by Sarah Title
When he came to her, she had wanted to talk, the way they always did. That was how they worked things out: He talked, she listened, together they worked it out. But that wasn’t what he’d needed last night. Last night, he’d needed to feel close to something that he knew was real, and the only thing that he knew was real in his life was her.
This was dangerous ground, and he knew it. He wished he knew how dangerous. Was this just a passing thing, or would it cause irreparable damage? Then he remembered the way she looked into his eyes as he hovered over her, her face when he was inside her, and he thought it couldn’t be only him. What he saw, what they shared, that had to be mutual. Hadn’t she thrown her arms over him in her sleep?
And just like that, he had to get out. He couldn’t breathe with her sleeping next to him, that half smile on her face and her hair a tousled mess. It was too much. It was too uncertain. Henry Beckham didn’t do uncertain.
He slid out from underneath her, smiling in spite of himself at her groan of displeasure. He watched until she curled into his pillow, then he grabbed his boxers and left the room.
The dogs were there, of course. How long had they been sitting there? Was that what they did every time Helen had male company, sit outside and wait? “You guys are creepy,” he whispered to them. They snuffled, then followed him through the kitchen and out the back door.
The night air felt good. The stars were out and the town was quiet. Willow Springs was pretty much always quiet, though. He liked his sleepy little town. He hoped he would be able to stay.
He was suddenly aware that he was outside in his underwear. Willow Springs might be sleepy, and her yard might be fenced, but he felt a little too exposed. He called the dogs in—quietly—and started rooting around in her kitchen for something to eat.
He had definitely worked up an appetite. Part of him wanted to skip the snack and go back to bed, wake Helen up and see what other depths they could plumb together. Or go back to bed and not wake her up, just cuddle into her warmth and sleep. Helen’s arms seemed like the best place in the world to be right now.
The ground shifted. No, he’d make a sandwich. Much safer that way.
He piled his arms high with the contents of her refrigerator (he was really, really hungry, he realized), then dumped them as quietly as possible on the small counter. As he tried to make sense of his pile, he knocked a bunch of papers to the ground. Ha, he thought. Helen was not immune to the lure of the miscellaneous pile of paper.
He bent down to scoop them up and noticed that they were not all just papers. A small book had fallen out of her calendar. It was bound in cardboard, like a cheap, handmade old diary. He read the cover.
And he forgot all about the sandwich.
* * *
“What the hell is this?”
Helen was having a wonderful dream where she and Henry were on a tropical island, making love on a cloud of pillows as the waves crashed outside their window.
Now she was awake, and Henry hovered over her with a look on his face that was decidedly more murderous than the one he wore in her dream.
“What?” she asked groggily. She reached for him. Anything that was wrong could surely be solved by an early morning snuggle. And if he took those boxers off, they could be even more productive.
But he didn’t bite. He didn’t even come closer. He reared off the bed and waved something in her face. Was that a book? It looked older and crappier than any of her paperbacks.
Then she remembered.
R. Butcher.
Well, so she forgot to tell him about the interesting old thing she’d accidentally stolen from the archives. “I meant to show that to you,” she said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “I found it when I was working for Lou—”
“How long have you had this?”
He was yelling. Why was he yelling? It was just some old book that she thought he might, maybe, find interesting.
“A day or so.”
“A day? Do you know what this could have done if I’d had it yesterday?”
“Henry, slow down. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this diary. I’m talking about R. Butcher.”
“I know, I found it. Who’s R. Butcher?”
“Renee Butcher. Aka Renee Beauchamp.”
She felt all the color go out of her face. “Madame Renee?”
“Yes, Madame Renee. This is her diary. Did you read it?”
“No, I forgot I had it, and I was going to return it after I showed it to you. But it says Butcher, not Beauchamp.”
“Butcher was her real name. She changed it to Beauchamp so she sounded more exotic.”
“I guess nobody really wants to go to a brothel called Miss Butcher’s.”
“Helen, this isn’t funny! This is the proof I’ve been looking for!”
“That’s great!”
“No, it’s not! They’ve already decided to tear down the house!”
“Oh yeah,” she said.
“What do you mean, oh yeah? Did you know?”
All the color came back to her face, burning into a furious blush. “I just found out yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“I’m sorry, Henry. Lou swore me to secrecy. But surely it’s not too late—”
“Lou swore you to secrecy? I thought you said no more secrets, Helen. You promised.”
“I know, and I was going to tell you last night, but you were so—”
“Don’t put this on me. You could have stopped anytime you wanted to. You could have sat me down and said Henry, I know you think your dream has just been trampled to death, but here, I have the means to save it.”
“I didn’t know what I had! It has a fake name on it, for christ’s sake! How was I supposed to know—”
“But no, you just had to get your shiny new archive. You had to get what you needed, to hell with me!”
