Shelter in the Tropics

by Cara Lockwood

  “No, you didn’t.” Tack glanced at her, leaning forward on the small table, placing his strong elbows on the glass top. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Cate laughed a little. “How do you know that? You don’t even know me.” The wine made her head feel light, but even so, she knew better than to just talk freely. She glanced at the sea, hoping she’d find a change of subject out there on the waves.

  “Let’s play a little game,” Tack suggested, his low voice sending a shiver through her. She suddenly felt a wild hope that the game might be strip poker.

  “What kind of game?” Cate asked, cautious. In the silver moonlight, she could see the challenge in his eyes.

  “Five Questions.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be Twenty Questions?”

  “Not this game. This game, we get to ask each other five questions. If you refuse to answer, then you have to drink half your glass of wine. If you lie, you have to drink your entire glass of wine. If you tell the truth, then I have to drink my entire glass of wine.”

  “That’s a lot of drinking.”

  “That’s why there’s just five questions.” Tack grinned.

  Every fiber in Cate’s body told her not to play this game. It was dangerous, and foolhardy, to say the least. And her head was already buzzing with the little bit of wine she’d already had.

  “Come on, Cate. What are you afraid of?” Tack leaned in and gently drew a line down the back of her hand. She watched the tip of his finger, mesmerized. She knew exactly what she was afraid of. Him.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Then let’s play.”

  “Fine,” she said, and decided then and there she’d just lie. How would he know the difference?

  “Okay, then. Ladies first. Ask me the first question.”

  “So, what’s the worst thing that happened to you in Afghanistan?”

  Tack froze, hand on the stem of his wineglass. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  Cate leaned in, feeling giddy. “Are you refusing to talk about it? Then you’ll have to drink half your glass.”

  Tack shook his head. “God, you don’t pull any punches. Go straight for the jugular.”

  “I like to win.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Tack’s full mouth. “I get that about you.”

  “So? Are you refusing to answer?”

  Tack glanced at her, seeming to weigh his options. “I left someone behind. He was a local translator, saved me and my soldiers more than once. He was a brave man, a good man, and...” Tack paused, and swallowed. “And because of the help he gave us, the Taliban vowed revenge. He was supposed to get a visa to come to the US. He didn’t.”

  “And...?” Cate got the impression he wasn’t telling her the whole story.

  “And I’ve been trying to get him over ever since. Lobbied my senators, wrote letters to the president. Still working on it, and he’s still over there.” Tack sat back in his chair and folded his muscular forearms across his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Cate said. “Do you know if he’s okay? Do you talk to him?”

  Tack stared at his wineglass. “When he can talk, when he gets access to Wi-Fi, which isn’t often. He’s got a little girl now, too. Her life is in danger until I can get them all home.”

  “Is there anything more you can do? You wrote your senator, but maybe there’s something else you could try?”

  Tack hesitated a moment. “I’ve tried,” he said. “It’s like banging my head against a concrete wall. Veterans can barely get funding for benefits, and so getting anybody to care about the people who helped us who aren’t citizens is a tough sell.”

  “Surely, someone would listen. After everything he did to help you.”

  “I’m still trying,” Tack said, and Cate believed him. “I can’t live with myself if he dies. The man put his life on the line and we left him alone with the wolves. Some thanks.”

  “Don’t give up. It’s...it’s not right he can’t come here,” Cate protested, slamming her open palm on the glass tabletop, making the wineglasses rattle.

  “Well, the good news is, you can drink away your indignation.” Tack nodded toward her wineglass. “I answered your question, so drink up, girl. The whole glass.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Them’s the rules.” Tack grinned, confident in his victory. “Or you lose, Miss ‘I like to win.’”

  Cate felt a competitive spirit rise in her. She wasn’t bested yet. “Fine.” Cate took her glass and finished the rest of the white wine in it, coughing a little at the end as she sucked in a breath of air. “That is the fastest I’ve ever drank a Pinot Grigio.”

  “Always a first time. How are you feeling?” Tack studied her.

  “A little drunk.” That was the truth. No lie there. The instant the wine hit her stomach it seemed like it took the express veins straight to her brain. Losing came with a high price. Still, the alcohol loosened the stiffness in her neck, the anxiety that she’d held there since the kid tried to grab her on the dance floor. It felt...good. Maybe this game wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask a question,” Tack said as he refilled her glass.

  “Good. I’ll be as deliberately vague as you were. Then it’ll be your turn to drink.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Tack scooted his chair closer to hers, so their knees touched, and Cate felt the impact, the warmth of his legs near hers. His proximity made her head swim even more than the wine as she tried to focus on him. His dark eyes were all challenge.

  “Where...” he began and paused.

  “Where what?” Now she couldn’t wait to have the question out there. What would he ask her? She held her breath, wanting it to be over with already.

  “...did...”

  His eyes never left hers.

  Now she was starting to forget about the question and being on the spot, and all she could think of was how dark his eyes were. She could barely see his pupils.

  “Where did what?”

  “Where did you...” He was almost nose to nose. She glanced down at his lips. Was he going to kiss her? There was nothing in the rules about a stolen kiss. Her body came alive at the idea.

