by Peggy Webb
A line from Tosca came to him. "There is no greater suffering than the suffering that true love brings."
His suffering was almost unbearable, but he would never let her see. Call it male pride. Call it self-preservation. Call it anything. Just let him get out of the kitchen.
"I'm finished."
"Good. Then let go of me."
Unconsciously he had moved his hands to her shoulders. He was holding her so rightly, he'd made marks on her skin. Guilt flooded him. But he would make no apologies.
With elaborate politeness he pulled her gown back over her breasts, fastened her robe at the neck.
Shivers skittered through him. Best to ignore the feel of her skin. Best to ignore the heat.
She suffered his attentions in silence. He gave her one last hard look, hoping for a reaction, a sound, a tear. Anything.
Even her breathing didn't betray her. The front of her gown rose and fell as if she were resting in her warm bed instead of spread-eagle on the kitchen table under the glaring fluorescent lights.
Even now he wanted her. Even with anger scorching his skin and holding his muscles rigid.
He stepped back and held out his hand to help her off the table. She batted it back.
"Go," she said.
What else was there to do? He had hoped to humiliate her, hoped to punish her for leaving him. But the only one he'd punished had been himself.
He didn't dare risk another glance at her, didn't dare risk seeing how the silk gown molded her legs, how her dark lashes rested against her cheeks, how her lips had the pouty, slightly bruised look of a woman who has been thoroughly loved.
His footsteps sounded hollow on the kitchen floor. There was no movement from the table. For all he knew, she might be planning to spend the rest of the night exactly where he'd left her, in exactly that position.
Every nerve ending was supercharged. Sight and hearing were heightened. He could hear his own blood roaring through his veins, like waterfalls when the snows have melted from the mountaintops and the rivers are swollen with too much rain.
Outside the kitchen door, he stopped. He was breathless, disoriented. There were no sounds from the kitchen, not even the whisper of her bare feet against the floor.
She might have been made of stone. Perhaps she was where he was concerned. Pure, cold marble. Untouchable. Unmovable.
Leaning against the door, he swallowed a lump in his throat.
His anger at her had already abated. He was mad at himself, mad at the way he had treated her in the kitchen, mad at the way he had let her get to him in the first place. But most of all, he was mad at himself for losing her. He should have been able to hold on.
What had he done wrong? Had he taken her for granted? Traveled too much? Spent too much time and energy on his career? Not satisfied her in some deep-seated way that was so obvious, he should have known without being told?
Pain. There was so much pain.
He stopped trying to analyze why he was hurting so. If he fell down the stairs and broke his neck, he wouldn't analyze the pain, he'd merely nurse his hurt.
He wished he'd brought a bottle of wine from the kitchen. It was too late now. He'd have to nurse his hurt the best way he could.
He pushed away from the kitchen door and started toward the stairs.
That's when he heard the crash. It was a loud muffled thump, like something soft squashing against the wall.
It was quickly followed by another noise. The tinkling of broken glass. Then the unmistakable sound of silver being flung about the kitchen.
Riveted, he listened. Was that rage he heard? Or pain?
"Noooo…"
Her cry of anguish made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.
She wailed again, the long keening sound so tormented that only a rock would remain unmoved.
"Helen!"
The next cry chilled his blood.
My God. Was she killing herself?
"Hang on, Helen! I'm coming."
As he bolted toward the door he prayed that he would not be too late.
SIX
Chocolate icing dripped from the walls. Crystal lay in shards at her feet. Silver was scattered over the floor. The chicken looked as if it had been slaughtered on the spot.
Helen was only vaguely aware of the destruction. Pain blocked everything out, everything except what Brick had done to her, what he had said to her.
God, he had thought she didn't want children. He'd thought she was so proud of her body that she didn't want to mar it with a pregnancy.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, down the side of her neck, and wet the top of her gown. There were not enough tears in the world to supply her anguish.
She hated Brick. Hated herself. Hated the whole world.
A piece of glass crumpled under her foot. She felt a sting, saw blood. Her own.
"Don't move!"
Brick's voice was thunderous, his face mutinous. He filled the doorway, his heat sweeping through her as if somebody had lit a furnace underneath her skin.
She turned toward him like a sleepwalker, aware only of heat and blood and tears.
"Don't take a step, Helen." He moderated his tone as he made his way toward her.
Somehow the sound and sight of him had a calming effect. Logic kicked in. Rational thought returned. She glanced from his face toward the kitchen wall. Chocolate was everywhere. She'd made a royal mess.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
"I know. I know, love." Crooning to her as if she were a child, he picked her up and set her on the edge of the table.
She pulled her robe closed. "What are you doing?"
"Shhh. It's all right." He smoothed back her hair.
"No. It's not all right. Nothing will ever be all right again."
