Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. “I know, because I’ve done it before.”

  There was a long pause while she seemed to digest his words, as if weighing what to say next. “This is about Monica, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “About the accident?”

  He felt himself go cold. “How do you know about Monica?”

  “I didn’t until last week, but I went back and read the papers.”

  “Ah yes. It was in all the papers.”

  “Austin, you can’t blame yourself for what happened that night. The weather was terrible, and they say she was driving at a high rate of speed. Short of being behind the wheel, there was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened.”

  He tugged at his collar. All of a sudden it felt like he was choking. “Oh, there was plenty I could have done. I just chose not to do it.”

  Dovie stood very still, studying him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “It wasn’t like they wrote it, with Monica on her way to a friend’s, and me the poor grieving husband. It wasn’t anything like that.”

  “What was it like?”

  “She was drunk, or well on her way to it, and high as a kite, when she got behind the wheel that night. And she’d just left me.”

  Her lips parted as understanding dawned. “Oh, Austin . . .”

  “Don’t,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “I just . . . I had no idea.”

  “No one did, at first. But eventually my parents picked up on the substance abuse. Hard not to after she passed out one day at my mother’s birthday party. I said it was the flu. My mother pretended to believe me, but she had to have known. By then, Monica was using every day. She hid it pretty well in the beginning—even from me. By the time I realized she was in trouble, it was too late. When I cut off her money, she packed a bag and told me I’d be hearing from her attorney. She made quite an exit, screaming and stumbling down the driveway. And I just watched her go. I knew she was in no condition to drive, but I was so relieved that she would finally be out of my life that I just . . . let her go.”

  Dovie stood staring at him, arms hugged tight to her body. “There was nothing in the paper about alcohol or drugs.”

  “No. My father made sure the story was . . . sanitized. He didn’t do it for me, of course. It was all about him, and the Tate name. And I let him. I went to the memorial and played the grieving husband while he paid off whoever you pay to make things go away. It did, too. Dried up overnight. The drugs, the booze, all of it, gone. It was awful. Everyone was so damn nice, so sympathetic. I couldn’t take it. I took the first flight out. Disappeared for almost six months. It seemed easier to just run away. So that’s what I did.”

  “Where were you all that time?”

  “Everywhere,” he said with a shrug. “And nowhere.”

  “So, all this time you’ve been—”

  “Living a lie? Yes.”

  “I was going to say, all this time you’ve been punishing yourself for choices someone else made.”

  Austin shook his head, unwilling to accept the premise of her statement. “I knew she had a problem, and I did nothing. I could have made her go to rehab, but I never forced the issue. I knew she was drunk, and I let her drive that night. Those were my choices, Dovie. Mine, and no one else’s.”

  She studied the nails of her right hand for what felt like a long time, smoothing her cuticles one by one. When she reached the last finger, she looked up. “You said once that some people are good at keeping secrets, especially when we look the other way. I thought you meant me when you said it, but you were thinking about Monica, weren’t you?”

  “You can only ignore what’s in the mirror for so long. Sooner or later, you have to see what’s there. And I did see it. I just chose to ignore it. And because I did, someone died.”

  “Monica’s death wasn’t your fault—any more than William’s was mine. They made their choices, Austin, because they were hurting, and didn’t know any other way to make that hurting stop. I know all about that kind of guilt. And I know what it can do to you if you let it.”

  He turned to peer out the glass doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sea. Instead, he saw his reflection, hardened and grim in the mirrored surface. He didn’t realize she’d crossed the room until he felt her hands on his shoulders, their warmth bleeding through the fabric of his shirt. And then, suddenly, her face was there, too, beside his in the glass, her eyes reflected back to him, soft and full of feeling. It took everything in him to look away, to fight the urge to turn and take her in his arms, to let himself feel all the things he’d been denying. He couldn’t, though, for her sake.

  “Don’t,” he said, flinching from her touch. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “Why?” She was so close now that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. “Because it isn’t safe? I know something about playing it safe, Austin. I know it’s the biggest lie of all. We tell ourselves we’re okay, that as long as we keep our walls up nothing can touch us. And then someone comes along while we’re not looking—someone we never expected.”

  He did turn, then, locking eyes with this woman whose heart might be his salvation, a way out of the dark place he’d been living in for so long, this woman who was always trying to fix things. And now she was trying to fix him. Did he want to be fixed? Did he deserve it? After so many years, was it even possible?

  “Our stories aren’t the same, Dovie. It’s not as simple as just forgiving myself.”

  “But it is. It is that simple. You just say it, and you let her go. You let all of it go. You stop worrying about what you did, or didn’t do, and you move on. Because you’ve done your time.”

  “You sound so sure of what you’re saying.”

  “Because I am. The man who married Monica doesn’t exist anymore. He made mistakes, and he learned from them. And the way I know that is that guy would be thinking of ways to get me into bed right now, instead of holding me at arm’s length.”

  She touched her lips to his then, the barest of touches—a gift—and something at his core let go. She wanted him, and he her. But what then? What happened when the passion was spent and the sun came up? Could he do that part? He didn’t know. But maybe it was time he found out.