  “Where did you get—” then he reached up just as her mouth gently parted “—that scar.” His gentle caress on the old wound on her chin made her flinch ever so slightly as she realized that he did not plan to kiss her at all. He’d asked her a question. A devastating one. The scar.

  God, the scar!

  She’d like to forget she ever had it, but it’s not like she ever could. It stared back at her every morning in the mirror. Rick’s mark.

  She remembered the screaming that night, the fury in Rick’s eyes. No one leaves me. No one ever leaves me. Him grabbing her by the hair, then smashing her downward. The horrible crack of the glass coffee table. Her mouth filling with the copper taste of blood.

  How did Tack know the perfect question to ask?

  “I don’t talk about that scar,” Cate said, which was the truth.

  “Does that mean you’re not answering?” Tack scooted her wineglass closer to her. Her head already swam. No way could she down another half glass. Not this soon.

  “No,” Cate said. “I’ll answer.” She tried to focus on what she could say that was truthful without actually giving anything away. She felt that once she started talking about Rick, she might never be able to stop. With the amount of wine swimming in her brain, she feared revealing more than she intended. Best not to reveal anything.

  “I...” She was about to say I fell. It was the standard abused woman answer, wasn’t it? She’d used that same lie a dozen times when people asked about bumps or bruises. But now, with Tack, she didn’t want to use that same old lie. She was tired of lyin
g. Why did she always have to take the blame? The I fell was just one more way she let Rick off the hook. It was one more way she’d blame herself for what was clearly his fault. The cover-up of the abuse was almost worse than the abuse itself. At least when she was being hit, she knew it wasn’t her fault. Covering up for him made it her fault. Made her culpable, because she was the one who took the blame in public. He had to take the blame only in private, when he asked for her forgiveness in tender moments of regret. And she forgave him so many times because she already thought, It’s partly my fault, anyway.

  And she was done with that. She’d been done with that the night she fled. She didn’t know why now, if it was the wine, or the way Tack was looking at her, but suddenly she wanted very much to stop covering up for a man who didn’t deserve it.

  “Someone threw me down against a glass coffee table. It broke. A shard cut me,” Cate said. And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt such an enormous sense of relief. The truth was so freeing, so powerful, that she wanted to say it again and again. I didn’t fall. It wasn’t an accident. An asshole who weighed seventy pounds more than me shoved my face into the glass. That’s how I got this scar. Anger washed through her, anger and outrage.

  And it seemed to run straight to Tack. He went stock-still. The color drained from his tanned face. “Someone did that to you? Who?” he demanded, looking like a cunning predator, all shrewd aggression. If this was what the enemy faced on the battlefield, she imagined they’d run for cover.

  “That’s a separate question,” she said, only just managing to keep her head in the game.

  “Cate,” Tack growled, all mirth gone. “Tell me who did that.”

  “After you drink.”

  “We’re not playing the game anymore.” Tack shook his head. “Tell me.”

  Cate suddenly had the feeling if she told him, Tack might jump on the next plane and go beat the hell out of her ex. She almost would pay to see that. There was such urgency in his voice, he seemed far too attached to her answer. Did he like her so much?

  “That’s not fair.” Cate’s head swam. And Tack had barely touched his wine.

  “Tell me.” Tack took a deep breath and grabbed her hand. “Please.”

  Cate had a hard time focusing. Two glasses of wine in a relatively short time frame made her feel light-headed. The answer popped out almost before she realized she’d said it out loud. “My husband.”

  Tack let her hand go and jumped up from the table, his metal chair falling back with a screech and a clang.

  “Tack!” Cate cried, surprised at his outburst. He’d turned his back to her and was staring out at the moonlit palm trees on the beach.

  “Was that the only time?” Tack’s voice was so low, she thought she might have imagined it.

  “No,” Cate admitted. The cool ocean breeze died, and the air around them had gotten thick suddenly, hard to breathe.

  Cate still felt confused by Tack’s reaction. Why was he taking this so personally? She was flattered he was so angry on her behalf, but it just seemed an overreaction.

  “Why...” Tack took a deep breath, clutching the railing before him. Cate sat, uncertain. He seemed like all coiled energy. She wasn’t sure if he was angry or...something else. “Why did he do it? The coffee table?”

  “He was angry because I’d accused him of cheating. He’d strayed before in our marriage, and I found a text message, and I wanted to leave...” Cate let out a long breath. “The guiltier he is of something, the more he took it out on me.”

  “Not right. It’s just not right,” Tack murmured, shaking his head.

  Cate agreed. None of it was right. When she caught Rick doing wrong, his temper was by far the worst. She knew this, too, and yet she couldn’t help it. She’d found the text messages on his phone, the pictures the woman had sent him. The invitation to come back to her bed. It was obvious what was happening. Despite all he’d done to her, Cate still found it in her to be angry about the betrayal. Though now, looking back on it, she wondered why she bothered to care.

  It was probably because afterward, he’d be so apologetic, so sweet. She soldiered through the abuse because he was always so certain that he could hold in the monster inside him that it wouldn’t get free next time.

