The time had come. Daniel had given her the promised time and then some. She'd waited, hoping…for what, she didn't know. Some kind of divine intervention, she supposed. To change the past? To give her courage? To turn Daniel into a baker, a shoemaker, a candlestick maker? Anything but what he was. A politician destined to reach the top rung.
She turned away, needing to occupy her hands. Normally her fingers eased the threads through the loom with ease, but not tonight. They fumbled, not pulling the thread tight enough and then stretching it too taut. It snapped. And so did her temper. She uttered something she'd never said before.
Large hands settled on her shoulders, turning her around. "Don't."
"I have to get this finished. It's a special order, and I haven't even started." She was babbling. What's more, she'd lied. Her client had specifically said there was no hurry.
"This concerns both of us. I want to know what you think."
"Of course, you should run when the time comes. There's no one better, no one who cares as much."
That's what it came down to. Caring. Politicians spouted phrases like family values, morality, ethics, all the time. But not Daniel. Perhaps because he wasn't a politician. He was a statesman. He didn't give lip service to the buzz words; he lived them. He'd work to make things better, not just for the privileged class of which he was a member, but for all the citizens.
Good grief. She was starting to sound like some kind of political speech writer.
"This is what you were born for." She managed to say the words calmly enough, even as they ripped the heart from her. Not because she didn't believe them. But because she did.
"I need you by my side, Eve. I can't do it on my own." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Marry me."
Her laugh sounded almost genuine. Almost. "I didn't know you were also a comedian."
A muscle twitched in his neck. "I was never more serious in my life."
"I can't marry you."
"Why?"
She gestured to her workroom, to her dye-stained shirt. "Look around you. Face it, Cameron. I'm not political wife material. I don't wear designer clothes or have manicured nails. I don't patronize the 'in' caterers or read the right books."
"Do you think I care about those things?"
She was stalling. And doing a poor job of it. Her lips quivered into a smile. A poor imitation of her usual one, granted. But a smile. She hung onto it for all she was worth.
Right now, it was all she had.
"I'm asking you to marry me," he said. "Not chair a committee."
"Why not? Why not ask me to chair a committee?"
He made a rude noise. "Because you don't do that kind of thing. I won't ask you to be anything other than what you are."
She ignored the latter statement to focus on the first. "You're right. I don't do that kind of thing. Not because I can't. But because I choose not to." She took a deep breath and prayed for the strength to say what needed to be said. "Just like I choose not to marry you."
"You choose? What makes you think that you can choose to live without me, that you can choose to stop loving me?"
A sob hitched in her throat. How could he believe she could ever stop loving him? Maybe it was for the best. She hardened her voice. And her heart.
"What's the matter, Senator? Can't you take rejection?"
The flash in his eyes erupted into flames. "If you want to lie to me, go ahead. But don't do it to yourself." His voice quieted. "You can give me all the excuses you want to about why you can't marry me. But at least be honest with yourself. You're a coward. You're afraid to take a chance. Because of the past."
"Okay. I'm afraid. I can't lose you like I did my mother."
"You won't lose me."
"How do you know?"
He didn't. He focused on what he did know. "I love you. Tell me you love me."
That part was easy. Of course she loved him. How could she not? He was everything she ever wanted, everything she ever dreamed of, everything she ever needed.
Obediently, she said the words. "I love you."
"Now tell me you'll spend the rest of your life with me."
Though his words were light, she sensed the pain beneath them. The fear.
She longed to wipe away that pain, to put an end to his fear. A few simple words from her and she could erase both. But there was nothing simple about them. Those same words would destroy her.
And if she had her way, if he became something other than what he was, what would that do to him? It would destroy him as surely as the assassin's bullet she feared. It would also destroy their love. Not at first, perhaps. But eventually. His love would turn to hate. And, that, she could not endure.
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"I mean I can't."
Even through the pain and tears, she wanted him, needed him, loved him.
The heat died from his eyes, and with it, the rest of his anger. He loved her. If she could only see past her fear, she'd know that nothing else mattered.
She was a maddening blend of toughness and vulnerability. A rueful smile turned up his lips as he imagined her reaction to that. She'd deny the latter with her last breath.
Eve believed herself to be strong. And she was. What she didn't realize was that strength didn't have to stand alone. If only she accepted that admitting need—in particular, needing someone else—didn't translate into weakness.
"She loved me." Her voice wobbled, but she didn't notice. Neither did she notice the first tear that spilled over and slipped down her cheek.
But Daniel did. He brushed at the tear, caught it on the blunt pad of his fingertip. It glistened against his tanned skin, a diamond born of pain.
"Don't," he begged. Tears—her tears—reduced him to begging. He was angry. Not at her. But at fate which had set their paths in motion years before they'd ever met, at a madman who'd destroyed so much with his hatred, at what might have been…if only.
"I understand your fears. Maybe only in a small way," he added when he saw that she was about to object. "We'll work through them. Together." He took her hand, felt the nerves there, the strain. "We'll deal with it."