  Her body melted into his as he pulled her close, all sinew and flesh and unspoken need, as if some long-quiet thing had suddenly uncoiled itself—for him. And just like that, all thoughts of safety vanished, replaced with a craving that left him hollowed out and shaken, hungry for something he hadn’t wanted in a very long time.

  She matched him with a hunger of her own, touch for touch, and need for need, heart thundering against his ribs as he tasted the soft underside of her jaw, then the hollow of her throat, grazing the pulse there with lips and teeth. His hand moved slowly, savoring the warm, smooth length of her spine, the rounded curve of her backside. And then, without a word between them, they were moving up the stairs.

  He paused when they reached the doorway of his bedroom, searching her face in the dimness. A question or a declaration—he couldn’t say which. She answered by pressing two fingers to his lips, stilling whatever it was he might have been about to say, then took his hand and pulled him toward the bed. There was only the moonlight spilling in through the glass doors, but they needed no more than that. Nor did they need words. It was as if everything had already been said, all the questions asked, the answers given. And maybe they had. He prayed they had.

  Her skin felt like satin as he pushed the gown from her shoulders, cool to the touch, and so very smooth. He heard the silk sigh to the floor, then felt his breath catch in his throat as she stood there before him, exposed, unashamed, breathtaking.

  After a moment—perhaps the longest of his life—she stepped out of the si
lky puddle and reached for him. Somewhere along the way, he had shucked off his coat, and she set to work on his shirt studs, her fingers moving with a purposeful and maddening slowness, until the last one was free, and her hands went roaming, leaving the brand of her fingertips on his skin.

  She peeled away his shirt, letting it fall, then eased herself down onto the edge of the bed, drawing him down beside her. It was a moment he had thought of often over the last few months, but never, ever like this—primal and sweet, raw and warm, as long-denied need found its way in the dark, breaths mingling, limbs straining, wills yielding. Exploration and discovery. A journey’s end. And, perhaps, a beginning.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Dovie opened her eyes, letting them roam in the predawn gloom. It took a moment to get her bearings, to reconcile her naked body, puddled evening gown, and unfamiliar sheets, but finally the feverish details of the previous night came drifting back. She smiled as a rush of warmth flooded her limbs, along with the sweet soreness that came with thorough lovemaking. It had been a long—long—long time.

  After a deep and languorous stretch, she rolled over onto her side, expecting to find Austin still asleep beside her. Instead, she found a tangle of cold sheets and an empty pillow. She peered at the clock on the nightstand—just after six thirty—and felt the first prickle of dread.

  Please just let him be an early riser.

  Sliding from the bed, she scooped Austin’s rumpled tuxedo shirt from the floor and slipped it on, savoring the mingled scents of shaving cream, cologne, and the faint tang of salt air. It was the same mix of scents she’d noticed that first day in her office, the smell she now realized she had come to associate with him. After a bit of fumbling, she managed to fasten enough of the studs to feel covered and headed downstairs. She had nearly reached the bottom when it hit her.

  Dora.

  After a scan of the living room, she managed to locate her handbag and pull out her cell phone. She held her breath as she counted the rings. Three. Four. Why wasn’t she answering? Finally, the ringing stopped and a frail voice said hello.

  “Dora. Thank God. Is everything all right?”

  “Well, of course it is. Where are you? I woke up around two and your bedroom door was open. Then, this morning, your bed hadn’t been slept in. Did you have some sort of trouble?”

  “No. No trouble. I just . . . it got so late that I decided to stay at a friend’s. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you alone all night.”

  “A friend, is it?” Dora cackled, before breaking into a fit of coughing.

  “Your cough sounds worse. Did you have a bad night?”

  “No. I just took a little spill this morning on my way to the loo. Tripped over my own two feet, and down I went like an ox.”

  “A spill?” Visions of fractured skulls and broken hips flooded Dovie’s head. “My God, are you hurt? You sound like you’re having trouble breathing.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little winded. But I’ve taken my medicine, and a puff from that thingy the doctor gave me, and now I have the kettle on. I’ll be right as rain as soon as I have my tea.”

  “All right. I’m coming home. In the meantime, turn off the kettle and get yourself to bed.”

  Dovie ended the call, furious with herself. She’d been so adamant that Dora not be alone after leaving the hospital, and just days after wheeling her out of Bon Secours, she’d gone and left the woman alone all night.

  Now all she had to do was find Austin and tell him why she was running out on him at the crack of dawn—and do it without explaining who Dora was. Except he was nowhere to be found. On impulse, she went to the sliding glass doors and stuck her head out, scanning the wide stretch of beach. That’s where she found him, about a hundred yards down the shoreline, standing near the water’s edge, legs planted wide, eyes fixed on the horizon. She wanted to believe this was part of some morning ritual, jogging or yoga or sunrise meditation, but she knew from his posture, and from how very still he stood, that it was something else. Something bad.