  “Things got out of control.” That was the understatement of the year, she thought, as she remembered his white-hot fury, Rick grabbing a fistful of her hair. The screaming. Her screaming. The hard crunch of glass against her face.

  “It’s the reason I...” Cate was about to say took Avery and left. She was about to say too much. What am I doing? Admitting to what I did? She let the sentence just hang there. Her cover story was that she left after her husband died, not before. That was always supposed to be the story. She had a flash of the last time she saw Rick’s face. The shock, the terror in it, before he fell. She shook herself. It was an accident, nothing more. No more than an accident. She never meant to hurt him. She only meant for him to stop hurting her.

  Tack turned and looked at her for the first time, his dark eyes unreadable. “Did you go to the police?”

  Cate threw back her head and laughed, a bitter cackle. “No.”

  Tack crossed his arms, confused by her laughter. “Why not?”

  “My husband owned the police. He owned everybody. He was very rich and very powerful. He golfed with the mayor and the chief of police. One call from him and the charges would be dropped.”

  Tack frowned. “How did you know?”

  “I tried once,” Cate said, remembering the time she worked up the courage to head down to the local police station. How the sergeant there was concerned as he examined the fresh bruises on her arms and neck, even took down her statement vowing to follow-up, only to have the chief of police call Rick the very next morning. Rick had been furious. So angry, in fact, he’d made sure she couldn’t move from bed the next morning. She never went to the police again. “Let’s just say I learned that was a very bad idea.”

  “He paid them off.” The words came out flat, angry. Tack’s full attention was on her now, and she could see the vein in his forehead twitching.

  Cate nodded.

  Tack clenched his fist and looked away from her again, out to the beach bathed in moonlight.

  “It wasn’t every day...he got physical,” Cate felt the need to say. “And when he did, he was so apologetic, so deeply sorry... Well, I know there’s this perception that abusers are just evil people all the time, but...it’s not like that.” Instantly, she regretted it. Why was she defending the man who’d treated her so miserably? “It was very hard to leave.”

  “Did you try?” The question hung there without judgment. Tack turned to look at her with an intensity that made her a little uncomfortable. She finished the last of her wine, and Tack quickly poured more into her glass. Before she knew it, she’d taken another deep drink, her head swimming with alcohol and bad memories.

  “I tried once.” One time before I actually succeeded, she thought, but didn’t say. Cate stared at the white liquid in her glass and swirled it around the edges. “He caught me before Avery and I had even made it to the state line. Then he had the nanny take Avery and fly him to a penthouse in New York. He wouldn’t let me see him, wouldn’t let the security of the building let me through. I didn’t see Avery for two whole months. He told me if I ever tried anything like that again, he’d make sure I’d never see my son again.”

  “There are laws. The courts. He wouldn’t be able to do that.”

  Cate shrugged one shoulder. “He said he’d tell them I was unstable. He’d have witnesses and the best attorneys money could buy. I knew I had no chance at winning that battle.”

  “So you ran.”

  “So...I...” Alarm bells went off in her head. How did Tack know she ran? She never said she ran. “Why do you say that?”

 
“You live here now. I just assumed...”

  Cate stared at Tack a beat, but the wine clouded her ability to process her suspicion. She shook her head, hoping to redirect the conversation. “I know all this sounds crazy. I should’ve left him before...before things got so bad.”

  The muscles in Tack’s jaw flexed. Cate could feel his anger. “No man should ever hit a woman. Period.”

  “But if I’d left him earlier...”

  “No man should ever, under any circumstances, hit a woman. It’s not okay. It’s never okay. This is not about what you should or shouldn’t do, this is about him being an asshole.” Tack squinted. “But it’s wrong. What your husband did to you. I...I hate men who hurt women.” His fist tightened more, and he glared at it. “Someone should do something about it.”

  “It’s no use. He’s...” Cate stopped herself in the nick of time. Her husband was supposed to be dead, and she’d almost admitted he wasn’t. She’d almost given away her whole cover. “He’s gone.”

  “Right. You said he died? Car accident?”

  Cate nodded. She wanted fiercely to change the subject. The lie felt all wrong now after sharing something so raw and so real. She wanted to tell him the whole truth, but she knew she couldn’t. Not with Avery’s safety at stake.

  Then she wondered why she’d shared any of it. She stared at her wineglass, feeling the heavy weight of regret. She’d nearly blown her cover. And Avery’s. To a man she barely knew all because of some stupid drinking game she was too old to play, anyway. She felt a rush of emotion—the fatigue of living a lie, the fear of being found out. She was so very tired. It was all too much.

  She glanced at Tack and saw a flash of pity in his eyes. That was the last straw.

  She shouldn’t have shared so much. Not only was sharing dangerous, but now Tack thought of her as a pitiful thing—an abused wife. Was there anything more pathetic? She wasn’t a victim, she wanted to shout. She’d fought back. She’d made a life for herself. She hadn’t just sat back and taken what Rick had dished out. She’d left him. The triumph she’d felt minutes earlier of admitting the wrong he’d done to her melted away now as guilt crowded in—she was the one who still had so much to lose.