He, better than most, knew the power of words. Words could persuade, convince, sell. Their influence was immeasurable. He'd used them all his life, first in private practice, then in Congress and the Senate. He'd never felt their inadequacy as he did now.
The pain in Eve's eyes hadn't lessened. If anything, it had intensified. He'd done that. And hated himself for it. The tears came then, breaking through the dam of her self-imposed control.
Daniel took her into his arms and held on. He ached for her, wishing he could take the pain from her and make it his own. A fierce protectiveness swept over him along with an intense frustration that he was powerless to erase the past.
"I have loved you from the beginning," he said, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"And I will love you until the end." She kissed him, so sweetly, so fiercely that his hopes soared until he understood.
She was telling him goodbye.
Chapter Nine
Eve didn't believe in halfway measures. Not in joy. Not in grief. She'd grieved for her mother. It had been the grief of a child, but no less real for that.
Her grief now was that of a woman. But, inside, she still felt like a little girl.
If she allowed herself, she could still remember, still hear the two plops that the gun with its silencer had made. Security police had thrown her to the ground, along with her father and everyone else standing nearby.
But it had been too late. Even at thirteen years old, she'd recognized death. Her mother, who had always seemed so alive, so vital, was dead. Eve had promised herself then and there that she'd never put herself in that position again.
No one had paid attention to the vows made by a child. Her father had grieved with her, wiped Eve's tears, told her that her mother was in heaven. But even he had failed to understand the depth of Eve's fear,
the terror that still gripped her.
She took a breath—a steadying one—and reminded herself she was free of that. Free but for the memories. How did you ever rid yourself of memories?
There'd been the trial. She hadn't attended, of course.
Hadn't been allowed to attend. But she'd read about it. Her father, her aunt, the houseful of servants, had tried to keep the papers from her.
In the end, she'd had her way. The truth, she'd told her father, was what her mother had fought for in life. In her death, her daughter could ask for no less. Just the thought of tying her life to someone destined to enter the race for the most powerful office on earth was enough to bring back the old nightmares.
No, she couldn't—she wouldn't—do it. She felt as though she'd been dropped into a bottomless pit of despair with no means to escape. A grief so devastating that it brought her to her knees grabbed hold of her. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth. She didn't cry daintily as some women did, a few tears to glisten like pretty diamonds on the lashes.
No, hers came in great gushing torrents, noisy, harsh sobs that shook her until she was as limp as a rag doll.
It was there that Carla found her. A call from Daniel that Eve might need her had her arranging for a babysitter and rushing to her friend's home.
Carla took in the situation in a glance. Heedless of the clay-smeared floor, she dropped to her knees and hugged her friend.
Great sobs racked Eve's body, but Carla held on. She didn't bother with words. Words didn't heal. Love healed; unfortunately, it could also hurt. In Eve's case, hurt didn't begin to describe it. The pain and despair in her eyes tore at Carla's heart, and she felt her own eyes sting with tears.
As the sobs eased, Eve sagged against Carla, spent and broken.
"I can't be…he wants me to…I love him, but I can't do it."
Carla didn't need any explanation to interpret the disjointed words. "Did Daniel ask you to marry him?"
"Weeks ago. I promised I'd give him my answer when we got back from Washington. I thought maybe…and then I remembered. Everything. I can't."
Two such small words shouldn't hold so much pain. Carla remembered back to her own rocky courtship with Sam. There'd been a time when she doubted they could find a common ground, much less enough to build a lifetime upon, a time when she'd allowed her head to rule her heart. In the end, she'd realized her heart had been right all the time. But that couldn't be forced. Eve would have to come to that conclusion all by herself.
Eve sniffled one more time before determinedly wiping her eyes. "He'll refuse to run for office if I ask him to."
"But you won't." Carla didn't have to ask. She knew her friend well enough to know Eve would never ask Daniel to make a choice like that, to sacrifice what he was for what she wanted him to be.
"No. I won't." Eve grabbed her arms and hugged herself.
"I might want to. But I won't."
"Love doesn't give easy choices, does it?"
Eve lips quivered into a smile. "No. It doesn't."
Carla took a deep breath. As much as she loved her Eve, because she loved her, she couldn't let Eve throw away a chance at happiness. "Daniel's a strong man. He won't take chances."
"Don't you think I know that? But I can't—I won't—risk it."
The words were torn from her friend, and Carla ached for what she had to do. "When are you going to stop running?"
"I'm not—"
"You've been running since you were thirteen years old."
Eve looked at her with accusing eyes. "I thought you were my friend."
"I am. That's why I can't let you keep running away."
"You think that's what I'm doing?"
"I know it is." The pain in Eve's eyes nearly undid Carla, but she forced herself to continue. "You're punishing Daniel for something that might happen."
"It's happened before. My mother…” The words ended in another whimper, and Carla reached for Eve.
"I know. I know."
They stayed there, on the cold floor until Carla's muscles cramped. Struggling to her feet, she brought Eve up with her and settled her on the stool.
