by Peggy Webb
"Jake ... my sweet ... my dear."
He lay very still, his breathing gradually becoming steady.
His silence tore at her, even as the storm ripped at the windows. Say something, she wanted to scream. Anything.
Her hands moved over his back. "Jake ..." Still he was silent. She could feel the rhythm of his heart slowing. "My hero ..." she whispered. "My love."
His eyes blazed as he lifted himself off her. "What have I done to you, Sarah. . . . What have I done?"
She lifted one hand toward him, but he stood up and moved out of her reach.
"Jake, please, tell me what's wrong?"
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her.
He leaned down, and for a moment she thought he was going to take her in his arms. She thought he would smile and say everything was all right.
Anxiety marched through her, wearing combat boots. Sarah shivered. Jake's face was troubled as he stood beside the bed looking down at her. He reached toward her, then quickly withdrew his hand.
Silence screamed around them, tearing at Sarah's nerves. Thunder and lightning cracked the heavens, but she imagined it was her heart.
"Oh, Jake . . . please ..."
"Forgive me, Sarah."
He left her in the bed among the tumbled covers.
Chapter Seven
Jake shut himself in the bathroom and leaned against the sink. A giant hand was squeezing all the breath from him.
He threw back his head and gulped air, trying to relieve the smothering feeling. He had taken Sarah like the lowest beast in the jungle. He had used her to relieve his own desperate need, used her and then tossed her aside as if she were a rag doll.
"Bastard," he whispered.
The storm tore at his windows. Jake clenched his hands into fists and shook them at the storm.
It's the damned storm, the storm that makes me destroy.
Sweat poured off his body, and he knew it was more than the result of exertion: It was the sweat of fear. He passed his hands over his eyes, as if the gesture would clear his mind.
A vision of Sarah came to him, a golden vision of soft skin and luscious curves and sweet warm yielding flesh that had driven him almost insane. Need, he had said. He had needed her.
He leaned his face into his hands and groaned. Need had driven him to her arms, propelled him up the stairs and into the bed. Need had removed her clothes and kissed her lips and tasted her breasts. Need had entered that glorious body and begun the long journey through the stormy night. But it hadn't been need that performed the final act of surrender. It hadn't been passion that had spilled its seed. It had been love.
"Nooo," Jake moaned. Once more he shook his clenched fists at the storm. He couldn't love Sarah, wouldn't love her. To love her was to destroy her.
Wind shook the windows, and he felt its chill blow across his heart. What was Sarah doing now? Was she lying in the bed where he had abandoned her, ciying her eyes out? Was her lush body still curved under the sheet? Was she waiting, naked, for him to return.
He didn't think he could face her after what he had done. Coward, his mind whispered.
Jake splashed cold water on his face, then wrapped a towel around his waist. He had to go back. He couldn't take back what he had done, but he could offer some explanation. Sarah deserved some sort of truth.
Resolutely he opened the bathroom door, then stood in the bedroom, adjusting his eyes to the dimness. Sarah was standing beside the window, fully dressed, looking out at the storm. If she heard him come back, she gave no indication.
Good. He reached for his clothes and dressed quickly and quietly. Still, Sarah didn't turn from the window. Her stance, stiff and proud, pierced his heart. I've hurt her. The part of him that hoped, the part that had been struggling to be reborn, died a quiet death.
He crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders. She trembled.
"Sarah . . .Look at me, Sarah."
When she turned, he saw the stains on her cheeks. Tears. She had been crying. He bit back a curse.
"It's all right, Jake." She put her hand on his cheek, smiling bravely. "Really, it is."
"No. I hurt you ... I never meant to hurt you."
"You didn't . . . what we had was beautiful."
"What I did was selfish." He saw forgiveness in her eyes, forgiveness and a willingness to go on as they were. He couldn't continue to take advantage of her kindness. He released her, then stepped back.
"There is something I have to tell you, Sarah. Something I have to explain."
