a real meal.” He rose from the recliner to make his way to her kitchen.
“‘We’ll’?” she repeated dubiously. “I’ve seen your skills in the kitchen, Sullivan. You don’t have any.”
“I can help.” His affronted tone wasn’t totally feigned. He inspected the contents of her freezer, and withdrew some chicken. Then he unloaded her refrigerator of its meager contents of milk, ketchup and lettuce, and started rooting around in her cupboards. He’d leave the ingenuity of the combination of those ingredients to her. That was safest. He’d be the first to admit that he was no kind of cook.
She trailed out to the kitchen without enthusiasm, put the chicken in the microwave to thaw and then jumped when he opened her cupboard and all the pans clattered to the floor.
“Exactly what kind of help did you have in mind?”
He looked up from his position on the worn linoleum, where he was stacking the pans. “Well, every production needs a director. That’s what I’ll do. Direct. And of course, I’ll take care of everything you don’t feel like eating.”
“Thanks,” she said wryly. “Like the saying goes, with friends like you...”
His voice was devoid of amusement as he finished the quote.