Straight From The Heart

by Janelle Taylor

  “He’s too good looking to be as nice as he is. There’s got to be a flaw there.”

  It was two summers past. She and Betsy had been sharing a bottle of white wine over a picnic dinner in Betsy’s backyard, while the Reed boys and Bobby were spraying each other with the hose. Betsy’s husband, Ray, had a water pistol and was involved in the game.

  “Stephen and Pauleen are divorcing,” Betsy said. “But I’ll tell you, it’s more her than him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, that woman isn’t what she seems.” She leaned forward, the wine talking for her, since Betsy was careful what she said about her boss. “She’s a witch, and you can spell that with a ‘B’.”

  Since Kimberly’s marriage had headed down that same path, and Alan had called her the same name, Kim didn’t quite trust Betsy’s judgment. “It always takes two.”

  “Not always.”

  “So, you blame their divorce solely on Pauleen?” Kim had always been a bit in awe of Pauleen Wright. The woman was a blond beauty with style, grace, and a razor-sharp wit. She and Stephen were among the elite of Riverside’s social set. The local paper was quick to report “Wright” sightings.

  “Pauleen’s not what she seems,” Betsy said.

  “What is she?”

  But Betsy, maddeningly enough, pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head. “I can’t talk. Stephen would fire me in a heartbeat! But trust me, Kimmy, he’s a good guy. You just need to get to know him, and, hey, he’s going to be available very soon!”

  Now, thinking back, Kim actually moaned aloud in humiliation. She had been attracted to him. So much so, in fact, that until Alan decided to go for custody—just to hurt her and get himself in the spotlight again—Kim had actually entertained fantasies about Stephen Wright that were darn near X-rated.

  “Oh, I can’t stand it!” she whispered, covering her face with her hands. In a fit of nervous energy she grabbed her hairbrush and attacked her wet hair with a vengeance, brushing downward in harsh strokes.

  Five minutes later, her once-tangled hair now straight to her shoulders, her feet still bare since she hadn’t had the foresight to bring more than her favorite pair of suede flats—now forever ruined—Kimberly walked into the living room.

  Stephen had retreated to one side of the hearth, his shoulders propped against the wall, one foot resting on a block of fir. A quick glance up at her, and then he looked back down, as if he were as uncomfortable as she was.

  Oh, sure, Stephen Wright, attorney extraordinaire. Society page’s darling. Like she was going to believe that.

  “So, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Betsy offered me the cabin for the weekend, and I took her up on it.”

  “Hmmm . . .”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means she offered me the cabin for the weekend,” Kimberly informed him.

  “Then you must have gotten your weekends mixed up.”

  He was so certain he was right, and she was wrong. Kim smiled faintly. “Nope. She’s taking care of my son while I’m here.”

  Stephen stared at her silently for several long seconds. “She’s taking care of my son this weekend.”

  “What?” Kimberly’s lips parted.

  “Betsy’s taking care of Jason this weekend, too.”

  “I know, I know. I just . . .” She let her voice trail off. Maybe Betsy had set this up. No! No, there had to be another explanation. When Betsy had offered her the cabin, she’d originally slated it for the following weekend. They’d been at a Little League game, and when Kim asked if this weekend were free instead, Betsy had distractedly said, “Sure.” Then Betsy had agreed to take care of Bobby as a matter of course since their two twelve-year-olds were inseparable.

  Kim shook her head. “But she must have realized we’d be here together if Jason’s at the Reeds’ for the weekend, too.”

  “You’d think so,” he admitted.

  “Oh, I don’t believe this!” Thrusting her fingers through her hair, Kim fought back a rushing torrent of emotion. This couldn’t be! Fate could not be so unkind.

  Well, at least Bobby’s having a blast, she thought unhappily. Stephen’s son, Jason, was good buddies with Betsy’s eldest son, Matt, so sometimes all four boys ended up together at the Reeds’, which thrilled Bobby to the core because, as he often said, “Jason Wright’s the coolest guy on the planet, bar none, Mom.”

