by Nora Roberts
“Sydney,” he said, backing up to let her inside.
The foyer was cool and light, speaking subtly in its furnishings and artwork of discreet old money. “I appreciate you seeing me like this, Peter.”
“You said it was important.”
“To me.”
“Well, then.” Knowing nothing else to say, he ushered her down the hall and into a sitting room. Manners sat seamlessly on both of them, causing her to make the right comments about the house, and him to parry them while offering her a seat and a drink.
“You’re enjoying Washington, then.”
“Very much.” He sipped his own wine while she simply turned her glass around and around in her hand. She was nervous. He knew her too well not to recognize the signs. And she was as lovely as ever. It hurt. He hated the fact that it hurt just to look at her. And the best way to get past the pain was to get to the point.
“What is it I can do for you, Sydney?”
Strangers, she thought again as she looked down at her glass. They had known each other all of their lives, had been married for nearly three years, and were strangers. “It’s difficult to know where to start.”
He leaned back in his chair and gestured. “Pick a spot.”
“Peter, why did you marry me?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I want to know why you married me.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. Shifting, he drank again. “For several of the usual reasons, I suppose.”
“You loved me?”
His eyes flashed to hers. “You know I loved you.”
“I know we loved each other. You were my friend.” She pressed her lips together. “My best friend.”
He got up to pour more wine. “We were children.”
“Not when we married. We were young, but we weren’t children. And we were still friends. I don’t know how it all went so wrong, Peter, or what I did to ruin it so completely, but—”
“You?” He stared, the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other. “What do you mean you ruined it?”
“I made you unhappy, miserably unhappy. I know I failed in bed, and it all spilled over into the rest until you couldn’t even bear to be around me.”
“You didn’t want me to touch you,” he shot back. “Damn it, it was like making love to—”
“An iceberg,” she finished flatly. “So you said.”
Fighting guilt, he set his glass down. “I said a lot of things, so did you. I thought I’d gotten past most of it until I heard your voice this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry.” She rose, her body and voice stiff to compensate for shattered pride. “I’ve just made it worse coming here. I am sorry, Peter, I’ll go.”
“It was like making love with my sister.” The words burst out and stopped her before she crossed the room. “My pal. Damn, Sydney, I couldn’t…” The humiliation of it clawed at him again. “I could never get beyond that, and make you, well, a wife. It unmanned me. And I took it out on you.”
“I thought you hated me.”
He slapped the bottle back on the table. “It was easier to try to hate you than admit I couldn’t arouse either one of us. That I was inadequate.”
“But I was.” Baffled, she took a step toward him. “I know I was useless to you in bed—before you told me, I knew it. And you had to go elsewhere for what I couldn’t give you.”
“I cheated on you,” he said flatly. “I lied and cheated my closest friend. I hated the way you’d started to look at me, the way I started to look at myself. So I went out to prove my manhood elsewhere, and hurt you. When you found out, I did the manly thing and turned the blame on you. Hell, Sydney, we were barely speaking to each other by that time. Except in public.”
“I know. And I remember how I reacted, the hateful things I said to you. I let pride cost me a friend.”
“I lost a friend, too. I’ve never been sorrier for anything in my life.” It cost him to walk to her, to take her hand. “You didn’t ruin anything, Syd. At least not alone.”
“I need a friend, Peter. I very badly need a friend.”
He brushed a tear away with his thumb. “Willing to give me another shot?” Smiling a little, he took out his handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose and sit down.”
She did, clinging to his hand. “Was that the only reason it didn’t work. Because we couldn’t handle the bedroom?”
“That was a big one. Other than that, we’re too much alike. It’s too easy for us to step behind breeding and let a wound bleed us dry. Hell, Syd, what were we doing getting married?”
“Doing what everyone told us.”
“There you go.”
Comforted, she brought his hand to her cheek. “Are you happy, Peter?”
“I’m getting there. How about you? President Hayward.”
She laughed. “Were you surprised?”
“Flabbergasted. I was so proud of you.”
“Don’t. You’ll make me cry again.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He kissed her forehead. “Come out in the kitchen. I’ll fix us a sandwich and you can tell me what you’ve been up to besides big business.”
It was almost easy. There was some awkwardness, little patches of caution, but the bond that had once held them together had stretched instead of broken. Slowly, carefully, they were easing the tension on it.
Over rye bread and coffee, she tried to tell him the rest. “Have you ever been in love, Peter?”
“Marsha Rosenbloom.”
“That was when we were fourteen.”
“And she’d already given up a training bra,” he said with his mouth full. “I was deeply in love.” Then he smiled at her. “No, I’ve escaped that particular madness.”
“If you were, if you found yourself in love with someone, would you consider marriage again?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think I’d do a better job of it, but I don’t know. Who is he?”
Stalling, she poured more coffee. “He’s an artist. A carpenter.”
“Which?”
“Both. He sculpts, and he builds. I’ve only known him a little while, just since June.”
“Moving quick, Sydney?”
“I know. That’s part of the problem. Everything moves fast with Mikhail. He’s so bold and sure and full of emotion. Like his work, I suppose.”
As two and two began to make four, his brows shot up. “The Russian?”