  There was a jacket on one of the kitchen stools. She grabbed it and dragged it on as she headed down the back steps, painfully aware of her pants-less state as she turned up the beach and headed into the stiff morning breeze. The sand was chilly on the soles of her feet as she tracked down the shore, clutching the oversize jacket tight to her body. Finally, she came to a halt a few feet from where Austin stood. He turned, as if sensing her there, and ran his eyes down the length of her, lingering on the loose cuffs of his dress shirt hanging limply from the sleeves of his jacket. “Good morning.”

  “It was either my gown or your shirt,” she said sheepishly.

  “You must be freezing.”

  “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

  “I came out to clear my head.”

  Dovie felt the knot in her belly tighten. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

  There was a stretch of silence while he seemed to weigh his words, filled with the lazy shush of morning waves, the low whistle of wind over the dunes. Finally, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and released a long breath. “I’m sorry, Dovie. About last night. About all of it. I thought I could do this, have something—someone—that meant something. Then I woke up in the middle of the night, and there you were next to me, and all I could think about was how it was going to end, and I just . . . can’t.”

  “So last night was . . . what? A mistake?”

  “Jesus, I hate the way that sounds, but yeah, it was.”

  Dovie blinked at him, stung by his tone. “I get it,” she said, shoving her hair back from her face. “Things got a little too real, so you’re pulling the plug before it gets messy.”

  “I know it sounds cliché, Dovie, but this really is for the best. Nights like last night lead to promises, and I can’t make any. Not to you.”

  She huddled deeper into the jacket, shivering. “So this is it? This is the wrecking part?”

  Austin’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Trust me when I tell you we’re not even close to the wrecking part. And we’re never going to be. That’s why we’re having this conversation. When it comes to relationships, I make mistakes. Big ones. And I’m not making one with you. I don’t know how else to say it, or how else to make you understand.”

  “Well, then,” Dovie said. “I guess that’s that.” She was about to walk away when she turned back. “I’m glad last night happened, Austin, or was. Because I thought we had gotten past some things, that maybe you were ready—that we both were. But I was wrong. This is just your m.o. And that’s fine. It’s not like you didn’t warn me. I just wish it could have been different.”

  “Me, too.”

  She looked at him, wishing there was something else to say, anything else to say, but there wasn’t. He’d said it all. They both had. “I need to get going anyway. There’s something I need to take care of at home.”

  “Go in and get dressed. I’ll be there in a minute to drive you home.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll call a cab.”

  “Don’t be silly. Even I know it’s bad form to send your date home in a cab.”

  Dovie dropped her purse and keys at the front door and headed for the guest room. “Dora? I’m home.” Her heart beat faster when she received no answer, and faster still when she reached the doorway and found Dora in bed, eyes closed and absolutely still. “Dora?”

  Dora dragged one eye open. “Why all the fuss? I haven’t snuffed it, for goodness’ sake.”

  “You said you fell. Are you all right?”

  In response, Dora held up her arm, elbow out. “Just gave myself a bit of a knock and skinned my elbow, but I still look better than you. Did you sleep in that dress?”

  “Not exactly, no.” She bent down to examine the elbow, pink as a strawberry and bleeding a little. “Do you think we should get you x-rayed?”

  “Heavens, I only need plaster. Y
ou call them Band-Aids over here, I think. Would have done it myself, but I didn’t know where to look.”

  “They’re in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” Moments later, she returned with cotton balls, peroxide, antibiotic cream, and the box of Band-Aids.

  Dora eyed the armload of supplies. “It’s a skinned elbow, not a knife wound.”

  “I’m just going to clean it up,” Dovie insisted as she opened the bottle of peroxide. “And then I’ll fix you some breakfast.” She dabbed a bit at the elbow with peroxide, then blotted it dry, trying to ignore Dora’s careful study of her appearance.

  “It’s to do with a man, isn’t it?” she said. “That face of yours?”

  Dovie reached for the tube of antibiotic cream, wrenching the top off with her teeth. “Yes, it is,” she said, around the plastic cap in the corner of her mouth. “I thought we’d gotten to a place where things could work out.”

  “But they can’t?”

  Dovie screwed the cap back onto the tube and set it aside, reaching for a Band-Aid. “No. I’ve been assured they can’t.”

  “You love this man?”

  “It’s . . . complicated, Dora. And I’d rather not talk about it just now. I need a shower and some coffee. Will you be okay while I hop in?”

  “I won’t bleed to death, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Dovie managed a smile. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Dora’s face grew serious. “After you’ve had your shower and your coffee, do you think you might read me a letter or two?”

  “Yes, all right,” Dovie said. She could do with a distraction right about now, anything to keep her mind from wandering back to this morning’s scene with Austin. “I’ll fix us some breakfast when I get out of the shower, and then we’ll read a letter or two.”

  She felt better after the shower and a little breakfast, well enough to start worrying about what Alice’s next letter might reveal. Pulling the plastic bag from her desk, she spilled out the contents, sorting the letters into two piles—read and unread. When she was finished, she was startled to see that there were only three letters left.