Just Around the Corner

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Matt nodded. Reading was his salvation. His closest friends lived between the well-worn pages of the books lying all around his house. “I’m reading a great nonfiction book right now. Our Sacred Honor. Ever heard of it?”

  She shook her head. Her attention seemed to be fully engaged while she waited for him to continue.

  It had been so long since Matt had done this—just sat with another adult and experienced a normal human interaction, one not related to his work—that the impact of her attentiveness came as something of a shock.

  But not a threat. This was a moment out of time for both of them. Life was suspended for these hours, and they understood that. Understood each other.

  “It’s by William Bennett, not anyone I’ve ever read before.” Guard down, Matt warmed to his subject. “It’s about the flaws and foibles of the people we consider our heroes. Our cultural icons.” He paused. “Did you know that George Washington had a violent temper? One he worked very diligently to control?”

  “I’d never heard that before.”

  “Thomas Jefferson died more than one-hundred-thousand dollars in debt.”

  “No way!”

  “Yep.” Matt nodded.

  “That was a lot of money in those days.”

  It was a lot of money today, too. More than four times the amount Matt sent off each year, making what reparation he could.

  “I do know Abraham Lincoln was prone to depression,” Phyllis said.

  “Some say he was bipolar, but he certainly didn’t let it slow him down. He, too, struggled to control his temperament so it didn’t interfere with the job he was here to do.”

  Phyllis widened her eyes. “He was a man of almost unbelievable strength and self-reliance.”

  Matt nodded. “Ben Franklin had a thing for ‘lowly women,’ as he called them.”

  “Prostitutes?”

  Matt shrugged carelessly. “Don’t know if he paid them, but immoral women, at least.”

  “Wasn’t he married?”

  “Yep.” But Matt knew firsthand that a little thing like marriage didn’t stop a man from taking what he wanted. Or a woman, either, for that matter.

  “It’s fascinating, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. I wonder how much flack Bennett’s taken for writing this stuff.”

  “I hope none,” Phyllis said, raising her knees beneath the covers, reminding Matt what she was—and wasn’t—wearing under them.

  It was kind of hard to be with her in a bedroom, even if the room was in a hospital, without remembering that they’d had some pretty incredible sex together.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the topic at hand—to return to the innocuous place they were occupying for the evening.

  “Because he’s done us all a huge favor,” she said, her eyes alight as she spoke with a fervor that Matt admired even while he wondered where on earth she was going with this. “Think about it,” she continued. “We’ve had these men held up to us all our lives. From the time we’re in grade school, we hear about their greatness. We’re raised to believe that we, too, can make a difference, that if we could be like these men, even a little, our lives would have merit.”

  Matt frowned. “And you think it’s great that because of Bennett we’re now disillusioned?”

  “No! I’m not disillusioned, are you?”

  Matt didn’t have any illusions left to lose. Hadn’t since he was about two.

  “Don’t you see?” Phyllis said, sitting forward to place her cup on the bedside table.

  Matt got a glimpse of her almost-bare back and looked quickly away.

  “These men were great. They accomplished miraculous things. And they were human, too. Knowing that doesn’t take away their greatness. It makes it more impressive—and potentially obtainable for the rest of us imperfect human beings lumbering around on this earth.”

  He thought about that. “I like the way you think.”

  She looked startled for a second, and then lowered her eyes. An unexpected reaction from a woman who wore her confidence as easily as she wore her stylish clothes.

  “I had a student stop by to see me today.” His words slid out into the safe environment they’d built in this room.

  “And?”

  Needless to say, they both had students coming to see them. It was the nature of their business. So she’d know there was more to his observation.

  “Her name is Sophie. She’s been in the theater program for the past couple of years, and I’ve had a lot of opportunity to work with her. She’s the best damn techie I’ve ever had.”

  “Kind of an unusual profession for a girl, isn’t it? Don’t they have to do a lot of heavy lifting, what with sets and all? And what about pulling those curtains up and down?”

  Slouching in the high-backed armchair, Matt lifted his feet to the rail on the side of her bed. “Maybe it used to be, but it’s not so unusual to see girls working behind the scenes today. Sophie’s more than just a good technical crew member, though. She’s an artist. Bring a show into the theater, and by the time she’s done with lights and scrims and sound, it has a whole new depth. Professionalism.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Phyllis was frowning as she waited for his reply.

  “I’m not sure.” He shook his head, not even sure why he’d brought up the subject. It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do to help the girl. Other than encourage her to stay in school. Which he’d already done.

  Send her to a counselor. The words were never far from the surface of his mind when a student’s personal problems entered a work situation.

  It suddenly dawned on Matt that he was looking at a counselor. Maybe not one whose job description currently included therapy sessions, but one who’d certainly been trained in the field.

  “Sophie’s been…acting strange all semester.” He spoke slowly, weighing his words. Keeping the necessary distance. “She missed a couple of cues the last time she called a show, she’s been late, missed some classes, been impatient with her fellow crew members.”