Fresh sobs shook her. Brick gathered her into his arms, and she leaned against his chest. How easy it was to cry on his broad shoulder, how natural. He held her lightly, rocked her gently as she cried for everything that had gone wrong in their marriage—the way she had bottled up her anxieties, the way they would leave to go their separate ways on the road when they both understood that the road was inexorably drawing them apart, the way they both covered their pain.
Acting. Always acting.
"Crying is good," he said.
Oh, God. It did feel good. Why had she bottled it up all those years?
She clung to him, drawing on his quiet strength. When her anguish finally subsided, she lifted her face and looked up to thank him.
His eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. Awed, she touched his cheek.
"You cried for me?"
"Yes."
No one had ever loved her enough to cry for her. The beauty of his tears so overwhelmed her that she was speechless. Only strong men allowed themselves to cry. Yet in their five-year marriage he had not.
They had shared their joy but not their pain. Why had they never shared their pain? Perhaps if they had, she would never have left. There would have been no need.
Tenderly she touched the tears on his cheeks.
"I wish…"
"Shhh." He put his finger over her lips. "Don't say anything tonight that you'll regret tomorrow."
He was right, of course. They couldn't go back. Especially not now, especially with Barb Gladly in the picture.
Her spunk returned. She knew the value of good exit lines. Leave 'em laughing.
"I regret this kitchen table," she said. "It's cold on my bottom."
"Sit there. You've cut yourself."
"There's glass on the floor."
"I know." He chuckled, sounding relieved, then lifted her foot to inspect it. "The cut's not deep."
"It hurts."
"I'll find something to put on it."
He left her on the kitchen table. Her bare foot swung back and forth, marking time, while he searched the kitchen cabinets and the pantry. In moments he was back, carrying iodine and Band-Aids.
His hands were tender. She shouldn't be lettin
g him touch her.
"Is that better, love?"
She nodded. Yes.
His voice was sweet. She shouldn't be listening to him.
He held her foot awhile longer, watching her. His eyes were black, bottomless, fathomless.
"Sit right there," he said. "Don't move."
He went into the pantry once more and came out with a broom. She watched with fascination as Brick Sullivan, who had never known which end of the mop went on the floor, patiently swept up glass.
Every now and then he glanced at her and smiled.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes."
Why hadn't she seen that side of him when they were married? She'd known he was tender. It showed after performances when they would both come home tired and he would insist that she rest while he made drinks. But she'd never seen this solicitous, domestic side of him.
Would it have made a difference if she had? Would she have left him anyway?
"I probably woke up the entire household," she said.
"No. The kitchen's too far away from the bedrooms. Besides, these old houses are built like forts. We could have a war down here and nobody would know."
"We did, didn't we?" She grinned, feeling more like her old self.
"I suppose so. We always did strike sparks off each other."
"Yes."
She'd missed that, the way he could ignite her with a look, a touch.
He bent over and swept the shards into the dustpan. His body was beautiful, long and lean. The kitchen lights served as spotlights. Every gesture he made was controlled, dramatic. He was a natural actor. Even the simple act of sweeping up the kitchen floor became a production in his hands.
When he stood up, she clapped.
"Bravo."
He grinned at her. "What's that for."
"You make everything an adventure. Even sweeping up the trash."
"I thank you." He bowed from the waist, then dipped the mop in her direction. "My lovely assistant thanks you."
It felt good to laugh with Brick. She watched while he dumped the glass shards into the garbage can, then slid off the table.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to help clean up this mess. After all, I made it."
He picked her up and plopped her unceremoniously onto the table.
"There may still be glass on the floor. You could hurt yourself."
"It's my mess. I'll clean it up."
"I think I'm at least partially responsible."
She became lost in his eyes, in the deep, searching way he regarded her. Communication did not always require words. As actors they both knew that.
She opened herself to his unspoken thoughts. I'm sorry, he was saying silently. I didn't mean to hurt you.
"Brick…" She cupped his face, pulled it close. "Let's not hurt each other anymore."
"No. Let's not."
A muscle ticked in the side of her jaw, a sure sign of the strain she was under. She closed her eyes and took a long, shuddering breath.
How easy it would be to wrap herself around him and say, "Take me upstairs and don't ever let me go."
How easy… and how dangerous.
"Your hand feels good on my face, Helen."
His voice brought her out of her reverie. Too much was happening too soon.
She had to stop touching him, had to rein in the galloping stallion they'd mounted and were riding to the stars.
She folded her hands in her lap and steered the conversation out of dangerous waters.
"I'm not making any promises about tomorrow. Only tonight." She brought her breathing under control as he stepped back. "I won't hurt you anymore tonight, but tomorrow I quite possibly will go for the jugular."
"I wouldn't expect anything less of the great Helen Sullivan."
Did he use her full name to remind her that no matter where she was, no matter what she did, she would always have that part of him… his name? Probably. Brick Sullivan was bright enough to give every nuance meaning.
"Just sit right there, Helen. Let me go over this floor one more time in case there is more glass."
"I hope I didn't break anything that can't be replaced."
"You didn't. I already checked that out."
"Thanks."
