by Robyn Grady
“I know that.”
And she did. But that unhappy fact didn’t help them now. Or take away her continuing sense of loss. Or her fear it would happen again.
His voice deepened. “Do you still want a family?”
“Yes…but…”
She tried to battle the doubt, but now, more than ever, the memories seemed so frighteningly clear. The threat of it happening again—of losing a baby well into a pregnancy—left her skin clammy and her throat dry.
“Without being pregnant already, I don’t know that I can risk that kind of loss again,” she confessed.
She’d named that baby. Imagined how she’d look. Miscarriage might seem like a by-the-by word and occurrence to some, but that day she’d lost a child she already loved.
His shoulders rolled back as he measured her with his eyes. “And you won’t consider adoption?”
“No.” She slid her hand from his. “Or not yet.” Drained, she leaned against the piano and admitted, “I’m not sure. I don’t know that I ever will be.”
A resigned look dulled his eyes. She’d seen that shadow before in the months leading up to the day he left a little over a year ago. She had no illusions as to what that expression meant now.
“There’s no point me asking again, is there?” he asked in a flat tone.
Laura held herself firm. She felt as if she were trying to walk a swaying tightrope. She wanted to reach out and draw him near, feel the comfort of his body against hers and give him some comfort too. But what would that achieve? The chiseled planes of his face had never looked sharper. His eyes, seemingly piercing her soul, had never looked more detached. They’d been through this before, over and over. There was no solution. And like never before she suspected they both knew it.
He’d wanted to know if it would make a difference if he asked again.
Slowly she shook her head. “No, Bishop. It wouldn’t.”
After a drawn out moment, he glanced down at his drink as if he’d forgotten he’d poured it then he shot the Scotch down his throat. Mentally exhausted—at a loss to know what more to do—she tried to go off topic. Maybe if they talked about something else for a while…
“Would you like another one? Or maybe some coffee.”
He crossed to the mantel and rested the empty glass below their photograph. The barbed wire ball rotating at her center scratched and grew. Next week, would she be taking that picture down again?
On leaden feet, she edged close. “I made some scones fresh this morning—”
“They wouldn’t go down so well with Scotch.”
His voice was graveled and low. When he turned away from the fireplace—from the picture—his gaze landed on the door and a fist rammed through Laura’s chest.
He was leaving?
She studied the drawn line of his jaw, imagined his mind turning over. Neither one of them could ignore the truth. No matter how much they seemed suited, how well they seemed to fit, the past would always cast a long, sour shadow over their present and, subsequently, their future, as well.
Garnering her strength, she clasped her hands, lifted one shoulder and let it fall. She hoped her voice didn’t come across as shattered as she felt.
“Seems neither of us has anything much else to say.”
His jaw shifted and he probed her eyes. When she waited him out, gave him the chance to communicate, his hard gaze fell away and he admitted, “Seems not.” Then he jerked a thumb toward the door. “I should probably start back.” His gaze found the puppy. “Glad you like the dog.”
Her throat closed off as a colossal weight anchored down upon her shoulders.
That was it. He was going. This time for good.
It took all her willpower to pin that smile back in place when it would’ve been far easier to crumple up and cry. But she wouldn’t let him see how crushed she was. Neither one of them wanted a replay of this time last year and they both knew that if he stayed that’s exactly what would transpire.
A few minutes later, as he slid into his vehicle and buckled up, she stood alone on the porch. He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. Hadn’t touched her, not even a token reassuring brush of his hand against her arm. He certainly hadn’t told her that he loved her.
He stared down at the wheel, then his stormy gaze dragged over to hers and her heartbeat began to thunder. Would he swing open the door, take the steps two at a time and enfold her in his arms? Tell her that he was staying, no matter what?
But he didn’t move. And when he only continued to sit there, staring, the tears, crouched at the back of her throat, squeezed higher. If he was leaving, why the hell didn’t he hurry up and go!
Rather than sounding like a shrew and shouting for him to quit the dramatics and end the torment, she tossed out a blithe, “Traffic will be building. Say hi to your folks when you call.”
The hard line of his mouth curved with a whisper of a smile and then he nodded. “Too easy.”
A moment later, as the vehicle ambled down the drive and Bishop drove out of her life for good, Laura withered onto the top step.
Now she knew why two simple words had set off alarm bells that morning when she’d asked if he could take another day off, and again when she’d assured him her heart condition was under control.
One year ago, when she’d asked to him leave, after he’d thrown his wedding ring into the fireplace then had slammed the door a final time closed, he’d said precisely those words.
Easy, he’d jeered.
Too easy.
Thirteen
Sitting behind the desk in his Sydney penthouse office, Bishop gazed blindly out the window, absently tapping his pen on the blotter. He wasn’t interested in the impressive view of the young cityscape, or the fact that it had been teeming with rain for a week. A stack of emails from Willis filled his in-box, telling him to snap out of it. He wasn’t interested in that, either.