"You don't owe me any explanations. You made everything perfectly clear before . . ." Color flooded her cheeks and she fussed at her hair. "And anyhow, I can't possibly commit myself to a relationship . . . with you or anyone else. I have Jenny—"
"Sarah." His gentle command stopped her rush of words. "Please, sit down."
She sat on the edge of a wingback chair and folded her hands in her lap. Except for the flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, she didn't look like a woman who had recently been loved.
Not loved. Used. He had to keep that distinction clear in his mind. What he had felt might have been love, but what he had done was not.
"I was married once, Sarah." She sucked in her breath. "Her name was Michelle."
"Jake," Sarah said, leaning forward in her chair. "You don't have to tell me this."
"Please . . ."He held up his hand, and she fell silent. "We met in New Orleans. She was looking for a good time, and so was I. My daughter was conceived that night. . . . Bonnie."
Sarah remained silent. He didn't dare look at her. Instead, he gazed out the window. The worst of the storm was over, but wind still howled around the eaves.
"Michelle wanted to have an abortion. I wouldn't hear of it." His hands tightened into fists as he remembered. "It was a marriage that never should have been, a marriage doomed to failure."
"You have a child?"
"Had. Bonnie is dead. I killed her."
"No!" Sarah was out of her chair. She ran to him and caught his arms. "You couldn't have. You're not capable of such a thing."
He gazed down at Sarah, seeing the trust in her eyes, the need to believe in him. He couldn't let her hope. It would be cruel.
"We were trapped, Michelle and I. Divorce was out of the question. Neither of us wanted to lose Bonnie." He gently removed Sarah's hands and stepped out of her reach. "We learned to hate. Finally Michelle could stand it no more."
He could hear distant thunder. The wind picked up speed, until it seemed to be seeping through every crevice, spreading its discontent throughout his house. In spite of summer, Jake felt chilled.
"Jake . . . please." Sarah caught his arm again and forced him to look at her. "Don't do this to yourself."
"I have to tell you, Sarah ... I have to make you understand . . ."He didn't finish the sentence. Understand my motives. Understand my pain. Understand my fear. He hoped she knew.
"Then tell me what happened. I will listen, but I won't judge." Sarah returned to her chair.
The dignity he had come to love had never been more in evidence. For a moment Jake was tempted to take her in his arms and carry her back to the bed. He was tempted to give up the past, forget about the future, and merely savor the moment.
But he held firm. He couldn't hold on to her. He didn't dare.
"It was storming that night," he continued. "We had a terrible fight. Michelle said she was leaving, that I could have Bonnie. She just wanted out." He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain, but it came along with the memories. "She had her bags already packed. I said I would drive her to a motel."
Words got caught in his throat. Jake began to pace. Intermittent flashes of lightning illuminated Sarah's face. She had gone very pale.
"The roads were treacherous . . . because of the storm. I took a curve too fast. The car flipped over and over, landing bottom side up."
Sarah made a small sound of horror. She started to rise from her chair, but the look on his
face stopped her.
"Michelle was killed instantly. . . .Bonnie took longer to die."
"Bonnie?" Sarah's voice was no more than a whisper, but he could hear the horror.
"Apparently she'd heard us quarreling. She hid in the backseat of the car with her blanket and her teddy bear."
"Oh, Jake, no . . . I'm so sorry."
Tears streamed down Sarah's face now, unchecked, but she didn't rise from her chair. What woman in her right mind would? What woman would offer comfort to a murderer? Jake had to finish the story. He couldn't spare himself now.
"I was holding Bonnie in my arms when she died three days later at the hospital."
Death had entered the room. The silence that enveloped Jake and Sarah was resonant with ghosts. Sarah cried silently, and Jake stood beside the window, hurting.
He longed to comfort Sarah, to tell her that everything would be all right. But his comfort would be even more cruel than his brutal honesty. Comfort would give false hope. He wouldn't give himself false hope, and he wouldn't give it to Sarah.
