by Carol Devine
A fireplace log shifted in the sudden silence.
"How much time?" he asked quietly.
She returned her gaze to the diamond. The facets sparkled in the soft light, stinging her eyes. "We've only been dating a little over three weeks," she reminded him.
He shifted and tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. Those two creases were back between his brows. Determined creases. "We've been together every morning and every night of those three weeks. Thanks to our lawyers and their investigators, for the last few months we've read exhaustive reports about each other's backgrounds and plans for the future. We've talked about every subject under the sun, especially the ones that really matter. What more do we need to find out?"
"It's not so much what we know or don't know. It's the suddenness of it all. I need more time," she said and knew it was a lie the moment she uttered it. What she needed was to be something other than a Tarkenton who wanted a future in politics. She pulled back from his hold.
"How long?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"A week, a month, a year? When?"
"I don’t know! You can't blame me for being cautious. This is the rest of our lives we're talking about."
Bram jumped to his feet and raked a hand through his hair. He'd expected caution. What he hadn't expected was indecision. She couldn't even give him a timetable. He noticed the lowered lashes hiding her eyes and the restless twining of her fingers. Something else was bothering her. But what? "If we both love each other, what will change with time?" he asked.
"There's much we haven't discussed."
"Like what?"
"Where would we live?"
He shrugged. "I don't care. I'll hold onto the ranch because it belongs in the family, but I'm used to being away from it. Traveling is my middle name. Do you want to live in Denver?"
"I don't know."She hesitated. "What if I eventually run for office?"
"You mean political office?"
She nodded and saw the ring in his fingers, held steady, making the firelight catch the sparkle of the diamond. It glittered among the beads of her dress. But he was holding steady and she was not, taken by the idea that the sparkling light was shifting, forcing her to face what was shifting inside her. Life would never be the same if she said yes.
"Well, if you're elected to an office within the state, Denver is the capital, so it will be an easy commute. If it's a national office, we'll move to Washington D.C."
"And the animals?"
"Tasha can pretty much go anywhere. We can either keep the rest here at the compound, or buy another place if we end up on the East Coast."
"Sounds like you've thought of everything."
No, he thought. Obviously not everything. He watched her stare at the diamond and he made a decision. He picked up her left hand, registering how ice cold it was, trembling. "I want to see how it looks on you."
"I don't think that's a good idea," she said although there was little force to her protest. She didn't even attempt to pull from his grasp. He slid the ring over the knuckle of the third finger of her left hand and held it up to the light.
"You've stopped biting your nails," he observed, not wishing to draw too much attention to the ring.
"I couldn't seem to give it up until a few weeks ago. I guess it was just a bad habit." She avoided his eyes.
"At least the ring fits," he said, taking a chance. "Since you don't usually wear them, I had a hell of a time figuring out what size to get . Finally, I got up in the middle of the night and measured your finger while you were sleeping."
He meant to make her smile. What he got was a glimmer of despair. "Please, don't say things like that," she said and closed her eyes, seeping tears.
He placed his fingers on either side of her face and wiped her tears away with his thumbs, not knowing how else to stem the tide. "Mandy, don't cry," he said roughly, near tears himself. "I want to make you happy, not sad."
"You do make me happy," she choked. "These last few weeks have been the happiest of my life. You're so good to me."
Somehow, if he got her to talk, he'd be able to resolve this problem, whatever it was . He kissed her and she clung to him. He could feel desperation in the arms wound tight around his neck."What is it, love?" he asked against her hair. "You can tell me."
Her fists tightened on his wide shoulders. She felt the weight of the ring on her finger, felt the weight of dread build in her heart. "I can't," she said.
"Yes, you can." He drew her hands down. They were clenched tightly, as though she couldn't bear to let something go. He held them between their bodies, covering them with his own, seeking to reassure her. "Mandy, whatever it is, we can solve it together."
She looked at him, seeing only one way to avoid the awful choice she had to make within her heart. On one side stood Bram, offering love. On the other, stood her father and a dream for the future, once his, now hers. "If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?"
He didn't intend to hesitate but it was a loaded question and a deep pang warned his heart. “What do you want me to do?"
"Retire from wrestling."
"Is that why you're so upset? Because I'm a professional wrestler?"
"I could help you start a foundation to support the animals through donations. You could do such good, Bram. The public needs to be educated about the plight of the big cats, about what happens when their species are endangered."
He released her hands. "You want me to quit wrestling to become some sort of self-employed teacher?"
"You could continue to travel around the country with Tasha, Ebony and Zeus." She wrung her hands and racked her brain to come up with the definitive argument. "I could even accompany you."
"You'd be willing to quit your job, too?"
"No, not my job. I'd still be working for the D.A. But this way, we wouldn't have to sneak around, dodging reporters and cameras all the time."
"Oh, I get it." He leapt to his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. "You think if I quit wrestling, we'll attract less attention and all this media fuss will die down."
"Something like that," she said and stood up as well.
"Well, I know how to solve that problem. And neither one of us has to lift a finger."
