by Linda Howard
He knew she had cried; her eyelids were swollen. She had cried, and he hadn't been there to hold her.
He would be, he thought fiercely. From now on, he would be.
* * *
Chapter 9
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The day was overcast, with rain threatening any minute, and so muggy Karen felt as if she would melt. Sweat gathered in a pool between her breasts, trickled down her sides. Her dress was thin and short-sleeved but still black; she could feel the fabric absorbing the heat. She concentrated on her physical misery and on the distant sullen rumble of thunder. She thought about how lush the grass was, listened to the birds singing, and let herself be annoyed because her heels kept sinking into the soft black dirt. She'd never before seen dirt so black, and she marveled at its richness.
She looked at the massive trees, the flowers. This small country cemetery was prettier and more peaceful than the large, manicured "garden of rest" where Jeanette was buried. Perhaps she should move her mother down here, rather than have Dexter taken Her stomach clenched. She had tried so hard not to think about what was happening, but her wayward thoughts had led her to the funeral anyway. She didn't want to think about the man in the casket. Dexter Whitlaw. Her father. Whatever his failings, whatever devils had driven him, at this moment she admitted that her memories of him weren't all bad.
There had been a few times when he sat on the floor and played dolls with her, folding his long legs as if he didn't even notice his cramped position, listening with apparent raptness as she spun elaborate stories about what the dolls were doing. Usually, they were sick, and she was taking care of them, an early manifestation of her nursing tendencies. And a couple of times, Dexter had taken her with him on walks in the woods and showed her how to hide in a bush and sit very still so that even the squirrels and the birds forgot they were there. Did those few bright moments outweigh a lifetime of darkness? Was she supposed to remember only them and forget the nights when her mother sobbed into her pillow, longing for a man who wasn't there?
What a waste of life, both Jeanette's and Dexter's. Regret swelled in her chest, suffocating her, or maybe it was just this damnable humidity making it impossible for her to breathe. It couldn't be regret; why should she cry for a man who had never given her a second thought, who bothered to call or visit only when he needed something? And yet he had kept his wedding ring, sewed it into his cuff to keep it safe. It had been important to him, as Detective Chastain had pointed out. Whether it was the life the ring represented, the normal life he had walked away from, or the people in that life, she couldn't begin to imagine.
She wouldn't cry for him. She refused to. But the outline of the casket was blurred, the minister's words were nothing more than background noise, and the pressure in her chest was so great she could barely contain it.
The trees stirred and rattled, breathing. A surprisingly cool gust of wind hit the backs of her legs, breathed down her neck. A chill rippled down her spine. The sensation was refreshing, though, and she sighed as the sweat evaporated on her body. She was grateful for the reprieve from the heat, even when a fine mist of rain closely followed the wind.
In only moments, she went from overheated to downright chilly, as the wind picked up and the rain began to pelt down. Detective Chastain opened an umbrella and held it over their heads, moving closer so they were both sheltered. She didn't know what she would have done without his assistance these past two days, she thought numbly. He had done more than walk her through the necessary procedures, much more; he had stepped in and taken care of arrangements, cut through red tape, smoothed over glitches before they became real obstacles. He had even remembered the flowers for the casket and helped her arrange for them.
She couldn't think why he had done it. She was a commonsense person, but she was beginning to think she had imagined his dislike the first time they met, because not even a glimmer of hostility had shown since then. Maybe fatigue and shock had made her hallucinate. Still, Chastain had gone above and beyond duty, even if she had been mistaken in her initial impression of him. Maybe this was an example of the courtesy toward women for which Southern men were so famous, but he had gone a great deal farther than opening doors for her or standing when she entered the room.
Yes, that was it. Think about the detective, or about regional differences in general; think about anything but the fact that the minister was pressing her hand and murmuring condolences, and the funeral director was waiting for her to leave so they could lower the casket into the grave and begin shoveling dirt over it. The grave was even disguised by a green felt carpet, as if the sight of it would be too much for the bereaved.
But she couldn't leave. She couldn't walk away from Dexter now, not in his last moment above ground. He deserved to have someone there for him, someone whose memory would record these details, so that he wouldn't vanish without a trace. Whatever his failings, he was her father, forever linked to her through shared genes.
"Go ahead," she said hoarsely. It was an effort to speak. Her arms roughened with chill bumps, and she hugged them against the bite of the wind, wondering where the heat had gone. The rain drummed down on the umbrella, spattered her legs and her back, and a shiver seized her.
She saw the funeral director glance at Detective Chastain, as if the final decision was his. Perhaps it was. If he chose to drag her away from the graveside, she didn't know if she would be able to protest, or to resist. If she tried to argue, the tenuous control she was maintaining would shatter, and she would collapse into a sobbing heap. A sobbing heap was not a good position from which to assert authority.
But he gave a brief nod, and she tried to tell him with her eyes how grateful she was, not just for this but for everything. The funeral director turned aside with a quiet word to the waiting men. Chains creaked, and the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.
