“Tasty?” Ryland asked.
Her eyes flittered open and she caught his subtle grin. “It’s stupid good.”
“Stupid good? When did you revert to a sixteen year old girl?”
“If you can’t beat them. Join ‘em.” She scraped the surface of the crème brûlée and shoved another bite in her mouth.
“How can you possibly have room in that tiny body for more food?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been training since I moved to New Orleans. I rarely eat out, but when I do, I want to enjoy every taste and nibble on my plate—and occasionally on my friends’ plates. In the Crescent City, food is nearly a religious experience. If God eats, I think His chef is from New Orleans.”
Ryland chuckled. “Don’t let your dad hear you reference God so casually. He might just ground you.” He slipped the tip of his fork into the edge of the dish and tasted the dessert. “Aww, man, that is good.”
“Told you.”
“I should never question your judgment.”
“Keep that in mind, would you?”
“Always. I’ll always trust you. Promise.” Lacing his fingers with her free hand, he lightly stroked his thumb against her palm. Warm liquid seemed to seep through her fingers, sliding down her arm and settling in a pool around her heart.
With an involuntary head tilt, her loose hair brushed the edge of the table. How had she spent so many years hating Ryland? Now all she could see were the years stretched out before her—each day including Ryland and Emma—hopefully with his hand linked with hers.
The discreet waiter slid their bill on the table and Ryland reached for it before she could bulk.
“Thank you.”
Lifting his gaze from the bill, he smiled. “I invited you to dinner. I’ve only been waiting twenty years for this night. Who knew praying for patience would develop into such a long term strategy.” He refocused on the bill.
She scanned the half full dining room. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how busy the German Village establishment was. Couples and parties ranging from two to twelve were in various states of meal consumption. She glanced from the tables to the bar jammed with business men. A few were watching the basketball game on the TV’s. Some were chatting with each other. But one, dressed in rumpled khakis and a polo, appeared to be directly staring at her. Fear sent cold footprints racing down her spine.
She shot a glance over her shoulder to see if polo-man was really looking at her. A few famous musicians and artists made their homes in Columbus for the blissful anonymity. Maybe he’d spotted one of the local rich and famous. But the only person behind her was a woman in her near eighties shuffling to the bathroom.
“Ryland…”
“Hmm…” He slid his credit card on the tray. His relaxed expression quickly transformed to concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you know the man sitting at the bar? The one in the blue polo shirt.”
Ryland glanced over his shoulder and his entire body tensed. With a quick shove against the table, Ryland shot to stand and his chair teetered, threatening to crash to the ground. He closed the distance between the bar and their table in three strides. A single hand clamped around the man’s shoulder as Ryland encouraged polo-man to follow him outside.
Tessa snatched her handbag from the table and scurried after them, stopping briefly to tell the waiter they’d be back. She pushed open the 19th century door.
Ryland’ voice was low but held a palpable threat in each word.
Polo-man was pinned to the brick wall—his feet barely touching the broken pavement.
“Ryland.”
He didn’t turn, but maintained his steely focus on his prey. “Tessa, go back in the restaurant. I’ll be finished in a few minutes.”
Sliding behind him, she rested her palm against his broad back—taut with the pressure of holding polo-man still. “Ryland, do you want to introduce us?”
“Tessa, go back inside.”
“I’m not leaving you alone. Not until you tell me what’s happening.”
He shifted to face Tessa. Polo-man remained firmly attached to the restaurant’s brick wall. “Tess, I don’t want you in the middle of this.”
“But she is,” Polo-man choked through his lips.
“What?” Tessa and Ryland said in unison.
“I’ll explain, but I’ll need more than a sip of oxygen to talk.”
Ryland released his hold and Polo-man slipped to the ground.
“Talk.” One word. Arms folded tightly, shirt straining against bulging muscles, Coach Jessup wasn’t going anywhere.
Rubbing his neck, the man reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper. Handing the paper to Tessa, a sneer stretched his lips. “It’s all there, beautiful.”
The creases from the quarter folds made the paper delicate, masking the age of the paper dated three days earlier. The headline from that morning’s issue read:
Troubled Taylor? Or Wicked Woman?
Under the headline was a picture of Tessa cuddled to Ryland’s side outside the hospital in New Orleans. The brief article described Joey’s accident, including details around his night at the casino with the unknown driver. The article from the Times-Picayune went on to hypothesize Joey’s off the rails night was a result of his best friend stealing his girlfriend. The writer hinted at a torrid love triangle started in high school, but ultimately surmised Tessa was stringing both men along to gain access to their dirty secrets to sell to the highest bidder, supporting her career.
Waves of nausea billowed and crashed in her stomach as each word poured through her mind and broke her heart. Blinking back tears she tried to focus on the man. “Did you write this?” she whispered.
“Tessa, sweetheart,” Ryland said as he touched a finger to her chin, “what does it say?”