"How?"
"Take our relationship public. We can do it gradually, have dinner out a few times, be seen around town. When you think the time is right, we'll announce we’re a couple and soon after, we’ll announce our engagement."
"Have you seen the gauntlet of reporters I've been running through every day? If we go public, I'll never see the light of day."
"Hardy says the media is interested only because we've made our relationship such a big secret."
"Hardy!" she scoffed. "What does Hardy know about the media?"
"For one thing, he 's done a good job of publicizing me in my career. He's also got a master's degree in journalism. I know he doesn’t look like professional PR but he knows his stuff. He's been around the business a long time."
Shielding the extent of her dismay, Amanda folded her arms. "You mean he's been around the wrestling business for a long time. There's a difference."
"Maybe you better spell it out for me," Bram retorted, his voice dangerously low.
"If you don't know the difference, then I'm sorry I brought it up. You asked me why I was upset and I told you. I'd hoped you'd understand."
"Understand what? That you're ashamed of what I do for a living?"
"I didn't say that. You're putting words in my mouth."
"But you thought about it. You thought about it enough to ask me to quit."
She lowered her head, unable to meet the demand in his stare. She heard the rustle of starched fabric as he prowled restlessly around the room, switching on lamps until the room blazed with light. She would have preferred the semi-dark but said nothing, knowing he would take exception if she did.
"Well, just in case there's any doubt in your mind, the answer is no. I won't quit. I
won't apologize for who or what I am either, even for someone like you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you're too worried about what other people think, Mandy. Lighten up."
"Lighten up! Easy for you to say! All you have to do is walk into an arena half-naked and everyone applauds. I've worked my fingers to the bone to establish my commitment to public service. I have a reputation to uphold, a family tradition of honor and integrity. Is it wrong to try and protect that?"
"So you're saying you can't marry me because of your frigging reputation?"
"Bram, I'm a Tarkenton! You're a Beastmaster. Don't you see the irony in that?"
"What's wrong with a little irony? The world is full of it."
"Not my world. Either a person is guilty or he's not. Either I win or I lose, based on how well I present not only my case, but myself. All I have is myself, my credibility, my character. I can't be married to a person who celebrates violence and the victimization of others."
"Mandy, we've been over this. I thought when you agreed to drop the lawsuit you understood. Pro wrestling is entertainment. Except for the costume I wear, it's no different from what I used to do on the football field."
"You say it's no different. I say it is. Football players wear uniforms. It’s true competition. No one takes what you do seriously. That’s the difference. And it’s a difference that makes it impossible for me to accept your proposal." She tugged off the ring.
"Mandy, don't do this ."
Pride kept her from weeping when she extended her hand and held out the ring. He refused to take it so she laid it on the mantle above the fireplace. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She turned to leave and he caught her arm.
"If I thought it would work, I would change for you, Mandy. I would become whoever you wanted me to be. But I tried that with my ex-wife. It shouldn’t matter what I do for a living. Wrestling is part of who I am. The Beastmaster is me, my creation."
She nodded and closed her eyes, in order to keep her voice steady. "I shouldn't have asked you to give it up. It was selfish of me and wrong but I knew if I didn't, I'd always wonder."
"Does that mean you'll reconsider?"
She sighed heavily, knowing he deserved the absolute truth. "No, I won't. The risk to my family’s legacy is too great."
"We don't know that, Mandy. We won't know how people will react unless we give them a chance."
"I know exactly how they will react. Boggs will fire me. Reporters will crucify me. They will judge me by my inconsistencies and the hypocritical nature of our relationship, rather than focus on my accomplishments. That's what the news media does these days." Amanda stepped back from him, hugging herself.
"It's not just the press," she admitted. "It's everyone. My family, colleagues, friends. I don't know how to defend you, Bram. If I can't bring myself to stand by you one hundred percent, then I will only make both of us unhappy, just like I'm doing now."
He recognized the truth in what she said and the hopelessness of the situation. He wouldn't change and she couldn't. A great emptiness filled his chest. "I don't want to stop seeing you. But I can't see you and not want you for my wife, Mandy." He bent to brush her cheek. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me. "
Before she could open her eyes, he left the room. She stared after him a moment, the shock registering, then stumbled into the hall, needing to leave immediately, before she did change her mind.
Oh, Daddy, she thought. You never told me how tough it is to do the right thing.
She picked up her purse and car keys. Sheer stubbornness got her out the door. She marched around the jeep, feeling numb. Only her hearing worked, picking up the crunch of heels on gravel. She was certainly in a hurry to get out of here.
She wrenched open the car door, climbed in and slammed it, wincing at the finality of the sound. She clutched the steering wheel, gasped for air and wondered how long she'd been holding her breath. Her sides ached from the effort .
The September night was clear and cold. The new gown was poor protection. But the cold didn't penetrate nearly as much as the silence did.
Amanda wiped away tears and started the car.