  She’d lost weight, seemed distracted, was dressing differently—more sloppily, always wearing bulky clothes. But those things all crossed the line that Matt was not going to cross again. The line between schoolwork and personal life.

  Phyllis nodded, seeming to gather information from Matt’s eyes, as well as from the words he was saying. “Could it be boyfriend trouble?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You don’t know if she’s recently broken up with anyone?”

  The same guy had been hanging around since the previous spring. He was still hanging around.

  Matt shook his head, shrugging. “I don’t discuss my students’ private lives with them.”

  “Maybe not in any detail, but some conversation is only natural. Especially considering how much out-of-classroom time you spend with these kids. From the little I’ve seen, you guys practically live together during show weeks.”

  “Their private lives are none of my business.”

  “Of course they’re your business, Matt,” Phyllis said, tilting her head as she studied him. “You’re a teacher, just like I am. Helping kids is what we do. You can’t do your job and not know things about them.”

  “Maybe in your field.”

  “In any field.”

  Not in his.

  “It’s probably just boyfriend trouble,” Phyllis said, reverting to her original suggestion with no further argument. Matt would have left if she hadn’t backed off.

  “Probably,” he murmured, although he didn’t really think so.

  “I’d keep an eye on her,” she added, looking thoughtful. “A star student missing classes could be indicative of trouble somewhere.”

  “Keep an eye on her?” Matt asked.

  “I’ve seen you with your students, Matt. You’re good with them. Value them.”

  He did? He taught lighting design. The art of putting on shows.

  “You encourage t
hem, trust them by assigning tasks and then not standing over them every step of the way. You go along with their solutions.”

  “Not always.”

  “It wouldn’t mean anything if you approved of everything they did. You’re also teaching them about standards. You’re showing them that you trust them to meet your expectations.”

  He just taught. Nothing else.

  “Your trust in them also builds self-confidence. And in turn, teaches them to trust you.”

  Matt wasn’t sure that was a responsibility he could accept. He knew he was never going to overstep his teacher-student boundaries again, but all it would take was getting just a little too friendly. Something could easily be misunderstood or blown out of proportion, and it would all come out. The past. Shelley.

  And he would be crucified.

  He knew how these things worked.

  “Obviously this Sophie feels she can trust you. Which is why she came to you today.”

  “I teach lighting design.”

  “I’m just suggesting you keep an eye on things, Matt, not counsel her.”

  He nodded. Yeah, he knew those ropes.

  “If I notice anything more, I’ll send her to counseling,” he said.

  He left shortly after that, hoping Phyllis would be able to get a good night’s sleep. He didn’t expect to sleep much himself. Not while he was feeling responsible for the fact that this woman was lying in the hospital with an IV stuck in her hand because he hadn’t been more careful about protecting her all those weeks ago.

  And not after their last conversation, either. It was always there. The past. Haunting him. Waiting to rear its ugly head.

  Yet, as he let himself into his room in the motel across from the hospital, stripped down to his briefs and slid between the sheets, Matt felt strangely relaxed. Phyllis Langford was easy to talk to. Even for a man as out of practice with friendly conversation as he was.

  She thought he was a good teacher….

  He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  MATT STOPPED BY Phyllis’s house the next night after work. She saw him pull up in front of her bungalow, watched him get out of his truck, lock the door. Her first impulse was to deny him access to her house—and to her life. After last night, the hours they’d spent talking, his tending to her without complaint, she liked him even more than she had that day she’d been so desperate to sleep with him.

  Liking a man was a step she couldn’t take. One step invariably led to the next….

  And then, as she watched him make his way slowly up her walk, hands in the pockets of his jeans, head bent, she remembered that she was going to help him find a measure of peace. Matt Sheffield was a good man. She could feel his goodness every time she was with him.

  He was also a man with secrets. Secrets that might be hidden but certainly weren’t forgotten. At least not by him. She could feel that, too.

  Maybe because he was the father of her unborn baby, which gave her some kind of physical connection to him, or maybe because she was who she was and sometimes saw things in people that others couldn’t, Phyllis refused to keep turning her back on him.

  Protect herself she would. Of course. Always. But she had a strong feeling she could help this man—and that was something she could no longer ignore.

  Her inability to mind her own business, as her ex-husband put it was part of the problem with her and romantic relationships. Most men didn’t like to be probed, didn’t like their pain exposed to others, examined. Phyllis was a natural prober.

  Sometimes people were suffering agonies that could be eased. Sometimes healing came from viewing the source of pain in a different light. Or learning to release the past. The world was too filled with hurts that couldn’t be fixed to let stand those that could.

  Matt Sheffield was a man who needed healing.

  She waited until he knocked on the door before going to open it.

  “Matt, hi,” she said, pulling it wide.

  He was wearing the black leather jacket. And—once again—looked far too good. He stepped into her tiny foyer. “I thought I’d get a start on whatever needs doing,” he said, glancing around at the side table still holding the mail she’d brought in, the arch-way into her living room, the coatrack by the door, the picture of King’s Chapel in Boston that hung on the opposite wall.

  “I just got home this morning,” she reminded him, closing the door. It was okay to have him here. To shut them in together. Because this was for him. “I haven’t had much time to get behind on things.”