Sarah's tears shone in the lamplight. She watched him as she cried. He searched for horror in her face, but didn't find it. He searched for love, and couldn't see it.
"How you must have suffered," she said quietly.
"I don't want your pity." He was harsh with her, but he excused himself on the grounds that harshness kills hope.
"It's not pity I feel, Jake. It's compassion."
"I killed them. I deserve to suffer."
"No!" She started toward him. He could almost feel her arms around his waist, feel her head upon his chest. It was Sarah's way of giving comfort. But he had to refuse all comfort—for both their sakes.
"It's over, Sarah." His harsh words brought her to a halt.
He saw her gather her courage, saw the emotional toll it took on her. His dark destiny seemed to be hurting women.
"What about Jenny?" There was no tremor in her voice, no note of pleading.
"I've hurt you, Sarah. I won't hurt her too."
"What does that mean? Does that mean you won't hurt her by leaving or you won't hurt her by staying?"
Jake was relieved to see her anger. It was a good antidote to pain. It also meant that Sarah would survive. He had hurt her, but he hadn't damaged her beyond repair.
"I won't abandon her . . . not yet. Soon the summer will be over. She’ll be in school, make new friends."
"You're leaving, then."
"Yes . . . eventually. I’ll ease out of Jenny's life. She’ll never even know I've gone."
"You're wrong, but I can't force you to stay."
"I'm glad you understand."
"No! I don't understand any of this." Sarah paced, her hands folded tightly together. "I don't understand how you can blame yourself for an accident. I don't understand why you won't accept compassion. I don't understand the wall you've built around yourself." She paused, gazing toward the bed. "And most of all . . . I don't understand what happened there."
"Neither do I."
Sarah lifted her chin and gazed defiantly into his eyes. "Take me home, Jake."
They didn't touch as they left the room, didn't talk as they descended the staircase. Jake stopped in the front hall and got a large raincoat from the closet. Still without speaking, he wrapped it around Sarah.
His hands brushed against her bare shoulders. She shivered, but that was the only sign she gave of emotional turmoil.
When he opened the door, the last of the storm winds tore at them. Jake took Sarah's arm. She stiffened.
"The sidewalks are slick," he explained. "I don't want you to fall."
She didn't pull away, but she was stiff and unyielding. That alone told him how much he had hurt her.
By nature Sarah was loving and generous, warm and spontaneous, compassionate and forgiving.
He drove slowly and carefully, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles were white. Sarah sat quietly beside him. Her dignity shamed him.
The storm had abated by the time they reached her house, but a light rain still fell. He escorted her to her door. She had left the porch light burning.
As she fitted her key into the lock she looked at him. In her face he saw hope that he had killed, love he had denied, pain that he had caused. A vision of raw earth, piled into two fresh mounds, came to his mind. Standing on the porch, bearing Sarah's scrutiny. he felt as if he had killed something beautiful inside her. And he was ashamed.
"Sarah." He reached out, wanting to touch her. But in the end, he drew his hand back. "I'm sorry."
"Don't ..." She turned her back to him and busied herself with the door. "You're right. It's over."
o0o
Gwendolyn was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. She stood up when they came in. Her expression changed from welcoming to wise. Quietly, she closed her book.
"Jenny's a love. We had a great time, and now she's sound asleep."
"Thank you, Gwendolyn."
"Anytime, Sarah."
Jake hovered in the doorway like a dark angel. Sarah stood In the middle of the room, scrupulously avoiding looking his way. Gwendolyn glanced from one to the other, started to say something else, then changed her mind.
"Are you ready to go, Gwendolyn?"
"Whenever you are, Jake . . . well . . . good night, Sarah."
"Good night."
Still, Sarah didn’t look at him. There was nothing he could say to repair the damage he had done. In the end he left without saying good-bye.
He heard Sarah lock the door behind him. Gwendolyn turned to him.
"Well?"
"Don't say anything, Gwendolyn."
