by Nora Roberts
He was missing the frilly apron, Dana noted, but all in all, he made a hell of a picture.
“Look at Mr. Domestic.”
“Even living in New York, it pays to be able to throw an emergency meal together. You want to get out plates?”
New York, she thought, as she opened a cabinet. It wouldn’t do to forget the guy lived in New York and wasn’t going to be making her grilled-cheese sandwiches on a regular basis.
She pushed the thought away, set the table, and added a couple of candles for the fun of it.
“Nice,” she said over the first bite when they’d settled down. “Really, thanks.”
“My mother used to make me grilled-cheese sandwiches when I was feeling out of sorts.”
“They’re comforting—the toasty bread, the butter, the warm, melty cheese.”
“Mmm. Look, if you’re interested in my hands doing more than driving you wild with passion, I can give you some time tomorrow.”
“If you’ve got it.”
“I’d have come by today, but I had homework.” He pointed toward the envelope he’d dropped when he’d come in.
“Oh. You wrote everything up.”
“Think I got it all. You can look it over, see if I left anything out.”
“Cool.” She got up, hurried across the room to fetch the envelope.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to read at the table?”
“Certainly not.” Tossing back her hair, she settled back down. “It’s never impolite to read.” She tapped out the pages, surprised to see how many there were. “Busy boy.”
He forked up more eggs. “I figured it would work better to get it down in one big gush.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
She ate and she read, read and ate. He took her back to the very beginning, to the night she’d driven through a storm to Warrior’s Peak. He made her see it again, feel it again. That and all that had happened since.
That was his gift, she realized. His art.
He told it like a story, each character vivid and true, each action ringing clear, so that when you came to the end, you wanted more.
“Flynn was right,” she said as she turned the last page over. “It helps to see it like this in my head. I need to absorb it, read it again. But it puts everything that’s happened on one winding path instead of having a lot of offshoots that just happen to run into each other.”
“I’m going to have to write it.”
“I thought you just did,” she replied, shaking her head.
“No, that’s only part of it. Half of it at best. I realized today when I was putting it all down that I’m going to have to write it when it’s all done, turn it into a book. Do you have any problem with that?”
“I don’t know.” She smoothed her fingers over the pages. “I guess not, but it feels a little strange. I’ve never been in a book before.”
He started to speak, then stopped himself and polished off his eggs. She hadn’t been in a book she’d read before, he thought. Which, when it came down to it, amounted to the same thing.
Chapter Fifteen
“LOOK,” Kane said, “how you betray yourself in sleep.”
Dana stood looking down at the bed where she and Jordan slept. On the floor beside them, Moe twitched and made excited sounds.
“What did you do to Moe?”
“I gave him a dream, a harmless, happy dream. He chases rabbits on a sunny spring day. It will keep him safe and occupied, as we have much to talk about, you and I.”
She watched Moe’s back right leg swing as if he were running. “I don’t have much to say to anyone who sneaks into my bedroom at night to play Peeping Tom.”
“I don’t peep, I watch. You interest me, Dana. You have intelligence. I respect that. Scholars are valued in my world, in any world. And there we have the scholar and the bard.” He gestured toward the bed at her and Jordan “One would think a fine combination. But we know better.”
It both frightened and fascinated her to see the couple on the bed, wrapped together in a tangle of limbs. “You don’t know us. You never will. That’s why we’ll beat you.”
He only smiled. The dark suited him, cloaked him like velvet and silk and left his eyes burning bright. “You search, but you don’t find. How can you? Your life is pretense, Dana, a dream as much as this. Look how you cling to him in sleep. You, a strong, intelligent woman, one who considers herself independent, even willful. Yet you throw yourself at a man who tossed you aside once and will do so again. You allow yourself to be ruled by passion, and it makes you weak.”
“What rules you if not passion?” she countered. “Ambition, greed, hate, vanity. They’re all passions.”
“Ah, this is why I enjoy you. We could have such interesting conversations. No, passions are not owned by the mortal world. But to invite pain merely for love and the pleasures of the flesh.” He shook his head. “You were wiser when you hated him. Now you let him use you again.”
He lies. He lies. She couldn’t let herself fall into the trap of that seductive voice and forget how it lied. “Nobody uses me. Not even you.”
“Perhaps you need to remember more clearly.”
It was snowing. She felt the flakes—soft, cold, wet, on her skin, though she couldn’t see them fall. They seemed to hang suspended in the air.
She felt the bite of the wind but couldn’t hear it, nor did it chill her.
The world was a black-and-white photograph. Black trees, white snow. White mountains rising toward a white sky, and there, far up, the black silhouette of Warrior’s Peak.
All was still and cold and silent.
There was a man all the way down the block, frozen in the act of shoveling his walk. His shovel was lifted, and the scoop of snow was caught in its flight through the air.
“Do you know this place?” Kane asked her.
“Yes.” Three blocks south of Market, two blocks west of Pine Ridge.
“And this house.”