“Henry—”
“I thought we were friends, Helen. I thought we were at least colleagues. I never thought you would deliberately try to sabotage me, just to get what you want.”
“But that’s not what—”
“Well, I hope you’ve got enough research, because I’m done being your sexual whipping boy.”
“Hold on just a minute!” Helen jumped out of bed and went toe-to-toe with fire-breathing Henry. She didn’t care that she was naked. She didn’t care that the dogs were watching. She just knew Henry was out of control, and she was not going down with that ship. “You think I was just using you for sex?”
He didn’t say anything, just waved the book at her with a nasty look on his face.
It probably would have been a lot less painful if he’d just slapped her.
She felt tears pricking her eyes, and that was it. He could accuse her of crazy things, but she would not let him see her cry. “Get out,” she said in a low voice.
“Are you crying?” He looked concerned, and that just made her even madder.
“Get out!” she yelled. “Take your precious diary and get out of my house!”
He might have given her a last look before he grabbed his clothes and slammed the door, but she didn’t turn around to find out.
Chapter 14
“Hello?”
Helen cursed. Every time the door opened, her traitorous heart flipped, thinking it might be Henry. But it never was. Yesterday it was Lindsey, bringing her a pile of brownies that were delicious, not that she told Lindsey so. No, Helen had stayed hidden in her bedroom with the door closed while Lindsey talked to her dogs and promised to call later.
Not that Helen picked up the phone.
This time it was Grace, and Helen had made the mistake of emerging from her bedroom to stare at the living room walls for a change, because staring at the bedroom walls reminded her of Henry and that was not helping her at all.
“I’ve come bearing wine,” Grace said, then tutted when she saw Helen.
“What, you’ve never seen sweatpants before?”
“Ther
e’s no need to be nasty,” Grace said. “Not when I’ve got wine. And Gloria Gaynor.” Grace pulled a CD out of her purse. “Now put on your disco dress and let’s do this right.”
“What are you talking about.” Helen didn’t even bother to make it a question. Of course Grace knew. If Lindsey knew, Grace knew. Grace was probably the one who’d told Lindsey.
“Mary Beth told me Henry brought something to the committee, and now they’re thinking about redoing the plan for the brothel.”
“I know.” Helen had gone to work yesterday morning and heard the news. Lou kept staring daggers at her, as if it was Helen’s fault that Henry had found the diary.
Well, it sort of was, but it had been an accident. She just didn’t have the heart to try to explain another unintentional mistake to someone who wouldn’t listen.
Besides, she couldn’t begrudge Henry his success.
She’d gone home after lunch and locked herself in her bedroom.
Until she started thinking about the walls.
“Henry said you were instrumental in tracking down the information.”
Helen scoffed. She’d hardly tracked it down.
“He said he tried to call.”
Helen shrugged. He knew where her house was. He knew how to get in. Hell, George and Tammy would probably figure out a way to unlock the door for him.
“This must really be serious if you’re wallowing without disco music.”
Helen glared at Grace and reached for the wine bottle.
“Do you want a glass?”
Helen peeled the wrapper off the cork.
“Well, you at least need an opener, unless you plan on biting the cork off.”
Helen considered it.
Grace sighed and went into the kitchen, mumbling something about stubbornness and stupidity.
Helen heard the door open again, and she cursed again. What was this, Sad Grand Central Station?
Then George and Tammy sprinted down the hall, whining and barking and tripping over their ears.
Oh god.
“I called him,” Grace said, emerging from the kitchen with a corkscrew. “I’ll just let myself out the back.” She took the bottle of wine from Helen—which was very unsporting of her—and left her alone to deal with the man Helen didn’t want to admit had broken her heart.
So Helen did what any mature woman who no longer kept secrets did.
She jumped off the couch and locked herself in the bathroom.
Chapter 15
Helen got out of the shower and took her time doing her hair. She put on a little mascara. She changed into a fresh pair of sweatpants.
Henry was still there.
He looked like crap, despite his sharp bow tie and blazer. He had dark circles under his eyes, just like hers. They were twins. Twins in misery. Identical in every way, except one was an asshole.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about romance novels,” he said.
Helen felt the sudden urge to throw every book she’d ever read out the window. Or if not every book, then every Henry.
“One thing I’ve noticed is that the conflict often centers on a big misunderstanding, and the hero and heroine are keeping things from each other, and instead of talking about it, they just let it simmer until it boils over and then, bam, the end.”
“Yeah,” Helen said. The Big Misunderstanding. It was one of her pet peeves—in the wrong hands, it could look like lazy storytelling. But wasn’t that the crux of romantic drama? Two people want to be together, but all of these things get in the way? And the people believe the things are more powerful than love?
That’s the magic of the romance novel, though, she thought. In the end, the writer makes you believe the fantasy that no things, no lack of communication, no social barriers, no fear of ruining a perfectly good—no, essential—friendship can get in the way of love.