She had forgotten that about Brick too. That he took care of her in small ways.
She missed that about him. Longing filled her, and she realized that she missed everything about him, the boyish way he looked when he smiled— really smiled—the way his hair swung over his forehead when he made love, the lights that danced in the depths of his dark eyes when he was happy, the deep, rich rumble of his voice, his touch, his laughter.
She realized that she'd fallen in love with her husband all over again. But it was too late, much too late.
Sighing, she slid off the table, picked up a cleaning rag, and attacked the chocolate on the walls.
Helen worked at the walls as industriously as she worked onstage, applying her full attention. Under the guise of helping her, Brick watched.
She was gloriously disheveled, totally desirable. And she'd lost control because of him.
An exultation all out of proportion to the deed filled him. Finally she'd shown him some genuine emotion.
What did it mean?
Nothing, he told himself.
They couldn't go back. It would be the same all over again. She'd cover whatever it was that had made her leave in the first place, and he'd pretend her leaving really hadn't mattered at all.
Maybe if the home were a stage, the two of them could make it as a team, but home was not a place to act; it was a place to be real. He wondered if either of them were capable of being real.
"Why did that cake have to be chocolate?" Grinning, she turned to him.
Irresistible.
"You have chocolate here." He rubbed a spot on her cheek.
She lifted her face. "Hmmm."
Dangerous.
He turned his attentions to the walls and applied what Fanny Mae at the orphanage used to call elbow grease.
"Use elbow grease," the cook used to say after he'd been sent to clean the kitchen as punishment for one of his many escapades. "It'll build muscles."
"What do I need muscles for? I got a brain."
"Wait till you're grown. Then you'll see what you need muscles for."
Dear old Fannie Mae had been right. By the time he was sixteen and out of the orphanage, he had muscles… and women falling at his feet wherever he went.
He followed a line of chocolate stain, excruciatingly aware that it put him closer to Helen.
He didn't want women swooning at his feet. Only Helen.
Her perfume was intoxicating. He took a deep breath, drinking her fragrance in. Long after she'd gone, the bedroom had smelled like her. He'd finally had to move into the guest room in order to get some sleep.
"Oops." Her hip bumped against him. "Sorry."
"It's all right."
It wasn't. The ease between them had lowered barriers he'd kept in place. If he didn't get out of the kitchen with her, he'd soon be out of control.
He put on some speed.
"I'm impressed," Helen said. "Have you ever thought of opening a cleaning service?"
"Only before every performance."
With Helen he didn't have to explain. The great thing about being married to another artist was that she perfectly understood stage fright, that quick burst of adrenaline that pumped through the system each time he stood in the wings, awaiting his cue.
"Me too." Helen leaned back to inspect the wall. "All done. Thanks, Brick."
She held out her hand. He started to take it, and then he knew her hand would not be enough, not tonight.
Without a word he swept her into his arms. She stiffened momentarily, her eyes wide and luminous, then she settled back as if she belonged there.
She did. She would always belong there.
Heavy with the knowledge that he'd lost her, Brick switched off
the kitchen light and carried her up the stairs. She rested her face in the curve of his shoulder. Her breath warmed his skin.
She felt so right, so natural.
He wished the stairs would go on forever. He wished the night would never end.
His footsteps made no sound in the plush carpet of the hallway. As he approached her bedroom door, his heartbeat accelerated. How many times had he carried Helen to bed? How many times had he spread her upon the covers and been welcomed into her soft, sweet arms? How many ways had he expressed his love for her? How many ways had she expressed hers for him?
The door creaked open. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the antique bed. Sheer curtains hung from the four-poster. A draft coming from the hall set the curtains swaying.
His throat was dry, his eyes moist. His heart hurt. His groin ached.
Helen.
Did he whisper her name or was it merely a cry of his heart?
She placed one hand on his cheek, softly, tenderly. He could see her heart pulsing through the blue veins in her slender neck.
One kiss, and then he would go. He pressed his lips against the blue vein, felt the beat of her heart, tasted the sweetness of her skin, smelled the scent of spring flowers.
Please tell me not to go.
Her arms tightened around him. Her eyes were luminous in the moonlight, luminous and filled with… What? Love?
God, let it be love.
God, it can't be love.
The mattress sank under their combined weight. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her face looked like a cameo.
Propped on his elbows he gazed down at her. Her fingertips burned his skin where they touched the sensitive area at the back of his neck.
Her robe had fallen open. He memorized the rounded curve of her breasts with his eyes, then his lips.
Helen lay perfectly still, her arms tightly laced around his neck.
Memories overwhelmed him… her long legs locked around him, her eyes wide with pleasure, her face glowing with fulfillment. The love and the laughter, so intermingled that it seemed impossible to have one without the other. Late-night forays into the kitchen, tasting more of each other than the fresh fruit they kept in a crystal bowl. Soft music playing and candles burning. Always candles and music.
His lips brushed against her skin. He felt the shivers that ran through her.