"Oh?"
She looked not condemning but sympathetic, and he found it easy to confide in her. "I went through the motions," he said. "I got a college degree, I took a desk job with a fancy title, I bought a nice overpriced house in the suburbs. I was faithful to my wife. We owned a cat and two Toyotas. But it never felt right to me."
Bonnie absorbed his words. "Of course it never felt right. Anyone could see you’re a dog person, Paul."
He grinned, impressed by her insight and grateful for her ability to leaven the conversation with humor. He’d never really warmed up to the cat the way Kathy had. Nor had he warmed up to Kathy’s approach to life. She used to close herself off whenever he wanted to tell her about what had happened in ’Nam, or whenever he awakened in the middle of the night, sweating and shivering. "It’s not healthy to dwell in the past, Paul," she used to chide him. "Put it away, already. Forget about it."
"If I were ever to get married again," he said quietly, "it would have to be with a woman who could take me as I am. I could never bottle myself up the way I did in my first marriage. My wife would have to take all of me...and that’s probably asking too much of any woman." He realized he was straying into areas best left untouched, and he silenced himself with a long drink of coffee.
Bonnie looked much too intrigued, and he braced himself for the possibility that she’d ask him exactly what "all of him" meant. But before she could speak the telephone rang. "Excuse me," she said, rising and crossing to the wall phone. She lifted the receiver. "Hello? Oh, hi, Kevin."
Kevin. A boyfriend, maybe? Or one of her husband’s old Cambridge Manifesto pals?
Paul lifted his mug and went into the living room to afford her some privacy. He stared past the star-shaped crystal at the front yard. Night had fallen, heavy and moonless, but the light from the porch illuminated the continuing downpour. Parts of Pond Road would likely be washed out if the rain didn’t stop soon. He wasn’t worried not about his truck floating away, but changing the tire and driving home was going to be a real challenge.
Well, sooner or later the storm would have to blow away. If it didn’t, he’d kiss the truck good-by and start building an ark.
Sighing, he turned from the window. His gaze took in the photographs on the mantel and he regarded them thoughtfully. He didn’t feel animosity toward the long-haired pacifist featured in the photos anymore. The poor guy was dead, after all, and his widow no longer struck Paul as a potential lover. He still found her beautiful, intelligent and generous, but right now he was content to think of her as a friend and nothing more. If he’d been planning to seduce her, he would never have been able to relax so completely with her.
Her voice drifted out to him through the open doorway. "I don’t understand. I talked to Tom Schuyler myself on Monday, and he never said anything about that... Have you checked with the police out there? That was where he died, and I’m sure their records..."
She was silent for a long time. Paul inferred that she was discussing her husband’s death. She didn’t sound upset, but that could change. If it did, he’d console her. He wouldn’t say anything negative about the guy.
"Talk to Marcie, anyway," Bonnie said into the phone. "I have no reason to believe she’d lie. I know she admired Gary. She’d want to be included in the book.... Well, I haven’t spoken with her, but Tom may have. He has her number.... Yes. I want the truth in this book. Gary would have wanted it that way.... All right, Kevin. Thanks for calling. Keep in touch."
Paul heard the click of the phone being placed in its cradle, and then nothing but the sound of the rain hammering down onto the porch steps. He considered returning to the kitchen but opted to stay where he was. When Bonnie was ready to be sociable, she’d let him know.
After several minutes, she appeared in the living room doorway. "Sorry about that," she said, offering him a pathetic smile.
Her eyes, he noticed, weren’t smiling at all. They were glassy and unfocused, darting anxiously about the room. Her complexion was ashen, and he wondered whether he ought to question her about what her caller had said to upset her.
Asking her directly would be pushy. Instead, he glanced toward the kitchen and asked, "Is everything okay?"
"Of course," she said automatically, making another feeble attempt to smile. "That was Kevin McCoy—the Boston Globe reporter who’s writing the book about Gary. I think you met him the first time you were over here."