Samuel Bishop was well-known for his sometimes agonizingly thorough approach to any important problem. Once he made a decision, however, it was the right one and he stood by it. But for the life of him he couldn’t find the wherewithal to give a devil’s damn about making a decision on anything right now. His old friend logic said it was a temporary malady. The cogs would start turning again soon enough, even if he barely recognized the lifeless face that gazed back from the bathroom mirror. This morning, he’d fleetingly thought staying in bed might be easier.
The knock on his partly opened door pulled him from his thoughts. His secretary knew he wasn’t to be disturbed. Clearly Willis wasn’t buying. He strode in, the knot of his tie loose, his expression beyond exasperated.
“Sam, I get that you’re the boss—”
“Yes, I am,” Bishop confirmed, flicking his pen aside.
“—but I need an answer. Now. Clancy Enterprises have given us until midday or they’re walking away and, believe me, they won’t be back.”
Bishop swung in his chair, one way then the other. He wanted to say he’d decided to go ahead with the sale. That he wanted a clean start. A new challenge. He couldn’t sit around like an ambivalent lump for the rest of his life. Fact was that he’d wanted to sell the company before Laura had taken her tumble. Now that all the twists and turns of their roller-coaster couple of weeks were done, all indicators pointed to going with his previous decision. So why was he torturing himself, sitting here day after day, wishing that this second time around things had turned out differently?
Closing his eyes, Bishop pinched the ache simmering beneath his brow.
Dammit, why hadn’t he dug his heels in, kissed Laura senseless then announced that this time he was staying? Because he didn’t love her? Or didn’t love her enough?
Exhaling, he opened his eyes and swung to face the desk. He leaned forward, forearms on the blotter, fingers tightly clasped.
“Give Clancy the green light,” he finally said. “I want this done.”
Willis’s jaw unhinged. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you sure?”
>
Bishop’s temper flared. “You said you needed an answer.”
Willis’s shocked expression faded into one of understanding as he slung a hip over the corner of the desk. “Want to talk about it?”
Was he referring to Laura?
“Thanks, but I’d be happy never to talk about it again.” Bishop tipped out of his chair and headed for his chessboard on the other side of the mile-long room.
“Did it ever occur to you that you’re still in love with her?”
“You saw me with her exactly twice.”
“At the party she was upset. Hayley saw you leaving, too. Later she commented on how wonderful it was that you’d found each other again. That you were both so obviously in love.”
Bishop’s smile and voice were tight. “Let me tell you something.”
Willis folded his arms. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve thought about this. Thought about it in great depth. Just say, for argument’s sake, I did love her. It wouldn’t make a difference to where we stand now. It wouldn’t be enough.” Wasn’t then. Wasn’t now.
“So you’re going to close down shop and walk away. Again.”
Bishop’s jaw hardened. “Be careful, Willis.”
“Why? Because you might have to admit that you’re wrong?”
“I thought you’d be pleased about selling.”
He’d told Willis he’d take him along on whatever venture he started next. They’d even talked partnership. Willis had guts as well as business acumen. He talked straight. Bishop could trust him.
Should he trust him now?
Having crossed the room, too, Willis collected a chess piece off the board and inspected its lines. “She gave you that chess set, didn’t she?”
Bishop narrowed his eyes. Where was Willis going with this? “It was a wedding gift.”
“And you kept it.”
“It’s a valuable set.”
“And it always reminded you of her, right across from where you sit every day.”
Bishop opened his mouth to refute it. But the truth was glaringly clear. He’d wanted to keep something of Laura close. Could he get rid of this chessboard now as Laura would, once again no doubt, shut away their wedding portrait?
Bishop sank in the tub chair while the yellow gold and platinum pieces shone up at him. Elbow on the armrest, he braced his brow on the slope of his index finger and thumb and massaged the ache that had grown exponentially. He had to get it off his chest.
“Last week,” he admitted, “Laura thought she might be pregnant.”
“Holy…” Willis dropped into the chair opposite. “She wasn’t?”
Staring at the board, Bishop shook his head. “She said she wanted to try for a baby. I agreed, even though she was living in the past—we both were—back when we were newly married.”
“And she hit the roof when she finally got her amnesia files open?” Willis said without a hint of I told you so, for which Bishop was grateful.
“At first, she was angry. But eventually we agreed, if she was carrying our child, we’d work things out.”
“And when it turned out she wasn’t, you left?”
“She wouldn’t listen. Nothing got through to her, just like last time.”
Willis grunted. “Right.”
Bishop’s voice lowered. “She was thinking exactly the same thing I was. Without a baby cementing us together, the past would always be there, cleaving us apart. There’s too much history. Too many bad memories.” His gaze slid from the board. “Too much to forgive.”
“And what kind of memories will you have when you hit sixty-five? That’s roughly another half of a lifetime of sitting around feeling like crap.”
Bishop’s hackles went up. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Win, for God’s sake! Win for you both.”
Bishop’s grin was sardonic. “Great speech. But this isn’t a game.”
Willis shook his head slowly. “I don’t get it. With everything else you’re like a tiger on its prey. You lock down and don’t let go. But when the prize concerns something as inconsequential as your happiness from this point until the end of your days, you can’t tell right from left.”
Done listening, Bishop went to stand and walk away, but Willis reached over and gripped his arm.
“Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. Hayley and I broke up for a time. Swallowing my pride and asking her to take me back was the best thing I ever did.”
His head thumping now, Bishop gazed down at the chessboard. The pieces seemed to look up at him, so still and cool, as if they were prepared for any contest, the more demanding and extended the better. Bishop digested what Willis had said, then shut his eyes and kicked open the stiff lock at the end of the mental chain that was keeping him back. Then, for the first time since he was a youth, he changed his mind.
“Let Clancy know we’re not selling.” With a determined gait and a suddenly focused mind, he set off for his desk.
He heard the frown in Willis’s voice. “We were talking about Laura.”
“And send Meryl in on your way out.” Bishop pulled in his chair. “We have a mountain of catching up to do.”
“And Laura?” Willis persisted, following.
Bishop reached for a document that had been sitting in his in-box far too long. Seizing that pen, he began to make notes on a site drawing and muttered, “I’ll call.”
“When?”
“When I do.”
Willis huffed. “You know you’re a fool if you don’t.”
Bishop’s steely gaze tipped up. “And everyone knows I’m not that.” Not a third time anyway. Willis was about to push more, but Bishop held up a hand. “Discussion closed.”
As Willis left, Bishop reaffirmed the choices he’d made. He’d decided to keep his company. He’d thought he’d needed a new challenge, but this one was far from over. There was more work to do, more victories to be won, before he could ever consider walking away. Same went for his situation with Laura. As he’d told Willis, he would call…
But not yet.
Where his ex was concerned, he’d seemed compelled to act on impulse. But this time when he made his move, his strike would be well planned. He simply had to find the right time, the right place. Then he wouldn’t back down until he’d claimed his mate.
Fourteen
New Year’s Eve had always been such a special night. When they were young, Laura and Grace had stayed up with their parents, growing increasingly excited the closer midnight had come. When the hands of the grandfather clock in the dining room finally hit twelve, they’d join in the celebrations happening all over the east coast—blowing paper whistles, lighting sparklers, hugging and kissing, as well as making wishes that hopefully the new year would bring.
Sipping on a glass of fruity white wine now, Laura scanned the busy room, studying the glitter and hype through the slots of her masquerade mask, a band of green and gold sequins covering only her eyes. This New Year’s she was at a charity function in Sydney, a celebration she’d helped organize on a professional basis.
The fifteen-thousand-square-foot room boasted a double-tiered layout with the mezzanine level reserved for the crème de la crème. Pink, pearl and iridescent yellow helium balloons hung suspended in the air, their multicolored tails swaying high above the heads of several hundred affluent guests. Magnificent Corinthian columns supported soaring sixty-foot ceilings while the center Wedgwood dome crowned an atmosphere that celebrated an ultra-stylish event sponsored by the socially elite.
Unfortunately, Laura wasn’t able to absorb much of the bubbling atmosphere. In fact, she was counting the seconds until she could leave. She hadn’t felt much like partying of late.
She and Bishop had said goodbye a final time eight weeks ago. Her ex had acted improperly when he’d agreed they should try for a baby. He shouldn’t have taken advantage of her amnesiac state. No matter how difficult, no matter how much he’d thought she hadn’t wanted to hear the truth, he should h
ave told her…about the miscarriage…about their divorce.
But she wasn’t angry over that. How could she be when she’d wanted to be with him as much as he’d obviously wanted to be with her? The simple truth was that she still wanted him now.
But from the beginning the odds had been stacked against them. They both wanted a family, but in trying to achieve that, they’d only succeeded in carving out a rift that now was impossible to bridge. Their differences would never be solved or puttied up by anything as simple as talking it out; they’d tried that both times around.
Still she couldn’t help but wonder…
If they’d fallen pregnant that night two months ago, would she and Bishop be together now, anticipating the birth of a healthy child, discussing getting married again? Or would she have miscarried a second time?
With her memory restored, Laura found it difficult to imagine ever taking the risk and trying to conceive again, and she hated herself for losing the faith she’d reclaimed briefly during that week with her ex. She’d become what she’d once accused Bishop of being—a person who preferred to live life without risk…but also without the danger of adding any new pain to the old.
She only wished she didn’t love Bishop so much, but the truth was she’d loved him the whole time, even when she thought she’d had enough and wanted him gone for good. Sometimes, especially when she lay awake alone at night, she couldn’t accept that they were truly finished. It was like trying to believe that summer wouldn’t follow spring.
But now, studying the animated effervescent scene buzzing all around, Laura reaffirmed the promise she’d made to herself after Bishop had left a second time. She was done living in the past. She had to build on her strengths and move on with her life. She and Bishop were history and it was best she swallow that pill, no matter how bitter. No matter how painful.
She was gazing absently at revelers on the dance floor, gyrating to a disco tune from the seventies, when someone bumped into her back. As cool wine splashed her hand, she wheeled around. Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette tipped their powdered wigs in apology then blended back into the thick of the partying crowd. To her right, a butler topped off Casper’s and Wendy’s champagne. Laura recognized one of Australia’s wealthiest media magnates decked out like a spaghetti Western star from the sixties, checking the time on his Rolex.