Bram watched her leave from the upstairs window, fists clenched in the front pockets of his trousers. He knew if he took out his hands, he would smash the glass and scream for her to come back, that he would do anything, anything at all, if she would only come back. He stayed that way for many minutes, finally staring at nothing but a dark empty driveway and moonlit trees weeping leaves. The dust raised from her tires had long since died.
He felt the ache in his hands, in his legs and in his heart.
Turning, he dragged his way down the stairs to the weight room at the back of the house. He bypassed all the equipment, the stacked rows of free weights, the chrome plated machines and padded benches, and strode to the far corner where he'd hung an old canvas punching bag, left from his football days. After stripping to his shorts, he began to pound it. An hour later, it exploded beneath his bare and bloodied hands.
He stood there panting, dumbly staring at the torn bag, ripped in half. His panting turned to gasps and he cried, the tears a relief, though not enough.
After he showered and dressed, he felt numb enough to check his phone for messages. There were none. He set the phone on the table near the fireplace in the living room and sat down to wait. At midnight, he cradled it in his lap, his hopes becoming prayers.
Please, God. Let her bend just enough to make the call.
But she never did. He spent a sleepless night in the wide comfortable chair which still smelled of her, Tasha curled at his feet.
Chapter Fifteen
Amanda heaved another armful of law books from the top shelf of her office bookcase and piled them on the floor. Dust motes danced in their wake, caught in the shafts of a late afternoon sun. She squinted and shaded her eyes with a hand covered with grime. The light blinded her anyway, leaving tears. Quickly, she crossed the room to block the sun with drapes.
She reached up to draw them closed and light hit her face again, flooding her with unfamiliar warmth. She stilled her hands, remembering. Outside, the sky was a brilliant, robin's egg blue. Bram used to say her eyes were the same color.
Amanda looked down and blinked, desperate for diversion.
Below, people crossed the street and hurried along the sidewalks. They all had places to go and things to do. She too, had things to do. Casework mostly. Since she'd returned to Boggs' good graces, her hours were chock full with activity from dawn to beyond dusk. Busy, busy, busy was Amanda Tarkenton.
But not busy enough to stop remembering.
She turned back to the task at hand, cleaning her office bookshelves. She really ought to be reading depositions or preparing her opening statement for a trial scheduled to start tomorrow, but she couldn't concentrate on legal briefs and depositions. Yesterday, her main accomplishment was a clean desk. Today it was dust-free shelves.
Her hands moved, wiping surfaces and sorting through titles.
Some of these books she hadn't looked at since college. She hefted her old business law textbook, one she'd kept for sentimental reasons and placed it on the shelf. Next went a thick tattered paperback copy of a Norton's Anthology, which she'd vowed long ago to get through. So far she hadn't. There was always next year, she thought. Or the next, stretching on ad infinitum.
She sighed and shoved faster. On the bottom of the pile was a slim book of poems her mother had given her for a birthday present long ago. Usually she kept such things at home, but she'd liked it well enough to take with her when she went away to college. The anthology, the law textbook, and the poetry volume were all that remained of those days long ago.
Poetry. The word alone conjured an image of Tasha running across green grass, leaping after a thick length of rope. The memory of the laughing man which accompanied the image caused her to pause. She had to forget the man on the other end of that rope, dressed in nothing but leopard skin, his m
ovement lithe and powerful, like the tiger. Amanda opened the book but the words on the page blurred before her. Would she ever get over him? She was beginning to seriously wonder. Five weeks had passed and no matter what she did, she couldn't dismiss him from her mind. Last night she had even watched him on television, self-preservation be damned.
Wiping her eyes, she bowed her head. The principles upon which she built her life had taken a beating these past weeks. As a Tarkenton, she'd allied herself on the side of righteousness. Honor had been bred into her, and she took pride in the fact that she wasn't afraid to stand up for what she'd believed in. If she went back to Bram, she'd lose something even more important than her honor. She'd lose her self-respect.
Amanda snapped the book shut and placed it firmly on the shelf. A scrap of paper escaped from between the covers and floated lazily through a shaft of sunlight to land on the thin utilitarian carpet. Amanda blinked and picked it up. She'd never gotten around to closing the drapes.
The paper was yellowed. One corner was torn. She turned it over and froze at the sight of familiar handwriting.
Dear Mandy, it said.
She closed her eyes, stabbed by a deep pain of recognition and regret. Recognition of her father's influence in her life. Regret that she'd saved so little of what he'd given her as a child. Like most children, she didn't fully appreciate what she had until it was gone. Until he was gone.
She'd never saved any of the notes he'd written to her.
They'd been too short to be precious, one-liners really, scrawled on whatever he happened to have handy at the time. A napkin from a D.C. dinner, a crumpled business card, stolen paper, a scrap torn from her school notebook, bits of love left for her to find when she opened her eyes to a new morning.
She opened her eyes now. The ink was faded, the paper worn, but it was real fatherly advice, written in his distinctive hand.
Carefully she held it up to the light.
Dear Mandy,
If you can't find a way through, go around.
Love, Dad