Paul recalled the red-bearded young man standing on her porch the afternoon he’d picked up Shane and driven him home. "We weren’t formally introduced," he said.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "He’s spent a lot of time here during the last few months, interviewing me and collecting memorabilia. Now he’s begun talking to some of Gary’s associates." She gazed past him to stare at the crystal star, and lapsed into a brooding silence.
"What happened?" he finally asked, thinking she’d feel better if she talked out what was troubling her. "Did one of Gary’s associates tell this reporter something you didn’t want him to know?"
Bonnie flashed him a desolate look, and then she shrugged. "I’m sure it’s nothing, really..." Her voice faded and she ran her hands across her eyes. "I’m not going to cry," she promised when Paul took a step toward her.
He kept approaching. "I don’t mind if you do," he said, taking her by the elbow and gently leading her to the sofa. He sat beside her, turning to face her, and held her hands in his. "It must be painful, dredging up all those memories."
Bonnie was clearly struggling against the urge to weep. To her credit, she was succeeding. She blinked several times, ignoring the few tears that skittered down her cheeks, and let her hands relax within Paul’s. "It’s just..." She took a deep breath and gave Paul a limp, heartbreaking smile. "Well, it’s just that Kevin talked to the police officer who filed the report on the hit-and-run accident that killed Gary. According to him, the odds are Gary wasn’t murdered by some right-wing maniac who didn’t like the speech he’d given on campus."
All right. So her husband’s death had been a little less sinister than she’d thought. Not a big deal. "If it was a hit-and-run, how would they know one way or the other who did it?" he asked.
Bonnie lowered her gaze to her hands, tucked snugly within his. He felt her fingers tensing against his palms and he gave them a reassuring squeeze. "I don’t know," she said, shaking her head. "Marcie Bradley—she was another of the original people from the Cambridge Manifesto. Anyway, she’d been there that night, too. She’d sworn that the accident occurred right by the campus, and she was positive that she recognized the driver as one of the hecklers. That was what she told me when she called from the hospital. And when I talked to Tom Schuyler, he confirmed everything Marcie had said. That the accident had occurred right by the campus, that the driver had come tearing out of the parking lot next to the auditorium where Gary had spoken, that the driver had deliberately aimed at Gary and run him down, and he’d shouted something nasty out the window as he drove off."
"And the police have a different version?"
She blinked back a few more tears. "Kevin told me just now that according to police records, the accident happened outside the motel where they were spending the night. Apparently Gary and Marcie were walking back to the motel from somewhere—it couldn’t have been from the campus, because the motel was over a mile away and they’d rented a car. The driver had driven out of the parking lot of a neighborhood bar, so he’d probably been drinking." Her voice started to crack.
"Hey," Paul said, pulling her into a gentle hug. She seemed so fragile, so close to shattering. "It’s all right," he whispered, stroking her hair. "What happened to him was horrible. The details don’t really matter."
"But here’s the strangest part," she said, drawing back once she’d regained her composure. "The police said Tom hadn’t been at the scene at all. Marcie had been the only witness. Tom had told me he was there, and Marcie had said he was there, too. Why would they have lied about tha
t?"
Paul shrugged. "I’m sure there’s a simple explanation." At her dubious frown, he elaborated. "Maybe he was in the vicinity, close enough to the accident to see but not right at the spot where it occurred."
"If he was close enough to see he would have been named as a witness by the police."
Paul puzzled it through. It bothered him to think anyone—even a couple of hippie radicals—would lie to Bonnie, so he scrambled to find a way to prove they hadn’t. "Maybe Tom was there but refused to give his name as an official witness. That kind of thing happens all the time. People don’t want their names going down in a police file."
"Tom would have loved having his name in a police file," Bonnie argued. "He loved notoriety. And besides, Gary was his best friend. He would have insisted on being a part of the report if he’d been there."
"All right," Paul conceded. "Maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he lied and told you he was because he had something to hide."