The tiny two-story box, painted white with black shutters. The two small dormer windows of the second floor, one for each small bedroom. The single dogwood, with snow adorning its thin branches, and the narrow driveway that ran beside it. Two cars in the driveway. The old station wagon and the secondhand Mustang.
“It’s Jordan’s house.” Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy. “It’s . . . it was Jordan’s house.”
“Is,” Kane corrected. “In this frozen moment.”
“Why am I here?”
He stepped around her, but left no mark, no print, in the snow. The hem of his black robe seemed to float just an inch above that white surface.
He wore a ruby, a large round cabochon on a chain that fell nearly to his waist. In the black-and-white world it shone there like a fat drop of fresh blood.
“I give you the courtesy of allowing you to know this is memory, of letting you stand with me and observe. Do you understand this?”
“I understand this is memory.”
“With the first of you, I showed her what could be. So I showed you. But I realize you are a more . . . earthbound creation. One who prefers reality. But are you brave enough to see what is real?”
“To see what?” But she already knew.
Color seeped into the world. The deep green of pines beneath the draping snow, the bright blue mailbox on the corner, the blues and greens and reds of the coats the children wore as they built snowmen and forts in the yards.
And with the color came the movement. The snow fell again, and the shovelful from the walk on the corner landed with a thump, even as the man bent to scoop up another. She heard the shouts, high and pure in the air, from the children playing, and the unmistakable thwack of snowballs striking their targets.
She saw herself, bundled in a quilted jacket the color of blueberries. What had she been thinking? She looked like Violet in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
A knit cap was pulled over her head, a knit scarf wrapped aroun
d her throat. She moved quickly, but stopped long enough for a brief and energetic snow battle with the little Dobson boys and their friends.
Her own laughter drifted out to her, and she knew what she’d been thinking, what she’d been feeling.
She was going to see Jordan, to convince him to come out and play. He was spending much too much time closed up in that house since his mother died. He needed to be with someone who loved him.
The past few months had been a nightmare of hospitals and doctors, suffering and grief. He needed comfort, and a gentle, gentle push back into life. He needed her.
She trooped up the unshoveled walk, stomped her feet. She didn’t knock. She’d never needed to knock on this door.
“Jordan!” She pulled off her cap, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d worn it shorter then, a chopped-off experiment she hated, and willed, daily, to grow back.
She called him again as she unzipped her coat.
The house still smelled of Mrs. Hawke, she noted. Not of the lemon wax she’d always used on the furniture, or the coffee she’d habitually had on the stove. But of her sickness. Dana wished she could fling open the windows and whisk the worst of the sorrow and grief away.
He came to the top of the stairs. Her heart did a tumble in her chest, as it always did when she saw him. He was so handsome, so tall and straight, and just a little dangerous around the eyes and mouth.
“I thought you’d be at the garage, but when I called Pete said you weren’t coming in today.”
“No, I’m not going in.”
His voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just gotten up. But it was already two in the afternoon. There were shadows in his eyes, shadows under them, and they broke her heart.
She came to the foot of the stairs, shot him a quick smile. “Why don’t you put on a coat? The Dobson kids tried to ambush me on the way over. We can kick their little asses.”
“I’ve got stuff to do, Dana.”
“More important than burying the Dobsons in a hail of snowballs?”
“Yeah. I have to finish packing.”
“Packing?” She didn’t feel alarm, not then, only confusion. “You’re going somewhere?”
“New York.” He turned and walked away.
“New York?” Still there was no alarm. Now there was a thrill, and she bounded up the stairs after him with excitement at her heels. “Is it about your book? Did you hear from that agent?”
She rushed into his bedroom, threw herself on his back. “You heard from the agent, and you didn’t tell me? We have to celebrate. We have to do something insane. What did he say?”
“He’s interested, that’s all.”
“Of course he’s interested. Jordan, this is wonderful. You’re going up to have a meeting with him? A meeting with a New York literary agent!” She let out a crow of delight, then noticed the two suitcases, the duffel, the packing crate.
Slowly, with that first trickle of alarm, she slid off his back. “You’re taking an awful lot of stuff for a meeting.”
“I’m moving to New York.” He didn’t turn to her, but tossed another sweater, a pair of jeans into one of the open suitcases.
“I don’t understand.”
“I put the house up for sale yesterday. They probably won’t be able to turn it until spring. Guy at the flea market’s going to take most of the furniture and whatever else there is.”
“You’re selling the house.” When her legs went weak, she sank onto the side of the bed. “But, Jordan, you live here.”
“Not anymore.”
“But . . . you can’t just pack up and go to New York. I know you talked about moving there eventually, but—”
“I’m done here. There’s nothing for me here.”
It was like having a fist punched into her heart. “How can you say that? How can you say there’s nothing for you here? I know, Jordan, I know how hard it was for you to lose your mother. I know you’re still grieving. This isn’t the time for you to make this kind of a decision.”