  Like, oh, sure to that one, too. Still, one had to be cautious when dealing with junior-high admiration. Throughout the long custody battle, Kim had done her best to discourage Bobby’s opinion of Jason without alienating him. Bobby, however, simply could not be dissuaded. And in all honesty, Jason was a nice kid; a product of Stephen Wright’s ex-wife, Pauleen, Kim decided, no matter what Betsy thought of Stephen.

  “I’m calling Betsy,” Stephen suddenly said. In one lithe movement he was away from the fireplace and picking up a portable phone. His sudden proximity to Kim had her shrinking inside herself. The man was all shoulders and chest and possessed that peculiar kind of male grace that belied his six-foot-something frame. He absolutely pushed every one of her buttons without even trying!

  She watched him hit the speakerphone button and punched in Betsy’s number, and all the while she attempted to rein in her rollicking pulse. It bugged her that he had this effect on her even though she couldn’t stand him. She might have found him attractive once, but she sure as heck didn’t now!

  “Hello?” Betsy’s disembodied voice filled the cabin, sounding a bit frazzled.

  “Hey, Bets, it’s Kim,” she jumped in before Stephen Wright could say anything. “I’m calling from the cabin.”

  “Oh, yeah? Oh, Kimmy! Oh, my God!”

  Kim’s gaze locked with Stephen’s. The light must have belatedly switched on inside Betsy’s head. A quiver raced down Kim’s spine as she stared into Stephen Wright’s green eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t worry, Bets. It’s my fault,” she said. “I didn’t give you a chance to check your calendar before we changed the dates.”

  “But you couldn’t have known. This is the worst weather in forty years! Floods everywhere. You should see the news. I know you don’t have a TV there, but check the radio. All this incredible rain and, hey, we’re used to rain here in Oregon. It’s just amazing!”

  “Betsy, I know about the weather—”

  “Did you forget I’m here, too?” Stephen asked Betsy.

  Kim caught a whiff of that familiar cologne when he shifted his weight. She leaned further away, wishing she could move to the other side of the room, but unwilling to leave the speakerphone.

  There was a long pause. Then a gasp. Then a torrent of apologies. “Stephen! Oh, no. I can’t believe it. Oh, I’m sorry. Kimmy, my God! Oh, my God!” She broke into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh, wow . . .” Another pause. “Maybe you can draw straws and see who has to leave!”

  “Neither one of us can leave,” Stephen drawled sardonically. “As you said, there’s a flood out there. The roads are closed.”

  “Closed?” Betsy repeated. Then, noticing her friend’s silence, “Kimmy?”

  “Right here, Bets.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Kim knew what she was asking. Betsy was aware of how she felt about Stephen Wright these days; Kim had been pretty clear on that. “I’m okay,” she assured her friend.

  “Oh, well . . .” Betsy half laughed. “Kim, you remember that swimming class we took?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How to be a lifesaver, or something? You could maybe put it into action and swim back.”

  Kim narrowed her gaze at the phone. Catching sight of a small movement out of the corner of her eye, she dared a glance at Stephen’s face in time to glimpse the quirk of a smile. It was instantly gone. “I’m not the one who’s leaving.”

  “Looks like we’re both staying,” Stephen stated.

  Oh, no, Kim thought. Not in this lifetime.

  “Well, go
od,” Betsy said with such cheer that Kim’s mood darkened even further. “Hope you kids have a great time. By the way, if you run out of food, the pantry’s bound to have something in the way of—”

  The phone clicked hard. Something popped loudly, and the lights went out as if pulled by a master switch. Only the orange glow of the fire remained, casting dark and dangerous shadows along the pine walls.

  “I think we just lost electricity,” Stephen stated with a touch of irony.

  “Really.”

  “There go my microwavable burritos for dinner.”

  “This place doesn’t have a microwave,” Kim retorted, her mind whirling from too much information. “So Betsy’s taking care of Jason this weekend, too. Where did she think you were?”

  “At home, I suppose.” He sounded indifferent. “Jason spends half his time at the Reeds’ anyway, and Betsy and I just leave messages on each other’s phones about where the kids are.”