Bonnie’s eyes widened in astonishment. "I hadn’t thought of that." She considered, nodding, shaping a bitter smile. "Sure, that must have been it. He was probably off somewhere, trying to score with a girl from the college or something. Though I don’t know why he’d want to hide that from me. I’ve known for years that he’s a womanizer. In fact, he always seemed kind of proud of his reputation as a stud. He was always bragging about his conquests."
"Then maybe he was hiding something else," Paul proposed. "It doesn’t really matter, though, Bonnie. What happened happened. You lost your husband. The details don’t change that; they don’t change who he was."
"You’re right," Bonnie said, giving Paul her first real smile since she’d gotten off the phone. She wove her fingers through his and tightened them, then released him. "Thank you, Paul. I’m glad you were here when that call came. The possibility that Marcie and Tom would have lied to me about Gary’s death... It threw me for a loop."
"No problem," he said. He, too, was glad he’d been there to offer his support. He imagined that Bonnie didn’t lean on others very often. But if she did need a shoulder to lean on, he was pleased to have been able to provide her with one.
She stood and glided to the window. "It’s still raining hard," she noted.
He joined her at the window and gazed out. "So it is."
"Maybe we should try to catch a weather report."
"Okay."
He followed her into the den and settled himself on the sofa while she turned on the television. "Take notes," she ordered him, gesturing toward the television. "I’ll get us some more coffee."
He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table in front of the sofa and sank cozily into the overstuffed upholstery. Although most of his attention was directed toward the news broadcast, he couldn’t keep himself from listening to the sounds of Bonnie moving about the kitchen. He tried to imagine what a shock it must have been to receive a late-night call with news that her husband had been killed by a political fanatic armed with a car. Had it been even more traumatic to learn, ten years later, that her husband had been killed by a drunk driver and that his friends had lied about the incident?
To Bonnie, who viewed her husband through a haze of myth, it must have been a mind-blower. Gary hadn’t died for his principles; he’d died by some anonymous hand, for no reason at all. As Swann always used to say, "It ain’t the bullet with my name on it I’m worried about—it’s the bullet that’s addressed, ‘To whom it may concern.’"
On the television screen, a local reporter stood in the rain, looking bedraggled while she talked about flood warnings and power outages and the likelihood that the storm would continue on into the night. When her report ended Paul twisted in his seat to find Bonnie entering the den with two mugs of fresh coffee. "It doesn’t look good," he informed her.
"Don’t worry." She joined him on the sofa, curling up against the arm and tucking her long legs under her. "We’re safe and dry in here."
Paul studied her for a minute, observing the silvery sheen of her ash-blond hair in the room’s light, the dainty curve of her lower lip, the loose folds of her sweater draping over her body, the graceful shape of her hands cradling her coffee mug. Her words gratified him. Obviously, she felt safe with him.
He felt safe with her, too, safe in her home, in this dimly lit room, engulfed by the upholstery of this big, well-worn couch, with her at her side. So safe he almost hoped the rain would never end.
Chapter Eight
* * *
AT TEN O’CLOCK, she switched off the television. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent two and a half uninterrupted hours watching the tube—and enjoying it. Actually, it wasn’t the television she’d enjoyed so much as the company. She and Paul had mocked the shows together, outguessed the script-writers and critiqued the commercials. He’d told her that his favorite broadcasts on TV were the Bruins hockey games, and she’d told him that she found hockey too nerve-wracking, what with the players skidding into each other and slamming into the boards or slamming onto the ice. He’d told her he’d grown up playing hockey with his friends on the frozen ponds of Northford and that the scar on his pinkie had been the result of surgery to repair the finger after it had been broken and dislocated during a game.
She turned from the television to see Paul rising slowly to his feet. "It’s pretty late," she said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
Paul checked his watch and nodded. "I should be going."
"Going where?" she blurted out. "It’s still pouring and you’ve got a flat tire."
As soon as she spoke she realized the implication of her statement: if he didn’t go, he’d stay. Yet she couldn’t send him out into the storm at this hour, when he hadn’t even repaired his tire.