“It’s already made.” He glanced in her direction, but his eyes never met hers. “I’ve got a few more things to deal with, then I’m gone. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Just like that?” Pride pushed her back on her feet. “Were you planning on letting me in on it, or were you just going to send me a postcard when you got there?”
He looked at her now, but she couldn’t see into his eyes, couldn’t see through the shield he’d thrown up between them. “I was going to come by later tonight and see you, and Flynn.”
“That’s very considerate.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture she knew reflected impatience or frustration. “Look, Dana, this is something I have to do.”
“No, this is something you want to do, because you’re done with this place now. And everyone in it.”
She had to keep her voice low, very low. Or it would shrill. Or scream. “That would include me. So I guess the past couple of years haven’t meant a damn thing.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He slapped one suitcase closed, fastened it. “I care about you, I always did. I’m doing what I need to do—what I want to do. Either way it comes to the same thing. I can’t write here. I can’t fucking think here. And I have to write. I’ve got a chance to make something of myself, and I’m taking it. So would you.”
“Yeah, you’re making something of yourself. A selfish bastard. You’ve been planning this, stringing me along while you planned to dump me when it was most convenient for you.”
“This isn’t about you, this is about me getting out of this fucking house, out of this goddamn town.” He rounded on her, and the shield cracked enough for her to see fury. “This is about me not busting my ass every goddamn day working in a grease pit just to pay the bills, then trying to carve out a few hours to write. This is about my life.”
“I thought I was part of your life.”
“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair again before yanking open a drawer for more clothes.
He couldn’t be bothered to stop packing, she thought, not even when he was breaking her heart.
“You are part of my life. You, Flynn, Brad. How the hell does me moving to New York change that?”
“As far as I know you haven’t been sleeping with Flynn and Brad.”
“I can’t bury myself in the Valley because you and I had the hots for each other.”
“You son of a bitch.” She could feel herself beginning to shake, and the stinging tears gathering in her throat. Using all her strength, she channeled the hurt into rage. “You can make it cheap. You can make yourself cheap. But you won’t make me cheap.”
He stopped now, stopped packing and turned to look at her with regret, and what might have been pity. “Dana. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Don’t.” She slapped his hand away when he reached for her. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again. You’re done with the Valley? You’re done with me? Fine, that’s fine, because I’m done with you. You’ll be lucky to last a month in New York, hacking away at that crap you write. So when you come crawling back here, don’t call me. Don’t speak to me. Because you’re right about one thing, Hawke—there’s nothing for you here anymore.”
She shoved past him and fled.
She’d forgotten her hat, she realized as she watched herself run out of the house. A snowball winged by one of the Dobson boys splatted in the middle of her back, but she didn’t notice.
She didn’t feel the cold, or the tears streaming down her face.
She felt nothing. He’d made her nothing.
How could she have forgotten? How could she have forgiven?
She didn’t see then, nor did she see now, that he’d stood in the narrow window of the dormer and watched her go.
SHE woke to thin autumn sunlight, her cheeks wet, her skin chilled.
The grief was so real, so fresh, she rolled away, curled up in a ball and prayed for it to pass.
She cou
ldn’t, wouldn’t, go through this again. Had she worked so hard to get over him, to push herself out of the grief and misery and hurt only to lay herself open to it all again?
Was she that weak, that stupid?
Maybe she was, when it came to Jordan. Maybe she was just that weak and stupid. But she didn’t have to be.
She eased out of bed and left him sleeping. She pulled on a robe, a kind of armor, then headed to the kitchen for coffee.
Moe scrambled up from the foot of the bed and bounded after her. With his leash between his teeth, he danced in place in the kitchen.
“Not yet, Moe.” She bent to bury her face in his fur. “I’m not up to it yet.”
Sensing trouble, he whined, then dropped the leash to lick her face.
“You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Been chasing rabbits, huh? That’s okay, I’ve been chasing something, too. Neither one of us is ever going to catch it.”
She drank the coffee where she stood, and was pouring a second cup when she heard Jordan’s footsteps.
He’d pulled on his clothes, but still looked sleepily rumpled. He grunted when Moe’s paws hit his chest, and managed to nip the coffee mug out of Dana’s hand. He drank deep.
“Thanks.” He handed it back, then stooped to pick up Moe’s leash. The act had Moe running around them in desperate circles.
“Want me to take him out?”
“Yes. You can take him back to Flynn’s.”
“Sure. Want to go for a run before breakfast?” he said to Moe as he clipped on the leash. “Yeah, you bet.”
“I don’t want you to come back here.”
“Hmm?” He glanced up, saw her face. “What did you say?”
“I don’t want you to come back here. Not this morning, not ever.”
“Down, Moe.” Something in the quiet tone had the dog obeying. “Did I sleep through an argument, or . . . Kane,” he said and gripped Dana’s arm. “What did he do?”
“It has nothing to do with him. It’s about me this time. I made a mistake letting you back in. I’m correcting it.”
“What the hell brought this on? Last night—”