“In so many of these books I’ve read, I just want to throttle the main characters. I mean, just talk about it! All of your problems would be solved if you would just talk about it!”
“Wait, books that you’ve read? How many books?”
“Lots, now. I told you. When you told me you were working on one, and you asked for my help, I thought I should know what I was doing. Do you know how easy it is to download e-books? Those things are addictive.”
“But I didn’t want you to help—”
“I know you just wanted my help with the sex part. The lovemaking.”
Lovemaking. Stupid word.
“Anyway, I just decided to read a few, and then I liked them so I read a few more, and . . . look, that’s not what I came here to talk to you about.”
“Then what?” Helen didn’t think she could take more hateful words lobbed at her like the last time she and Henry had talked.
Henry took a deep breath. “I’m an idiot.”
Helen reeled back. That was not what she was expecting. She didn’t know what she thought Henry wanted to talk to her about. She was perfectly happy with the idea of never talking to Henry again.
She too was an idiot.
“Of course you didn’t hide Madame Renee’s journal from me. That’s—” He waved his hands, looking for the word. “That’s stupid. I know you would never do anything like that. Not to me, not to anyone.”
“Then why did you say that?” Don’t push it, she warned herself. Just let him say his piece, then you can be friends again. That’s good enough.
“Because I’m an idiot. And because I thought I knew everything. I thought I knew that the house was more than just a house and that you believed me. And that you were my friend, just my friend. And I don’t mean to diminish the importance of your friendship, because it is the most important thing I’ve got. But I thought I knew what it was. But then we started having sex and I was just helping out a friend, right? But it became something more to me, something different, something I didn’t understand. It messed me up, and I thought, well, if I didn’t understand that, what else didn’t I understand?”
“Yeah, you thought I was just using you. I remember. You told me.” So much for not pushing it.
But he had hurt her, dammit.
He grabbed her hands. “That’s just it. I was so stupid. I was messed up by everything I was feeling and I didn’t understand it, so I did that dumb romance-novel-hero thing where I just didn’t think, and didn’t talk about it, and just . . . gah, I was just dumb!”
Sometimes, when the conflict is just a big misunderstanding and the hero reacts in a very stupid and hurtful way, he can redeem himself in the eyes of the heroine—and the reader—by . . .
“Is this a grovel?”
He hung his head but held on to her hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I can’t justify it. I can’t even really explain it, except to say that I realized something that completely changed how I think about you, and I dealt with it in the worst way.”
“What did you realize? That I’m suddenly a conniving—”
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you. Not just friends.”
Helen opened her mouth to respond. Then she shut it. She had no response. She just had fish mouth.
“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t know. Or I knew, but I didn’t understand. And I let my confusion fester and get weird and then I found the diary and I used it as an excuse to push you away.”
He loved her. Was in love with her. “But why?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“That’s not true,” she scoffed.
“It is. You have a lot of friends, and they tolerate me because they like you. And that’s OK. I don’t really like most people, anyway. Except that I do like the people around you, and I think that’s because of you. You make me see what’s good about other people. You make me give them a chance. You make me better. That’s what I love about our friendship.”
Back to the ol’ friendship thing.
“So when I felt it changing,” he conti
nued, “I was terrified. Because if it changed one way, it could change in another, and then you’d be gone. I was just starting to like people, and they would be gone too. I would be alone. And I didn’t even care that much that I wouldn’t be able to hang out with Grace or Jake or Mary Beth or Lindsey again. I mean, I cared a little, but not that much. But if I couldn’t be around you . . . It sounds a little psychotic now that I say it out loud.”
“I always knew you were a little crazy.”
“I know. I know! The one person in my life who not only tolerates my craziness but seems to actually enjoy it!”
“So you were scared.”
“Terrified!”
“And you acted like an idiot.”
“A total jerk!”
“This is a pretty good grovel.”
Henry shook his head. “It’s not about the grovel. I mean, yes, it is also about that, and also about how sorry I am that I hurt you. So sorry. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“I get it. I accept your apology.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Okaaaay . . .” She tried to pull her hands away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Wait. No. Yes, that is what I want. That is also what I want. The other thing that I want is for me to be very clear with you so you understand: I love you, Helen.”
“Like, love love?”
“Yes. Love love! So much love love.”
Now it was starting to sink in. But maybe if he said it a few more times.
“Did I mess it up too badly? I hope I didn’t, but if I did, I understand. And I hope that we can at least be friends—”
She couldn’t take any more. Not Henry groveling, not his apologizing and explaining and tearing open his chest and pouring it all out at her feet. And not leaving him there, wondering how she felt. That was too cruel.
So she stopped him.
With her face.
And when he finally let go of her hands, it was to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close so she was trapped against his body, that body she loved, and she poured all that love into her kiss and felt it coming right back to her in spades.