Karen shivered again and found she couldn't stop. Was she shivering or trembling? She couldn't tell, didn't care. All she knew was that she was shaking from the inside out, her teeth clenched hard to hold back the sob that was choking her.
Silently, Chastain stepped behind her, blocking the wind and rain from her with his body. She stood stiffly, locked rigid with the effort of control, but he moved closer, so close that he pressed against her, strong and solid and warm. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he opened his jacket and enfolded her inside the sheltering wings. The cloth draped over her shoulders, her bare arms, wrapping her in warmth. He still held the umbrella in his left hand, but his right arm slid around her and held her anchored to him, tight against his hard chest.
The gesture stunned her. Except for her mother, no one had ever put themselves between her and the world. Chastain's action was so unexpected and intimate… and protective. The protectiveness was what destroyed her, even while it supported her.
Hot tears blurred her vision once more, washing out the images of the men bending and digging their shovels into the mound of dirt, but she heard the sound of dirt spilling into metal. They worked methodically, despite the pouring rain, as if the job was too somber to be hurried. She stood until they were finished, and all the while Chastain stood at her back, warming her, lending her his strength so she could continue to stand upright.
Karen was accustomed to standing alone. Even as a child, she had tried not to bother her mother with her problems, because she had always sensed Jeanette carried enough burdens. Nursing school had only enhanced her independence by giving her even greater responsibilities. She hadn't leaned on anyone in years, and she was shattered to find herself doing so both emotionally and physically with a man who had been a total stranger a mere two days before. She tried to blink away the tears that kept burning her eyes. She tried to say something and found the pressure in her chest was too great to allow the words to escape. She straightened, though something in her cried out at the sudden cold, the loss of contact. She turned to face him, but his face swam before her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer.
Chastain let the umbrella drop to the soggy ground. He bent his head over hers, murmuring soft, consoling sounds that didn't seem to be words at all, but just the sound was enough. She tried to burrow closer, vaguely appalled at her own neediness yet helpless to stop herself. One big hand closed over the nape of her neck, massaging, cradling, hot on her tender bare skin.
The pain was almost more than she could bear, grief and regret and a piercing sense of loneliness tearing at her. Despite her deep resentment, while Dexter lived, there had always been the possibility that one day he would work out whatever problems he had, get rid of the demons that rode his shoulder, and want to forge a relationship with her. That couldn't happen now. He had died still largely unknown to her, all the bright possibilities at an end. She mourned that loss of hope as much as she mourned him, a father she had never really known but whose absence had shaped her life. Now she would never be able to tell him how angry she was, how hurt, never reach out to him and feel the connection of family. She wept for that, and for her mother, and for him.
But such extreme emotion was exhausting, and gradually she quieted, still held securely in Detective Chastain's arms, her wet face still buried in his shoulder. She heard him speaking quietly over her head to someone, perhaps the minister, and a few moments later, she heard footsteps moving away, squishing on the wet ground. They were alone, and now she was grateful to him for yet one more thing; she needed privacy and he had provided it.
The rain had stopped beating down, dwindling to nothing more than a lukewarm mist as the storm moved on. The wind had died, and already she could feel the heat of the day rebuilding, steam forming on the ground. His heart thumped steadily under her ear, his chest rose and fell with the cadence of his breathing, and the warm, musky odor of his body mingled with the faint, fresh, lemony fragrance of his aftershave. He smelled delicious, she thought dimly, just the way a man should smell.
Her mind drifted. She tried to think of the last time she had been this close to a man, but the memory eluded her, and somehow she didn't think she had ever before been so close. Other men had held her, of course, but not like this. She had never accepted comfort from a man, never let any of her few boyfriends see her weep. She had never let herself need them, but somehow, in this moment, she needed Chastain. She needed to feel his arms around her, just for now. She needed the physical strength so evident in his tall, muscular body, a strength that effortlessly supported her weight, and she needed to be held as tightly as he was holding her. She needed to hear his dark-honey voice murmuring to her, needed the reassurance that right now, just for a few minutes, she wasn't alone.
The emotional storm had left her drained, exhausted, oddly detached. "I'm sorry," she said in a sodden voice, muffled against his shoulder.
"You're entitled." He shifted a bit, holding her with one arm while he reached into his pocket. "Here's a handkerchief."
She groped for it without lifting her head, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, and then wondered in acute embarrassment how she could possibly give it back to him after blowing her nose on it. She crushed the cloth in her hand. "I'll wash it," she mumbled.
He gave a quiet chuckle, then wrapped his arms around her again. She resettled her head on his shoulder, sighing, feeling the dampness of his coat under her cheek. In the trees overhead, birds began to twitter and sing again with the passing of the rain.
"I never really knew him," she whispered, feeling compelled to talk. "He'd drift back into our lives every other year or so, and Mom would start hoping this time he would stay, but then he'd leave again, and she would cry for days. I hated him for that."