The concern displayed in his gray eyes broke the dam holding her tears. Warm streaks mingled with the cold night air, instantly chilling her cheeks. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rested against his solid chest. The warmth of his strong arms enveloped her, shielding her from the worries and fears that pounded her at the reading of five hundred words. Five hundred words that dragged her back to the swirl of the toilet.
“It says she’s a black widow mercenary.” Polo-man answered. “Willing to do anything for a buck and a story.”
“What?” Ryland stepped back, staring at her.
She handed him the crumpled paper.
Shoulders straightened. Jaw pulsed. Fingers tightened. Controlled anger oozed. But he remained silent. No words of protest. No words of defense. Just silence.
Tessa sucked in a deep cleansing breath against the tears threatening to resume. She stepped to Polo-man. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“Babe, it’s all about the story. And you’re it.”
“How am I the story?” But with the question, the weeks of hiding in her apartment after the terrible, awful day crashed against her. The incessant photographers capturing her every move bombarded her memory. Flashes of running from paparazzi with her groceries scattering along the brick-lined street. Articles subtly claiming she crafted the break-in to cover her trail of deceit. Not again. Please, dear God, not again. Her breaths shortened. Lungs wouldn’t fill. The throb of a migraine began at the base of her skull.
“You are the ultimate player. Pastor’s kid who spent her life in the shadows. Piling up peoples’ secrets. Waiting for the perfect moment to let them loose. You have that innocent girl look about you. Makes men fall for you. You draw them in close enough to stab them in the back.”
Polo-man slithered, loomed over her, the breadth of him blanketing her from the street light. His sneer sent chills racing over her flushed skin.
With barely a breath, Ryland yanked the man from Tessa and tossed him to the street.
“Hey, that’s assault!” He lifted his gaze to the valet watching the scene. “You saw him. Didn’t you? I want to press charges.”
“I didn’t see anything but
three people having a conversation.” He nodded to Ryland. “Good to see you, sir.”
Ryland tilted his chin to the young man with a smile of recognition. “Nice to see you, too, Gage.”
“You’ll be hearing from my attorney.” Polo-man shouted as he scrambled to his feet and ran down the alley.
Tessa rested against the brick wall, afraid she was moments from collapse.
Ryland watched the alley as if he was waiting for an attack by reinforcements.
What must he think of her? He must know the article was all conjecture. None of it was true. Right? “Ryland?”
His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “We should get going.” He handed Gage his valet ticket.
“Ryland?”
“I need to settle the bill.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill. “Do you mind waiting for the car?”
Before she could respond he disappeared through the door. An invisible weight settled on her chest. What if Ryland didn’t believe her? Was this the moment? Were they done before they ever really started?
34
The drive back to Gibson’s Run was stiff with silence, punctuated with haunting melodies floating through the radio.
Tessa was tempted to talk through the altercation, but she didn’t know where to start. Fear kept her lips vacuum-sealed—fear of what Ryland was thinking. Fear of what Ryland now believed of her. She’d come to rely on his consistent strength. His unwavering support. Even in the wake of her dreadful treatment of him, he was a good man. A man after God’s own heart who professed to love her. And if she could really fathom it, he had loved her since he was barely older than Emma. But could his love be so tenuous that someone’s lie built on a house of lies could cause his love to disintegrate in a moment?
The steering wheel was swallowed by Ryland’s hands. He was hunched forward, and yet his head nearly brushed the top of the SUV. The pulse in his jaw kept time with the music. The tick, tick, tick of the turn signal sliced through the cabin, the sound heralding their arrival in Gibson’s Run.
If she didn’t talk to him about the reporter now, she wouldn’t have a chance. They’d be swept into the whirlwind of her dad and Emma. Of keeping the conversation light and happy the way they were over dinner. Only an hour ago, when they were laughing about the size of Tessa’s pork chops compared to the petite fillet set in front of Ryland.
“We need to talk about what happened.”
Silence.
“I didn’t tell any reporters anything. I haven’t spoken to a reporter since I released a statement about the break-in last fall. And even then all I said was my apartment was burglarized and I lost all of my clients’ notes. Nothing else. Nothing about who my clients were or their stories. Nothing. I’d never tell anyone anything I wasn’t given permission to share.”
Tick, tick, tick. The turn signal announcing the shift onto Main Street.
“I didn’t tell anyone anything, Ryland. You have to believe me.”
Ryland slammed the car into an open spot in front of the police station.
Her neck whipped her head to the left with a jolt. “Whoa!”
“Sorry.” Ryland mumbled, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel.
“Why are you stopping in the middle of town?”
“You wanted to talk. So talk.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted in her seat to face his profile.
He focused straight ahead—staring into the murky gray of small town evening.
“When the terrible, awful day happened, Evanston and Evanston released a statement that one of their writers had been violated allowing for several clients’ secrets to be exposed. Within two, maybe three days, I had reporters camped out on my front step looking for a statement or some slip of gossip, but I never said anything. Nothing.”