  Her eyes were adjusting to the dim light. She saw him run a hand over his face. Was he as stressed as she was? Impossible!

  “I could use a beer. Want one?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, thinking the idea sounded marvelous but unwilling to make even the smallest concession. This was the man who’d tried to help Alan steal her son! He was no friend. No ally. She wasn’t about to share a beer with him like they were old buddies.

  As he went in search of his drink, she walked to the fire, examining its orange and scarlet glow against her bare feet. Wiggling her toes, she sought for some kind of control. She was anxious and uneasy, deservedly so, and there was an unhappiness inside her, too. Oh, sure, she’d eventually won custody of her son in court, the one thing Alan had promised her she couldn’t do, but memories were sometimes so sharp and unkind.

  Alan’s mocking voice crowded inside her mind. “Wright’ll get me Bobby. He promised. No problem. It’s what he’s best at. Screwing women and taking what he wants from them!”

  Well, of course, she’d known that wasn’t true. Stephen Wright had been the model husband during his marriage to Pauleen, everyone knew that. If there’d been the slightest indiscretion, the town gossips would have reported it. But instead every word uttered and printed about Stephen and Pauleen had been filled with superlatives. And why not? They’d been one of the most attractive couples in town: he so tall and dark, she so slight and fair. And when they’d split up, citing irreconcilable differences, none of the acrimony that had surfaced in her own divorce had appeared. Pauleen and Stephen were as sane and reasonable throughout their divorce as they’d been bright and beautiful during their marriage—no matter what Betsy intimated.

  Still, Alan’s words had hurt—almost as much as the slap and shove he’d used against her that one awful night. She hadn’t wanted to hear anything bad about Stephen Wright any more than she’d wanted to tell the world about her husband’s physical abuse. But she’d had to face both, for Alan had employed Stephen as his attorney, and she, Kim, had been forced to reveal the ugliest part of her union to all and sundry.

  Things deteriorated from there. Alan claimed she was lying about his physical abuse. She’d set it up as a means to get Bobby. Ask anyone in town. Everyone knew Alan Harden was a good guy. Wasn’t he Little League coach? Hadn’t he helped out on the telethon to raise money for the schools? Didn’t Harden Electric help build the snack hut at Laurel Park?

  Accusations. Questions. Long, sideways looks. Kim had endured it all and somehow managed to keep her chin up. In the end she’d won Bobby away from Alan, but what a price! Bobby’s trust in adults had taken a definite beating.

  And Stephen Wright’s part in this drama was enough to make her want to scream and inflict some physical abuse of her own!

  Drawing a deep breath, Kim closed her eyes and ran her fingers through the lush strands of her blond mane. Okay, it was Robert Jackson who’d tried the case, but that was small comfort. She didn’t care about Robert Jackson. She’d never fantasized about him. And besides, Stephen could have refused Alan’s case. He could have kicked her egotistical ex-husband right out in the street. But no, his law firm had hung right in there, and Kim considered any association with Alan a total betrayal.

  Men, she thought, pressing her hands against her scalp, as if the very thought might explode out of her brain. They’re all in it together.

  “Here . . .”

  The voice behind her nearly shot her out of her skin. Kim whipped around, furious. “Why don’t you just scare the liver out of me!” The fire in her aquamarine eyes lessened a little as she realized he was holding out a long-necked beer for her. Condensation dripped down the label and onto his thumb. Almost mesmerized by the cool invitation, Kim managed to mutter a stiff, “I said I didn’t want one.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, take it. It’s hot in here.”

  That it was. It might be wet outside and rumbling with thunder and wind, but it was a summer storm that lashed against the cabin, and the air was fairly warm. The fire, though cheery, was throwing off more heat than either of them needed. In fact, the whole room felt close and sultry.

  “Thanks,” she said tightly.

  His lips twisted. “Don’t mention it.” With that he took a long swallow, and before Kim looked away she saw his throat contract several times. Now why that movement should seem so sensual, she didn’t quite know, but it was several moments before the image cleared from her brain and by the time it did, she realized she’d missed something in the conversation.