Those strong, comforting arms tightened, squeezing. "Did you want him to stay?"
"At first. Every time he came back, I ran to my room and prayed as hard as I could that he wouldn't leave again, and that Mom would be happy and not cry anymore. That never worked for long. Then I started making wishes. I wished on falling stars, on wishbones, I tossed pennies into any pool of water I could find. I didn't know any officially designated wishing wells, but I figured any water would do."
He chuckled again, and she found herself somehow smiling into his coat. The smile was wavery, but it was there. He rocked her back and forth a little, as if she were a child. "Feeling better?"
She nodded. "Crying causes endorphins to be released into the body, automatically lifting the mood."
"Then you must be slap full of endorphins right now," he teased, and this time she laughed. It shocked her, and she went still. How could she laugh? She was standing by her father's grave.
"Don't worry about it," he said, shaking her a little, understanding without being told why she had gone rigid in his arms. "People always laugh at funerals, sometimes even the families. My grandmother always said it was the angels' way of easing the burden. It isn't disrespectful, it's healing."
He was right. She thought back to other funerals she had attended, the bouts of muffled laughter, and she relaxed again. "When I was about eleven, we went back to West Virginia for my grandfather's funeral—my father's father. I remember Granny sitting in a rocker, holding this little lace handkerchief, reminiscing about Gramps with some of the older people. They all started laughing at some tale, trying to hold it back at first, but then Granny started actually whooping, rocking back and forth, holding her stomach and laughing 'til she could barely breathe. They all laughed like maniacs."
"It helps to remember the good times. So, you're really a West Virginia girl? I thought I heard a drawl sneak into that Ohio accent a few times." He imitated her accent, saying "Oh-Hi-uh," instead of "Oh-Hi-oh" the way Southerners did. As he spoke, he subtly released himself from her clutches, though not her from his. Moving to her side, he started her walking by the simple means of walking himself, holding her close with an arm around her waist. She had to walk or be dragged.
Karen hadn't wanted to show her face yet. She knew her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her makeup ruined. She only hoped she had been able to blot up the worst of the destruction. But Detective Chastain had decided it was time for her to leave, so, willy-nilly, she was leaving. Perhaps he had work to do and had to get back to New Orleans. She felt guilty about the way she had monopolized his time.
"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked, embarrassed all over again. He had offered his help, but perhaps it had only been a courtesy offer and he hadn't really expected her to accept.
"Of course not." He squeezed her a little as they reached the graveled little path that led to the car. "I'm off duty, and I don't have any appointments."
"Or a date?" she asked, disliking even the idea. She was surprised at herself. Had she suddenly become so needy that she couldn't bear losing his support? She had better snap out of it fast, because she was flying home the next morning.
"No date," he said easily. "Why don't we walk around the Quarter for a while, then have dinner? You haven't seen anything of New Orleans, really, and you need to relax."
Her sudden tension seeped out of her. He wanted to spend the rest of the day and the evening with her. Well, perhaps he didn't really want to, perhaps he merely felt responsible for her, but she was too grateful for the chance to avoid a long evening spent alone with only her melancholy thoughts for company that she felt a flood of relief at the invitation. "Thanks. I'd like that."
The afternoon sun suddenly blazed full on her face, the rain clouds gone for now, though ominous dark clouds were building again in the southwest. The heat and brightness of the sun were incredible, and she felt herself beginning to sweat again, as rapidly as she had grown chilled before. Squinting her swollen eyes against the glare, she misjudged her distance from the edge of the path and brus
hed against a shrub. The stubby branches snagged her hose and held fast.
"Darn it!" She stopped, looking down to assess the damage. The nylon was tangled on one of the branches. A hole the size of a half-dollar had been torn in the fabric, and an ugly run laddered both upward and downward from the hole. A run in black hose was particularly ugly, she thought, looking down at her pale leg peeking through.
She started to lean down and release herself, but he squatted beside her and curved one hand around her calf, using the other to work the nylon free. A small red scratch from the branch marred her skin, shining brightly through the gaping hole in her panty hose. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch, soothing the sting.
"You can take them off at the car," he said, rising, his task accomplished. He smiled down at her with those brilliant gray eyes. "I'll stand on the other side and not look, I promise."
The prospect of taking off her panty hose in his presence, even when he was on the other side of the car, seemed almost too daring and intimate. Intimate. There was that word again. All day—well, actually since the first day—it seemed as if he had wrapped her in a blanket of intimacy without actually doing anything sexual. He had touched her constantly; he put his hand on her arm or her back, held her, supported her, and perhaps she couldn't have made it through the ordeal without those touches that let her know she wasn't alone.
Perhaps the sense of intimacy was all on her part; perhaps Southern men were normally this solicitous toward women. She hadn't known any Southerners before, since they didn't exactly flock to Columbus, Ohio, so she had no means of comparison. If Detective Marc Chastain was typical of the Southern male, she thought, then the women in the rest of the country didn't know what they were missing.