Scrubbing his face with his hand, he released a sigh. “I was contacted today.”
“By a reporter?”
He nodded.
“Is that why you grabbed Polo-man?”
“Polo-man?”
“He needed a name. Butt-face Miscreant seemed too long.”
Her joke tugged a subtle tilt of his lips. “I thought he was following me. Not you.”
“Why?”
“The call today was about Macy and her relationship with Everett Tanner.”
Tessa’s heart twisted. “How did a reporter find out about Macy?”
“Apparently there’s a tell-all coming out about Tanner, his wife, and his women.”
Stretching her hand across the console, she linked her fingers through his. “I’m so sorry, Ryland. I know you wanted to keep Macy’s actions in the past.”
“But what I don’t understand is how anyone found out.”
“You said the reporter said he was confirming a story from a book?”
“It appears they know everything. Including her state of mind the night she died.” He met her gaze. “I’ve only told one person other than my mother about Macy. And that’s you.”
“Ryland, what are you implying?”
“I don’t know, Tessa. What am I implying? You were the only one who knew about Macy’s indiscretions and about Joey’s accident. The article has a picture of the two of us in the paper. You’re the common link.”
Yanking her hand from his, she hugged her arms around her middle. “How am I the common link?”
“You knew both stories in their entirety. And that book coming out about Tanner? Your publisher’s printing it.”
“Former publisher. Remember. They fired me. After my apartment was robbed. After my home was violated, they kicked me to the curb without another thought. Why would I give them any information? How could I ever trust them again? How could you not trust me?”
“What a perfect way to get back in the game? Sell them a big story. Create another one.”
“Create one?”
“Ex-NFL linebacker jilted by his wife steals best friend’s girlfriend—also a famous athlete—while he’s recovering from a near death accident. Sounds like bestseller to me.”
“Are you kidding me? Do you think I’ve been lying to you? Who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re someone so desperate to get back into full time writing you’ve maneuvered yourself into my home by writing a children’s story with my daughter. I saw you in Terrell’s office. You were a crazed person with the thought you wouldn’t get back to your precious career. I think you were scared enough—desperate enough—to do anything. And the bonus. You get to pay me back for all of the years of torment you blame me for.”
“Watch it. You’re starting to sound like middle school through high school Ryland.”
He turned to her his face ravaged with grief and pain. “Isn’t that how you see me? How you see all of us? Haven’t you been judging me since we were six years old? All the while I’ve been trying to prove my heart to you? And now this…”
“Now this, what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Really? I want to believe you, but every single sign points to only one person. You.”
Sucking in her cheeks, she bit down. The acidic taste of blood flowed into her mouth, her tears threatening to burst over the edges. But she wouldn’t cry. She’d been a victim for too many years. She wouldn’t be one now. With a thick swallow, she dropped her hand to the door handle. “Ryland, you have to make a choice. Right now.” She kept her voice low, but clear. “Do you really believe I could do all of those things? Do you love me? Or do you love the idea of me?”
“I love you.” His tone didn’t match his words.
“If you love me. You have to trust me.” She stretched her left hand to him—palm up. “All in or all out.”
He dropped his focus to her hand.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Slow steady.
He’ll take your hand. He has to.
Love means trust.
Belief.
Hope.
Her right hand clutched the door handle.
> 35
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The crisp tang of bleach tickled her nose. Dragging her quilt under her chin, she drew another short breath and snuggled deeper into her pillows. Breathing was the height of accomplishment.
Her eyes flittered open. Sun peeked through her curtains slicing across pale yellow walls. Her childhood alarm clock flashed. She’d slept nearly ten hours, and yet her skin yawned with weariness. Had it been only twelve hours since the end of her future? When Ryland refused her hand, she’d opened the car door and walked. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t cried.
She’d buttoned her coat and walked the three blocks to her father’s home. Three blocks and across the threshold to a life without the love she’d come to require like basic sustenance.
Rolling to her side she stared at the faded rosebuds floating over her pillow case. Momma had surprised her with the fancy sheets when they’d bought her bed for her thirteenth birthday. Momma said flowers were always a comfort. “When you’re happy they enhance your joy. When you’re mad, sad, or a little blue, flowers lift your spirits. Breathe deep, baby girl, can’t you smell their sweet aroma?”
Momma’s magical flowers were failing miserably.
A soft knock at her door was followed by the squeak of the hinge in desperate need of some oil.
“Tessa?” Her dad’s whisper glided over her. The soles of his shoes scuffed against her floor until she felt the weight of him on the edge her bed.
“Sweetie? Are you sick?”
The touch of her dad’s wide palm to her shoulder triggered her first tear. With a swipe at her cheek, she pushed a slow breath through her lips. “I’m just tired.”
Life on the Porcelain Edge Page 24