by Tamara Leigh
“It’s bad manners not to announce one’s presence.” He throws my words back at me.
Slowly, he turns to present a firm chest unmarred by fire.
Don’t look! Don’t look!
“I …” I lower my gaze, squeeze my eyes closed to soothe the sting, then whip my lids up so fast that everything below his chin passes in a blur. “I would have announced myself, but I was surprised to—”
“You don’t seem surprised. More like pitying.”
Do I? Of course, maybe he means pitiful, which certainly fits the picture I present in sopping clothes and hair—nowhere near the beauty that was Bathsheba. I suffer a pang of regret, only to remind myself of what happened when King David saw the bathing beauty on her rooftop. In such a state as I now present, there’s no way Clive would summon me to be his mistress. So this is good—even if I feel like puppy doo.
“Don’t, Kate.”
“What?”
“Pity me. If I wanted that, you would have known long before now—or should I say before Friday?”
I really wish he would put that shirt on. Though I may be no Bathsheba, he too well fits the image I hold of King David.
“I assume she told you,” Clive prompts.
He makes it sound like gossip Gloria and I indulged in, but it wasn’t. Still, I flush. “Your mother-in-law mentioned you’d been burned but didn’t elaborate. I thought you would have had reconstructive surgery.”
“No.”
A memory rises of my first day at the burn unit, when I’d rebuked him for preaching at me about my self-improvement by pointing out that he had nothing that needed improving upon. For a moment, it had appeared he might contradict me.
“I decided to leave it.”
“Another reminder? Like the ring?” Only after the words are out do I realize how bold I sound. And how far I’ve trespassed. Times like these I wonder if I ought to have a lip zipper installed. Of course, were I staying on top of Operation: Perfect Faith, perhaps God would help me with the guard on my tongue that I keep laying off.
Fortunately, Clive doesn’t appear to take offense. If anything, weariness settles about him. “For a while it served as a reminder. Now it’s just part of me. In fact, most times I only give it enough thought to keep me in long-sleeved shirts.”
I lower my gaze to the shirt he holds and, on the downward journey, travel across the breadth of his unscathed chest. Per-fect-ly unscathed.
I really wish he’d put that shirt on!
Lifting my chin, I catch his grim smile a moment before he drags on the dark blue shirt.
Wish granted.
“People tend to ask awkward questions.” He jerks the hem down over the waist of his pants and looks past me. “Did you mean to leave the shower running?”
Guessing the subject of the fire is closed—and wishing he trusted me enough to talk about it—I glance over my shoulder at the misted room. “I thought you might want to rinse off. You were kind of … shortchanged.”
“I’ll treat myself to a long shower tonight.” He turns back to the dresser.
Right. Probably for the best.
“I don’t keep many clothes here.” He rifles through a drawer. “However, I’m sure I have something you can change into.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
Hold it! I’m about to crawl into Clive’s clothes? Something he’s worn? Something big, soft, and lightly infused with his scent? And, perhaps, button-down? I conjure an ad of a woman wearing her man’s oversized shirt unbuttoned to the point of cleavage, a cup of tea poised before her lips, and bare legs curled beneath her—
“Sweatpants.” Clive drops a black garment atop the dresser.
So much for bare legs. Not that I’d go bare-legged around him. I am not that kind of woman!
“Sweatshirt.”
So much for button-down. And cleavage. Not that I’d be so brazen as to show off that much flesh.
“You’re good to go.” Clive drops a blur of color atop the sweatpants—one that makes me see red.
Feeling a twist at my center, I zoom in on the red sweatshirt. I don’t do R-E-D.
Though I know I should “stiff upper lip” it—that my refusal to wear Christopher’s favorite color is childish—I say, “Do you have a different top?”
Clive turns. “That’s my last clean one. Hardly stylish, but I promise not to hold it against you.”
Feeling incredibly shallow, I give my stinging eyes relief with a prolonged blink. “Then red it is.”