"How can I keep quiet? You two left looking like Prince Charming taking Cinderella to the ball, and you came back looking like Dracula and his bride. What the hell happened?"
Jake took her elbow and propelled her toward the car.
"I wanted to give her a dream, and I ended up giving her a nightmare."
o0o
Sarah stood behind the door, listening for the sound of Jake's car. Finally it came, out of the darkness. He was leaving. And he wouldn't be back . . . not in his usual way. There would be no exchanged glances, no spontaneous laughter, no precious moments of uninhibited joy.
Leaning against the door, she shivered and pulled Jake's coat around her. She had forgotten to give it back. She would do that as quickly as possible. She wanted no physical reminders of him.
She took the coat off and folded it carefully. Jake's scent was caught in the heavy fabric. Such longing seized Sarah that she had to sit down.
The pain of loving a dark, unapproachable man almost overwhelmed her. She pressed her cheek to the coat. How could she have let tonight happen? she wondered. She had thought she was wise and brave. She had thought she knew the difference between dreams and reality. What had happened in Jake's bed had been a dream, an impossible dream, and for a moment she had allowed herself to believe it was real.
Her tears wet the coat, and she brushed frantically at them. She didn't want to stain his coat. She didn't want to stain his life.
Sarah stood up, carried the coat to her bedroom, and placed it on the top shelf of the closet, out of sight. She didn’t want to see it hanging next to her clothes. She didn't want her dresses brushing against the coat. It would be too much like touching Jake.
Sarah removed her party dress and shook it out. She would send that back too. She had broken her own policy of not involving herself with men, and they were both paying a hard price for her foolishness.
Somehow she would pay for the lawn mowing, too, and the repair to her front steps. She wasn’t a charity case . . . and Jake was no longer her friend.
Sarah climbed into bed and pulled the sheets close to her chin. She would have covered her head if that would have solved anything. But she knew it wouldn't.
For a long time she lay staring into the darkness. Jake, Jake. His name whispered through her mind. My lost friend. . . . my lost love.
o0o
Jake's mood matched his house. Both were dark and forbidding. He started stripping his wet clothes off as he climbed the stairway. When he reached the bedroom, he stood looking in. Sarah was everywhere— in the rumpled covers, in the glow of the lamp, beside the window, in the chair. Her fragrance still lingered in the room, and it was more than he could bear.
He went into a guest bedroom down the hall and climbed into bed. Don’t think about anything, he ordered himself. But he couldn’t heed his own advice. His thoughts tumbled around his mind like nine pins. Finally he gave up sleep and spent the rest of the night pacing.
o0o
"I hear you took to the sky yesterday," Gwendolyn said the minute he entered his office on Monday morning.
"I might as well post my activities in the newspaper." Jake didn't have to ask how Gwendolyn knew. She and Bert Donnogan had been friends for years. Lovers, too, he guessed, though neither of them had ever said so.
"Bert said you damn near killed yourself—twice."
"Bert scares easily."
Gwendolyn put both hands on his desk and leaned toward him. "Jake, don't keep doing this to yourself."
"Skydiving is a hobby, Gwendolyn, not something I'm doing to myself."
"You know what I'm talking about, and don't pretend you don't." She marched across the room and poured two cups of coffee, strong and black, the way they both liked it. Encased in her chair with her coffee, she glared at him.
"You can’t keep blaming yourself for their deaths. You have more sense than that."
Refusing to be sucked into that conversation, he sipped his coffee. Gwendolyn was not deterred.
"Running away is easy. Isn't it, Jake?"
"Less than two weeks ago you recommended it."
"No. I didn't. I said don't use that child as a substitute. That's not the same at all."
He gave her a long, steady look. She didn't back down, but returned his study.
"Yes, Gwendolyn," he finally said. "Running away is easier . . . but it's the only option I have right now."
"If you really want to know what I think—"
Gwendolyn was interrupted by the postman. He stood in the doorway, his mail bag slung over his back, his hat in one hand and a large box in the other. Gwendolyn saw him first.