With the admonition to Eve to stay put, Carla headed to the kitchen. She went through the cupboards, looking for something high on sugar and low on nutrition. She settled for a box of chocolate chip cookies.
She slit open the box, arranged a dozen or so on a plate, poured two glasses of milk, and carried it all back to the workroom on a tray. She handed the box of cookies to Eve, amused when her friend scooped out a handful.
Mindful of the ten extra pounds of baby weight she still had to lose, Carla took two instead of the half dozen she would have preferred. By unspoken agreement, conversation was temporarily halted as they munched away.
Eve sighed. "I needed that."
Carla gave the remaining cookies a regretful glance and finished her milk. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
Eve popped another cookie into her mouth. "Eating myself into oblivion sounds good." The laugh that followed sounded forced.
Carla knew her friend was trying to pull herself together and wished she knew how to help. She was a minister, for goodness sake. She'd counseled dozens of people, helping them put their lives back together. Why couldn't she do the same for Eve?
Carla hugged her again. "Call me tomorrow." She checked her watch. Zach was nursing every two hours, and she needed to get home.
Eve thanked her and promised she'd call even though she knew she wouldn't. She tumbled into bed that night. She didn't know why she'd thought she could sleep, but she went through the motions. She followed her normal nighttime routine, hoping…praying…that the late hour and her own exhaustion would catch up with her.
When sleep failed to come, she wasn't surprised. Life didn't work that way. How had she even dared hope she could blot away the pain with the oblivion of sleep? And how could she forget the accusations Daniel had flung at her?
He'd been right. She accepted that just as she accepted her own culpability. She was a coward. The word mocked her. When sleep finally claimed her, the word was still there, an indictment of her culpability, of what she'd given up.
Morning came, and with it, the rain. Dense clouds thickened the sky; humidity clogged the air. She normally enjoyed a rainy day. Rain cleansed. Today, though, the dreary colors mirrored her own mood, intensifying it until it threatened to consume her.
She wouldn't give into it, she vowed. She'd always despised people who indulged in pity-parties. Enough was enough. She showered, dressed, and pretended that her heart wasn't breaking.
The gloomy weather didn't discourage customers. She was busy from the moment she opened the door for business. Grateful for the activity, she waited on people, chatting with them with a cheerfulness that she hoped didn't sound as forced as it felt.
Two women browsed among the piles of woven rugs, destroying the neat arrangement. Eve kept her patience, showing them one after another until they made up their minds. In the end, they bought two apiece with a promise to return.
By the end of the day, she was weary beyond belief. She fixed a salad for dinner and forced herself to eat it. The future stretched before her, a bleak expanse of empty days and emptier nights.
But there'd be safety. She clung to that. Somehow, though, it was cold comfort as she pictured a life without Daniel in it. She loved him, but sometimes love wasn't enough. She silently railed against the fates that had thrown them together and then torn them apart. Love didn't see you through the pain of being left by yourself. She wouldn't risk it, couldn't risk it.
And what do you have now? a voice taunted. Wasn't she equally alone, equally bereft through her own choice to push Daniel out of her life?
She turned to stare out the window, seeing not the ice encrusted trees but her own reflection. The image didn't please her. Even the frost dusted glass failed to disguise the pain in her eyes, a pain born of loneliness.
She had thought she'd known herself,
was so sure that she knew what she wanted, what she needed. Now those certainties had been swept away, forever banished by memories of a man with serious eyes and lips that had a tendency to turn up at the corners when he thought no one was looking.
Being alone had never bothered her before. It was a choice she'd made consciously, accepting the consequences. But she was discovering choosing to be alone was a far cry from the emptiness that accompanied loneliness.
Wasn't that what she wanted? To be alone? To depend upon no one but herself. Her treacherous heart remembered how full it had begun to feel when Daniel had been in her life. That she had no one to blame but herself did nothing to alleviate her misery.
Arms wrapped around her legs, she rested her head on her knees and wept for what might have been.
Night gave way to morning. The sun had chased away the last of yesterday's gloom. Shafts of buttery color shone through the sheer curtains, creating a patchwork quilt of light and darkness across the floor. In the sunbeams, dust motes danced and frolicked.
Eve concentrated on the ever shifting pattern of light. If she concentrated hard enough, if she didn't give herself time to think, she could put Daniel out of her mind.
Liar.
A harsh voice mocked her efforts. Liar, it taunted again.
Daniel was in her mind to stay. No trickery, no amount of will, no self-discipline could banish him.
And so she accepted that. Daniel was part of her life. She had no choice in the matter. What she did have choice in was how she dealt with it. She didn't intend on staying around to sulk in her misery.
Action was called for. Within a few minutes, she'd arranged with Ron to watch the store for the next few afternoons. Another few minutes saw her finishing packing a suitcase.
She'd never been a coward. It was one of her vanities. She'd faced life head on, meeting it, embracing it, cherishing it because she knew how easily, how very easily, it could be ripped away.
Hadn't she gone bungee jumping when a friend had suggested it? Never mind that she'd given it up after making several successful jumps because it failed to excite her after the initial thrill.
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