He arches an eyebrow. “It’s the color you’re opposed to?”
Beginning to chill beneath my waterlogged clothes, I give a shrug that ends on a shudder. “Not my favorite color.”
“Because it’s associated with the devil and his pitchfork?”
Well, if you wanted to call Christopher a de— “No!” I’m ashamed at where my thoughts nearly took me. True, my continued aversion to red rests in what Christopher did when I most needed his strength and support—
I know! Get over it. Grow up. Get a life.
—but he’s no horned dude.
“Kate?”
I shudder again. “It’s just that—”
“Back in the shower.” Clive scoops up the clothes, crosses the bedroom, and thrusts them at me. “After you’ve warmed up and irrigated your eyes again, get dressed and we’ll talk.”
Knowing that I must resemble a wet mutt, I snatch the clothes from him, step into the bathroom, and firmly shut the door.
Ridiculous as it seems—especially considering the lock on the door—I once more step beneath the spray fully clothed. Though nowhere in the Bible does it say “Thou shalt shower in one’s Sunday best if one finds oneself sheltered by a man not one’s husband,” I’m in a man’s bedroom for goodness’ sake! When I finally step out, I can’t peel off the clinging clothes fast enough. When it’s time to don the R-E-D sweatshirt, I do it behind closed lids.
And there you have it. I’m wearing Clive’s sweatpants, drawstring pulled tight to keep them from slipping down my hips (nice to know they can) and his sweatshirt, which does, in fact, carry the faint scent of … a man.
I wipe the above-sink mirror and eye Katherine Mae Meadows done up in red. Difficult as it is to admit, the bright color does me good. Not that I like red any better, but it likes me.
I peer at my face, where not a trace of makeup remains. Nothing I can do about that. However, the brush I find in the top vanity drawer can do something about my hair. I will not obsess over the short sand-colored strands woven between the bristles. I draw the brush through my hair. And leave behind a few dark strands to mingle with the sandy ones.
Draping my wet clothes over the showerhead, I exit the bathroom. “Clive?”
“In the kitchen—down the hall and take a left.”
I know where it is, but he doesn’t know I know.
Self-consciously patting down the sweatpants, I traverse the hall and walk into the kitchen, which is no longer as bright as it was earlier. Caressed by the rays of the setting sun, the room frames the man at its center where he leans against the island.
Clive looks over his shoulder at me. “Like it or not, red’s a good color on you, Kate.”
Though he’s in line with the consensus, I feel a strange absence of resentment. “Thank you.” I give the elasticized hem a tug. “Guess I’ll have to wear it more often.”
“Not for me, I hope.”
I raise my eyebrows. “But you like it on me, don’t you?”
Did I say that? Sounds so codependent! So “Lead me around by the nose, and I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth”! So “Wannabe Mrs. Christopher Stapleton the Second so bad!”
I could just puke.
“I do like it, Kate, but that doesn’t mean you should wear red if you don’t like it.”
The self-loathing that rises like bile begins to ebb. I could kiss him—Clive Alexander, a man after my own heart.
“You seem surprised. Is this another Michael thing?”
He taps his nonexistent mole and missing gap.
“Oh. No. It’s …”
It’s the moment of truth. And why not? Considering how much I know of Clive’s past, it’s only fair that he knows mine—well, some of it.
I cross the kitchen and lean back against the island alongside him. “Actually, it’s a Christopher thing.” I glance sidelong at him. “Red was his favorite color, and I aimed to please. After he broke off the engagement, I cleared out my closet.” I huff derisively. “Childish, but it helped.”
Wow! I said it. And without a flinch or quiver.
Clive angles his body toward me. “Are you telling me that in all these years, you haven’t worn red?”
“Yep.”
“Because it’s his favorite color?”
Feeling my defenses rise, I mentally stomp on them. My continuing aversion to red really is ridiculous. “ ’Fraid so.”