“Ukrainian,” she corrected automatically.
“Good God, Stanislaski, right? There’s a piece of his in the White House.”
“Is there?” She gave Peter a bemused smile. “He didn’t mention it. He took me home to meet his family, this wonderful family, but he didn’t tell me his work’s in the White House. It shows you where his priorities lie.”
“And you’re in love with him.”
“Yes. He wants to marry me.” She shook her head. “I got two proposals in the same night. One from Mikhail, and one from Channing Warfield.”
“Lord, Sydney, not Channing. He’s not your type.”
She shoved the coffee aside to lean closer. “Why?”
“In the first place he’s nearly humorless. He’d bore you mindless. The only thing he knows about Daddy’s business is how to take clients to lunch. And his only true love is his tailor.”
She really smiled. “I’ve missed you, Peter.”
He took her hand again. “What about your big, bold artist?”
“He doesn’t have a tailor, or take clients to lunch. And he makes me laugh. Peter, I couldn’t bear to marry him and have it fall apart on me again.”
“I can’t tell you if it’s right. And if I were you, I wouldn’t listen to anyone’s good-intentioned advice this time around.”
“But you’ll give me some anyway?”
“But I’ll give you some anyway,” he agreed, and felt years drop away. “Don’t judge whatever you have with him by the mess we made. Just ask yourself a couple of questions. Do
es he make you happy? Do you trust him? How do you imagine your life with him? How do you imagine it without him?”
“And when I have the answers?”
“You’ll know what to do.” He kissed the hand joined with his. “I love you, Sydney.”
“I love you, too.”
Answer the questions, she thought as she pushed the elevator button in Mikhail’s lobby. It was twenty-four hours since Peter had listed them, but she hadn’t allowed herself to think of them. Hadn’t had to, she corrected as she stepped inside the car. She already knew the answers.
Did he make her happy? Yes, wildly happy.
Did she trust him? Without reservation.
Her life with him? A roller coaster of emotions, demands, arguments, laughter, frustration.
Without him? Blank.
She simply couldn’t imagine it. She would have her work, her routine, her ambitions. No, she’d never be without a purpose again. But without him, it would all be straight lines.
So she knew what to do. If it wasn’t too late.
There was the scent of drywall dust in the hallway when she stepped out of the elevator. She glanced up to see the ceiling had been replaced, the seams taped, mudded and sanded. All that was left to be done here was the paint and trim.
He did good work, she thought, as she ran her hand along the wall. In a short amount of time, he’d taken a sad old building and turned it into something solid and good. There was still work ahead, weeks before the last nail would be hammered. But what he fixed would last.
Pressing a hand to her stomach, she knocked on his door. And hoped.
There wasn’t a sound from inside. No blare of music, no click of work boots on wood. Surely he hadn’t gone to bed, she told herself. It was barely ten. She knocked again, louder, and wondered if she should call out his name.
A door opened—not his, but the one just down the hall. Keely poked her head out. After one quick glance at Sydney, the friendliness washed out of her face.
“He’s not here,” she said. Her champagne voice had gone flat. Keely didn’t know the details, but she was sure of one thing. This was the woman who had put Mikhail in a miserable mood for the past few days.
“Oh.” Sydney’s hand dropped to her side. “Do you know where he is?”
“Out.” Keely struggled not to notice that there was misery in Sydney’s eyes, as well.
“I see.” Sydney willed her shoulders not to slump. “I’ll just wait.”
“Suit yourself,” Keely said with a shrug. What did she care if the woman was obviously in love? This was the woman who’d hurt her pal. As an actress Keely prided herself on recognizing the mood beneath the actions. Mikhail might have been fiercely angry over the past few days, but beneath the short temper had been raw, seeping hurt. And she’d put it there. What did it matter if she was suffering, too?
Of course it mattered. Keely’s sentimental heart went gooey in her chest.
“Listen, he’ll probably be back soon. Do you want a drink or something?”
“No, really. I’m fine. How’s, ah, your apartment coming?”
“New stove works like a champ.” Unable to be anything but kind, Keely leaned on the jamb. “They’ve still got a little of this and that—especially with the damage those idiots did.” She brightened. “Hey, did you know they arrested a guy?”
“Yes.” Janine had told her about Lloyd’s arrest when she’d called in. “I’m sorry. He was only trying to get back at me.”
“It’s not your fault the guy’s a jerk. Anyway, they sucked up the water, and Mik mixed up some stuff to get the paint off the brick. They had to tear out the ceiling in the apartment below that empty place. And the floors buckled up pretty bad.” She shrugged again. “You know, Mik, he’ll fix it up.”
Yes, she knew Mik. “Do you know if there was much damage to Mrs. Wolburg’s things?”
“The rugs are a loss. A lot of other things were pretty soggy. They’ll dry out.” More comfortable, Keely took a bite of the banana she’d been holding behind her back. “Her grandson was by. She’s doing real good. Using a walker and everything already, and crabbing about coming home. We’re planning on throwing her a welcome-back party next month. Maybe you’d like to come.”
“I’d—” They both turned at the whine of the elevator.