  “But you weren’t planning to be laid up. There might be stuff you’d been planning to do that you can’t do now.”

  His hands were still in his pockets, but his gaze was direct as it met hers. He was glad to see her.

  She was strangely glad to see him, too.

  “I’m not really clear on what I can’t do,” she told him. Her eyes remained on his.

  “Taking out the trash, for starters,” he said. He was almost smiling as he watched her. While Phyllis was generally aware of nuances that other people missed, she suspected she wasn’t the only one hearing the unspoken conversation between them.

  “No heavy lifting, Dr. Mac said,” Phyllis reminded him. “Trash isn’t heavy.”

  “And carrying laundry baskets.”

  “My laundry isn’t heavy, either.” She refused to be the first to look away. His black eyes were almost daring her.

  “Could be you have a leaky faucet.”

  “My wrench isn’t heavy.”

  “Maybe you need some groceries.”

  Okay, carrying bags of groceries probably wasn’t a good idea, but… “I don’t. Just went shopping on the weekend.”

  The tiniest hint of a grin lifted one corner of his mouth.

  “How long has it been since you gassed up and washed your car?”

  Though she really tried not to, Phyllis gave him a full-fledged grin. “Saturday.”

  “What about preparing a nursery?”

  She blinked. And turned her head. She hadn’t let herself think about that yet. There were too many other things to deal with first. Like prenatal care. Maternity clothes. Diet. Vitamins.

  College funds.

  It was an awful lot for one person to handle all alone. And the way to manage overwhelming tasks was to break them up into manageable portions.

  Matt headed down the hall, past the living room and toward the back of the house. “I’m assuming you’re going to need some furniture moved.”

  Yes, but… “Not tonight,” Phyllis said, hoping none of the panic she was fighting was evident in her voice.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean tonight. I just thought we might take a look and come up with some ideas.”

  He was so damn sweet. How could she say no?

  She followed him down the hall and when he was turning toward her bedroom, said, “It’s over here,” and guided him to the room Tory Sanders had used during her months staying here.

  The room Phyllis had lovingly prepared for her best friend, Tory’s older sister, Christine.

  “You use this only as a guest room?” Matt asked, taking in the twin beds, the dresser, the closet doors across the room.

  “Now I do,” Phyllis said. “It used to be an office, but I turned it into a bedroom when a friend of mine came to stay.”

  He looked over at her and then back at the room. “She stay long?”

  “She didn’t stay at all.” Maybe because she felt as though she knew him after their time together the day before, Phyllis found herself being open about something she normally wouldn’t have shared with him.

  “Do you know Tory Sanders?”

  “The woman who taught English last fall, posing as her dead sister?”

  “Yeah. Her sister, Christine, was my best friend. She was on her way out here from Boston, where we’re all from, bringing Tory with her. She was killed in a car accident in New Mexico.”

  His eyes narrowed. And softened
. “I’m sorry.”

  Phyllis blinked away her tears. “Me, too.”

  “What happened?”

  Tired suddenly, Phyllis sat down on the twin bed that had remained empty all those months Tory had been with her. Christine’s bed.

  “You want the official story or the real one?”

  He took a seat on the corner of the opposite bed, his hands resting on his thighs. “The real one.”

  “Tory was divorced, on the run from an abusive ex-husband, whose daddy had been buying his way out of trouble his entire life,” Phyllis related, going back to those months in Boston when she’d ached right along with Christine as they waited for word from Tory. “Her ex was rich, spoiled, used to getting whatever he wanted. And he wanted Tory. She’d escape, hide in some small town or other, but he’d always find her. And he’d punish her for going every time.”

  Matt’s lips thinned. “Even after they were divorced?”

  “Especially after they were divorced. He was more desperate then.”

  Matt nodded.

  “He also made it very clear that he’d rather see her dead than with another man. He’d always been insanely jealous. He’d even forbidden her from entering college because he didn’t trust her around all the young jocks.”

  “He was older than she was?”

  “Quite a bit. Tory was barely out of high school when she married him.”

  “And her parents approved?”

  “Her mother was dead. And her stepfather—that’s a whole other story. Suffice it to say, the stepfather died serving a life sentence.”

  “The world’s filled with bastards like that.”

  “Or at least the prisons are. Anyway, Christine got the teaching job out here so she could get Tory away from Bruce. It didn’t work. He caught up with them in New Mexico, ran their car off the road, killing Christine and injuring Tory pretty badly, too.”

  “They got him, I hope?”

  Phyllis sneered. “Yeah, right. The ruling was accidental death. One car. No one at fault.”

  Matt sat forward, his gaze intent. “So he’s still out there, looking for Tory?”

  “No.” Phyllis shook her head. “The hospital officials thought Tory was the sister who’d been killed. Bruce was smart enough to stay away from the crime scene himself, but he sent some guys to verify the pronouncement. He had Tory trailed for months, but when he was finally satisfied that she really was Christine, he killed himself. Despite all the agony he put her through, he couldn’t face living without her.”