He considers me. “He hurt you badly.”
My emotions tighten, but more for what caused Christopher to hurt me—which I have yet to tell Clive.
I will, Lord.
“It wasn’t easy getting over it.”
He lifts my right hand in his left. “I understand that.” As evidenced by the wedding band that glints on his ring finger.
And I can’t help but note that as I’ve clung to the absence of red, he’s clung to the presence of gold. As I’ve lost a man I loved who was to be my husband, he’s lost a woman he loved who was his wife. As I’ve lost the ability to bring forth a child from my body, he’s lost a child who was fully brought forth. No, my tragedy isn’t as great as his, but we’ve suffered similar losses.
“Did your faith help?” His thumb circles the back of my hand. Strains my senses. Draws me to him though neither of us moves closer.
“Did it, Kate?”
I meet his gaze, and in his eyes see that he really wants to know.
“Unlike you, at the time I didn’t have faith. My grandmother dragged me to church every Sunday, but I secretly sided with my grandfather, who thought it was cute that his little wife believed in the existence of a higher being. I humored her, and it wasn’t so bad, as church filled many of my social needs. Not only did several of my friends attend, but I gained a few boyfriends—the last being Christopher, who had moved to Redding to finish out his degree at the university.”
“Then he was a Christian.”
“No. He dabbled in Christianity, said he liked the idea of it, but was no more committed than I.”
Clive nods for me to continue, and all the while his thumb keeps circling.
Knowing it’s only a matter of time before I start babbling and tell more than I’m ready to tell, I gush, “So we fell in love, were engaged, moved to San Francisco, started planning the wedding, and never made it to the altar.”
He wants to ask the reason—I see the question move from his eyes to his lips. And I panic.
“Whereas your loss made you step back from faith, mine made me step forward.”
His hand on mine stills. “I’m sorry for the pain Stapleton caused you, but you really can’t compare our losses.”
I search his face, see the pain there … search my heart, feel the pain there. And I whisper, “I think you’d be surprised.”
He steps nearer. “Surprise me.”
Here’s your opening, Kate.
As I stare at him, I realize he’s taken a piece of my heart. And I may never get it back—which would be fine were it an even trade. If he cared as deeply for me and that were enough for him. Perhaps given more time …
“You’re right.” I nod. “They don’t compare.”
Suspicion crosses his face. However, when nervousness makes me moisten my lips, he looks to my mouth, cups my face in his hands, and lowers his head.
I know I should pull back as Belle would advise, but I hold my breath.
“Kate,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me. Deeply. Urgently. And is that his hand sliding around the back of my neck … trailing down my spine … urging me closer?
Not good! Though I ignored the voice that told me to be honest with Clive, the voice that warns me not to go where I vowed never to go again outside of marriage, this time it’s too loud to shove aside.
I pull my head back. “I can’t.”
He opens his eyes. “What?”
“Do this. It might get out of hand, and I don’t believe in premarital sex.”
He frowns. “Then you and Michael—”
“Yes! I mean no! We didn’t … uh … we didn’t.”
Keeping his hold on me, Clive takes a step back. “Are you telling me you’ve never been with a man?”
The question—and his disbelief—are to be expected, but I’m broadsided. As for the answer … Despite having repented and been forgiven for my promiscuity with Christopher, I’m tempted to shame.
You’re forgiven. Once and for all, Kate!
But no matter how often I assure myself of God’s grace, there’s this voice that tells me my infertility is a punishment from God, and were I truly forgiven, He would restore the most precious part of my womanhood.
“It’s a simple question, Kate.”
I blink Clive back to focus. “What?”
“Are you a virgin?”
I shake my head. “But the mistake I made years ago is one I’m not willing to repeat.”
“Was that mistake made with Christopher Stapleton?”
I catch my breath.
Clive’s regard deepens a moment before he releases me. “None of my business.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets and shifts his attention to the valley’s lengthening shadows.