The doors opened, and deep voices raised in some robust Ukrainian folk song poured out just ahead of the two men. They were both a little drunk, more than a little grubby, and the way their arms were wrapped around each other, it was impossible to say who was supporting whom. Sydney noticed the blood first. It was smeared on Mikhail’s white T-shirt, obviously from the cuts on his lip and over his eye.
“My God.”
The sound of her voice had Mikhail’s head whipping up like a wolf. His grin faded to a surly stare as he and his brother stumbled to a halt.
“What do you want?” The words were thickened with vodka and not at all welcoming.
“What happened to you?” She was already rushing toward them. “Was there an accident?”
“Hey, pretty lady.” Alex smiled charmingly though his left eye was puffy with bruises and nearly swollen shut. “We had a hell’va party. Should’ve been there. Right, bro?”
Mikhail responded by giving him a sluggish punch in the stomach. Sydney decided it was meant as affection as Mikhail then turned, locked his brother in a bear hug, kissed both his cheeks.
While Mikhail searched his pockets for keys, Sydney turned to Alex. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
“Did what?” He tried to wink at Keely and winced. “Oh, this?” He touched ginger fingers to his eye and grinned. “He’s always had a sneaky left.” He shot his brother a look of bleary admiration while Mikhail fought to fit what seemed like a very tiny key in an even tinier lock. “I got a couple good ones in under his guard. Wouldn’t have caught him if he hadn’t been drunk. Course I was drunk, too.” He weaved toward Keely’s door. “Hey, Keely, my beautiful gold-haired dream, got a raw steak?”
“No.” But having sympathy for the stupid, she took his arm. “Come on, champ, I’ll pour you into a cab.”
“Let’s go dancing,” he suggested as she guided him back to the elevator. “Like to dance?”
“I live for it.” She glanced over her shoulder as she shoved him into the elevator. “Good luck,” she told Sydney.
She was going to need it, Sydney decided, as she walked up behind Mikhail just as he managed to open his own door. He shoved it back, nearly caught her in the nose, but her reflexes were better than his at the moment.
“You’ve been fighting with your brother,” she accused.
“So?” He thought it was a shame, a damn shame, that the sight of her was sobering him up so quickly. “You would rather I fight with strangers?”
“Oh, sit down.” Using her temporary advantage, she shoved him into a chair. She strode off into the bathroom, muttering to herself. When she came back with a wet washcloth and antiseptic, he was up again, leaning out the window, trying to clear his head.
“Are you sick?”
He pulled his head in and turned back, disdain clear on his battered face. “Stanislaskis don’t get sick from vodka.” Maybe a little queasy, he thought, when the vodka was followed by a couple of solid rights to the gut. Then he grinned. His baby brother had a hell of a punch.
“Just drunk then,” she said primly, and pointed to the chair. “Sit down. I’ll clean your face.”
“I don’t need nursing.” But he sat, because it felt better that way.
“What you need is a keeper.” Bending over, she began to dab at the cut above his eye while he tried to resist the urge to lay his cheek against the soft swell of her breast. “Going out and getting drunk, beating up your brother. Why would you do such a stupid thing?”
He scowled at her. “It felt good.”
“Oh, I’m sure it feels marvelous to have a naked fist popped in your eye.” She tilted his head as she worked. That eye was going to bruise dram
atically before morning. “I can’t imagine what your mother would say if she knew.”
“She would say nothing. She’d smack us both.” His breath hissed when she slopped on the antiseptic. “Even when he starts it she smacks us both.” Indignation shimmered. “Explain that.”
“I’m sure you both deserved it. Pathetic,” she muttered, then looked down at his hands. “Idiot!” The skin on the knuckles was bruised and broken. “You’re an artist, damn it. You have no business hurting your hands.”
It felt good, incredibly good to have her touching and scolding him. Any minute he was going to pull her into his lap and beg.
“I do what I like with my own hands,” he said. And thought about what he’d like to be doing with them right now.
“You do what you like, period,” she tossed back as she gently cleaned his knuckles. “Shouting at people, punching people. Drinking until you smell like the inside of a vodka bottle.”
He wasn’t so drunk he didn’t know an insult when he heard one. Nudging her aside, he stood and, staggering only a little, disappeared into the next room. A moment later, she heard the shower running.
This wasn’t the way she’d planned it, Sydney thought, wringing the washcloth in her hands. She was supposed to come to him, tell him how much she loved him, ask him to forgive her for being a fool. And he was supposed to be kind and understanding, taking her in his arms, telling her she’d made him the happiest man in the world.
Instead he’d been drunk and surly. And she’d been snappish and critical.
Well, he deserved it. Before she had time to think, she’d heaved the washcloth toward the kitchen, where it slapped wetly against the wall then slid down to the sink. She stared at it for a minute, then down at her own hands.
She’d thrown something. And it felt wonderful. Glancing around, she spotted a paperback book and sent it sailing. A plastic cup gave a nice ring when it hit the wall, but she’d have preferred the crash of glass. Snatching up a battered sneaker, she prepared to heave that, as well. A sound in the doorway had her turning, redirecting aim and shooting it straight into Mikhail’s damp, naked chest. His breath woofed out.