  “I’m sorry, what?” she asked, as he was waiting for some kind of answer.

  “I said you can have the bedroom.”

  “Oh. Good.” She glanced around the living room. There was one overstuffed chair and a claw-footed love seat, but nothing remotely big enough for his huge frame. “I could sleep here,” she offered.

  “Don’t worry. I doubt I’ll be sleeping anyway.”

  “Why not?” she asked, before she could help herself.

  “I never do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Stephen took another swallow from the bottle. “I’m just not much of a sleeper these days.”

  “Oh.” Kim sipped at her beer, marveling that it tasted so wonderful. She really didn’t like the stuff much, but once in a while, when she felt overheated and tense, nothing tasted better. “I’ve got a couple sacks of groceries in my trunk,” she suddenly remembered. “Of course, we don’t have an oven . . .”

  “Well, I could grill the burritos over the fire,” he suggested.

  Kim tried to picture that in her mind. Stephen, leaning over the fire, a cast-iron frying pan over a roaring flame filled with frozen fast food. “I’ll get the groceries.”

  “Give me the keys, and I’ll get them. You don’t have any shoes on.”

  They both glanced down at her pink-painted toenails. Kimberly could feel a flush traveling up her neck, and she cursed herself for being so sensitive. “The keys are in my purse,” she said, walking to her bag and pulling them out. He was right behind her, so close she could feel his body heat adding to the warmth of the room.

  As soon as he was jogging through the rain, she downed a huge swallow of beer, then two more, hoping the liquor would run through her veins and smooth her frazzled nerves.

  “How long do you think the roads will be closed?” she asked when he returned. He was carrying her grocery sacks as if their combined weight, which had had her staggering, was feather light.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Got a guess?”

  “A day, or two maybe.”

  “A day or two!” Kim sank onto the love seat. “I can’t wait that long.”

  Stephen left the sacks on the kitchen counter and rescued the beer he’d left on the table before returning to the living room. She was facing the fire, and now she could feel him somewhere behind her right shoulder. She swallowed again, wondering if the rush to her head was a result of drinking too fast or her own taut nerves.

  “We can’t stay here like this,” she
tried again.

  His answer was a very male snort. She glanced back and caught him just finishing a long draught of beer, emptying the bottle. Dangling the bottle’s long neck with his right hand, he swiped his mouth with the back of his left. To Kim, who’d only seen him in formal social situations or “attorney” mode, this turn to rugged indifference was both unsettling and unsuitably appealing.

  You hate him. Remember that.

  “Something has to be done,” she muttered, returning her gaze to the fire.

  “Got a suggestion?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I do.”

  “You do?” Carefully, she hazarded another glance his way. He, too, seemed entranced by the dancing flames, but spying her movement, his gaze swept upward, meeting hers.

  “Another beer,” he said, turning to fulfill his own request.

  Kim narrowed her lashes at his retreating back, half-inclined to nail him with some perfect barb. Inspiration did not strike, however, and she was still working up a comeback when he offered her another dewy bottle.

  “I’ve still got a ways to go on this one,” she said frostily.

  “Yeah, well . . .” He shrugged and with several long steps, flopped onto the love seat, his legs stretched so far forward that his ankles straddled her two feet. It was peculiarly intimate and Kim, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel, sidled toward the overstuffed chair, dropping into it with what she hoped was the same unaffected casualness.

  Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the easy, familiar kind between friends. Kim had to struggle not to fidget. “Aren’t you hungry yet?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Well, I am.” She jumped up and found her way to the kitchen where Stephen had lit the oil lamp Betsy normally used as a centerpiece on the tiny kitchen table. Shadows walked along the cabinets and counter as she dug inside her sacks for the frozen hamburger, now half-thawed, and a loaf of bread. There were no buns; she’d planned on fixing spaghetti for herself, along with some “salad in a bag,” her new favorite meal. Now, it looked like she would have to settle for hamburger patties on wheat bread.