His gaze converged with hers and she discerned the unspoken question in his dark, shimmering eyes. "Do you want to drive me home in your car?" he asked cautiously, reluctant to jump to the wrong conclusion.
"I have a spare room," she said. She wasn’t inviting him into her bed, for heaven’s sake. All she was doing was offering a friend lodging for the night.
"If you’re sure it’s no problem..."
Under other circumstances it might have been a major problem. If all they’d had to go on was their previous encounter, Bonnie would never have dreamed of allowing Paul to spend the night under her roof. But this evening had been different. As handsome as Paul was, she’d found herself attracted to him not for his virile good looks but for his honesty, his self-awareness, his humor, his kindness.
Besides, if it hadn’t been for his thoughtfulness in coming to her house to prop up the birch tree, he never would have gotten a flat tire in the first place.
"It’s no problem," she assured him. "Let me go make up the bed."
He insisted on helping her. Together they unfolded the convertible couch in the small spare bedroom, spread the sheets and blanket across the mattress and stuffed two pillows into their linen slipcases. "The bathroom’s right across the hall," she told him, pointing out the door. "I usually wake up around six-thirty. Is that a good time for you?"
"Sure." He surveyed the room for a moment, taking in the cluttered desk in one corner, the dusty sewing machine, the cartons of outdated magazines lining the wall beneath the window. Then he turned back to her. "Thanks."
"I should be thanking you," she said. At his perplexed smile, she sorted her thoughts, searching for the right way to thank him for daring to test the limits of their friendship, for challenging her philosophy without belittling it, for proving to her that they could argue and still like each other. Most of all, she wanted to thank him for his company, his support and his wise, gentle words when she’d been so rattled by Kevin McCoy’s phone call. "I—I’m glad you were here after..." She hesitated, afraid to come across as soppy and sloppy. "I mean, when I was so—when I..." She faltered again, and gazed toward the rain-glazed window, embarrassed by her inability to express herself. How could she possibly tell Paul how much his presence meant to her? If she tried, he m
ight take it the wrong way. He might feel threatened—or unduly encouraged.
"Thank you for saving my tree," she finally mumbled.
"I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to that tree," he said with a knowing smile. He gazed at her for a moment, then bowed and brushed her cheek with a light kiss. "Good night."
"Good night," she murmured as she left the room. She understood why he’d kissed her. It had been an act of affection and trust, a way of nullifying their last kiss. She appreciated the gesture even though she was unnerved by Paul’s ability to clue into her thoughts so easily, to answer her needs and relieve her of her apprehension.
Nobody had ever read her that clearly. Certainly not Gary. She had never expected him to. He’d been too busy, his attention focused on more important things. She’d dealt with her needs herself, keeping Gary’s domestic life as tranquil as possible so he could concentrate on matters of great magnitude.
She warned herself not to compare Paul and Gary. She’d loved Gary—but she admired Paul and trusted him and, for a few anguished minutes earlier that evening, she’d needed him. And he’d answered her needs.
She took a quick shower in the bathroom off her bedroom, slipped her nightgown on and climbed into bed. Shutting off the light, she listened to Paul moving about down the hall. She heard the hiss of the shower running in Shane’s bathroom and, a few minutes later, the sound of Paul’s footsteps as he returned to the guest room. She heard the click of his door closing, and then nothing but the constant patter of the rain striking the roof above her.
Before long, she was asleep.
***
"DON’T!" HE MOUTHED. He wanted to scream the word, to roar it through the rain, through the sighing wind, through the slick, overripe vegetation. He wanted to shout until his voice pierced the clouds, until whoever was up there in heaven making such a mess of things below could hear him and stop them.
Nothing would stop them, though. Not fate, not Paul, not the rain or the vines or the maccabre purple haze of this dank spring night. If he shouted, he would only bring their doom down upon them sooner. So he whispered the word, choked on it, damn near strangled on that one helpless, useless syllable: "Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t go."
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