Though I know better, I lay a hand on his arm. “Clive—”
His head snaps around and his gaze drops to my touch.
I snatch my hand back.
When he looks up, a strained smile stretches his mouth. “I’m sorry you had to push me away, Kate.” The smile strains further. “It’s just that it’s been a while since …”
I nearly reach to him again, but this time stop myself.
He draws a long breath. “You’re wise not to allow it to go any further without a commitment.”
Then he understands.
I nod. “Or without God’s blessing.”
His lids narrow. “That may be more difficult than the commitment.”
In the next instant, I find myself repeating words Belle once spoke to me. “It’s however difficult you make it. God’s ready when you are.”
Silence. Is it time to leave? It is getting dark. And I do have to be up early tomorrow if I’m to stay on sched—
“I failed them, Kate.”
The emotion in the taut lines of Clive’s face is all the confirmation needed that he’s talking about his wife and son.
“I kept putting them off. There was always something that needed to be done. Money and connections that needed to be made. And Jillian did her best to understand. But I knew there were problems the night I suggested we have another child, and she said it was hard enough being a single mom with just the one. So I promised her I’d get my priorities straight.”
He shakes his head. “For three weeks, I was home by six, let the answering machine take my calls, helped put Sam down, and refused all distractions when it was just Jillian and me. Three Sundays in a row we attended church as a family. Not once were we late, and not once did I pass out a single business card.”
Clive breathes deeply. “Then there was a function my partner had to pull out of due to a family crisis. As I believed it imperative that one of us be present, I reasoned that after all the giving I’d been doing, I could be forgiven one late night. There was disappointment in Jillian’s voice when I phoned, but she assured me that she and Sam would be fine.”
He swallows. “I pulled in close to midnight, and by then the upper floor of the house was ablaze. Though I heard sirens in the distance and a neighbor tried to stop me, I entered the house.”
Silence.
“I brought them out, Kat
e—was certain I’d saved them. And Gloria and Jack let me believe it. Not until after the funeral arrangements were made did I learn the truth. I wasn’t even there to see them buried.”
More silence.
“I was facedown in bed for weeks while my burns healed.” His eyes close as if to replay the memory against the backs of his lids. “A long time to decide whether or not to live. A long time to curse God.”
I clasp my hands tightly as it seems the only way to keep them to themselves.
He sighs. “A long time to torture oneself with ‘if only.’ A long time to hate—not only myself, but my profession. A long time to consider Adam MacPhail’s offer of a position working with burn victims.”
I blink. “The favor.”
He smiles grimly. “It gave me a reason to get out of bed and pick up what was left of my life. To try to make restitution for failing Jillian and Sam.”
Aching for his ache, I unthinkingly say, “Jillian didn’t blame you.”
He tenses. “What didn’t Gloria tell you?” Though there’s resentment in his voice, I don’t sense anger.
“She wants to see you happy—for you to come back to God.”
“And believes you’re the woman to make it happen.”
Where is a really good sinkhole when you need one? “That’s not her decision. It’s yours.”
A long moment passes. “And yours, Kate.”
He meant that the way it sounded; I’m sure of it. But then he has to go and give my hand a squeeze. And I feel the edge of his wedding band.
I catch a glint of gold. “Are you certain you’re ready for a relationship, Clive?”
“It’s been almost four years.”
“Yes, but to the world, you still claim to be a married man.”
His gaze shifts downward, then slowly rises to mine. But he doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me. Then he releases my hand and slides off the wedding band.
Oh, Lord. He said he wouldn’t remove it until the right woman came along. Am I the right woman?
Of course, this means I have to tell him. And I’m not ready. Too, what about Belle’s advice to first be friends? This is way past that.
Clive slips the wedding band in his pocket. “I’m ready to get serious.”
Nervousness flies all over me. In fact, had I any tics, they’d be rolling out one after the other.