Days Like This Page 4

  Still trembling from the nightmare, she eased away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. Took a long, cleansing breath and stood. Reached for the robe she kept on a nearby chair.

  From the darkness behind her, a groggy voice said, “Where you going?”

  She hesitated, the robe in her hands. Slipped it on, tied the belt, and turned back toward the bed. “I’m just going downstairs to get a drink. Go back to sleep.”

  The kitchen was cooler than her bedroom had been. Moving swiftly and surely in the darkness, she took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, icy-cold, refreshing and wonderful. She drank until the glass was empty, then set it in the sink and stood there running cold water over her wrists.

  This December would mark four years since that terrible night when Danny died. Yet the nightmares hadn’t started until a year ago, so soon after she married Rob that the connection was impossible to miss. Dr. Freud would certainly have something to say about that. Was it guilt that generated these gory horror-fests? If so, she had no reason to feel guilty. She’d done nothing wrong. They’d waited nearly two years, a respectable length of time for a widow to mourn her husband before becoming sexually active again. Rob had—for the most part—kept his distance, had allowed her to come to her own conclusions about the direction their relationship was headed.

  But Danny had been her love and her life for thirteen years, the only man she’d ever slept with, and even though she knew it was ridiculous, in some small part of her, it still felt disloyal, being with another man that way—and enjoying it so damn much. She’d been so young and innocent when she met Danny, only eighteen, and she’d fallen hard and fast. Being with him had been heaven and it had been hell. She’d worked incredibly hard to keep their marriage intact. But there had been something missing in him, something broken that couldn’t be fixed. Looking back from the vantage point of thirty-five years spent living on this planet, she couldn’t help wondering: If she were to offer advice to that naïve eighteen-year-old version of herself, what would she say?

  Step away from the Magic Man. Yes, he may be pretty and shiny and sparkly and new, and yes, he may offer untold delights. But along with those delights come heartaches. Sorrow. So much pain. In the end, you may not find him worth it. Run away now, while you still have time!

  And yet. And yet. She didn’t regret those thirteen years. They’d loved each other with a desperation bordering on obsession. No matter how bad things got, no matter what wedge drove them apart, she and Danny were always drawn back to each other by some force she’d never been able to explain. Even after Katie died and everything went to hell, even after she recognized that her feelings for Rob had turned into something complicated and unnerving and sexual, even then, that same sick obsession had driven her back to Danny.

  And there was still the other side of the coin, the side she couldn’t ignore. If she’d never met Danny, she wouldn’t be here with Rob today. She would probably be married to Jesse, and living in that big house by the river, with three or four kids and a husband she cared for but didn’t love. A thirty-something housewife, aging too rapidly, mourning her lost youth, trying to minimize her regrets, and yearning like some lovelorn teenager for the kind of passion she would probably never experience.

  The kitchen light came on, startling her, and she blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. Casey turned off the faucet, dried her hands on a dish towel, and turned to face her husband.

  He’d thrown on a pair of jeans. Tight ones. Long and lean and rangy, he had wide shoulders and well-developed biceps—honed by years of playing scorching rock guitar—a flat stomach and narrow hips, and a dark triangle of silky chest hair tapering to a slender vee that pointed directly toward paradise. After the better part of two decades spent trying to fatten him up, she’d finally managed to put a few pounds on him over the winter, and those pounds had landed in all the right places. Shirtless and barefoot, the man was a walking advertisement for sex.

  Her mouth went dry, and everything inside her melted. He had no idea how the sight of him like this affected her, and she had no intention of ever telling him, because it seemed undignified for a woman her age to lust so heartily after her own husband.

  Maybe his lack of ego was part of his charm; in spite of the long list of women who had come and gone before her, he still didn’t recognize his own attractiveness. Rob MacKenzie wasn’t handsome, not in any conventional sense. At first glance, he seemed quite ordinary, until you got close enough to look into those soft green eyes and see the kindness there. Even then, a woman might dismiss him as a lightweight, a nice guy who would always finish last, until he flashed one of those zillion-megawatt smiles, his secret weapon, and reduced said woman to a helpless puddle of goo.

  “Another nightmare?” he said.

  She should know better than to try to sneak around his built-in radar. He always knew. Always. “I’m okay.”

  Rob knew she kept reliving the accident in her sleep, knew the dreams were horrifying. But she’d never told him the details, and she never would. He knew better than to ask. There was only so far they could take the no boundaries thing. Even she and Rob had certain lines they didn’t cross, places they didn’t go. They never discussed his first wife. And they never talked about the accident.

  He stepped closer, slipped his arms around her waist. She pressed her mouth to the center of his chest in a soft kiss. Silky chest hair tickled her nose. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  Her hands idly sliding up and down his back, she lay her face against his chest and let herself wallow in the absolute rightness of being with him. He tucked her head under his chin and they swayed together, contentment rolling off them in waves. This was the way marriage was supposed to be. Easy and open. Not tainted by rivers of darkness that ate away at its foundations until it could no longer stand without assistance.

  Eventually, he said, “Can’t keep your hands off me, can you, Fiore?”

  Against his warm skin, she smiled. “I’m just admiring all that delicious male pulchritude.”

  “Pulchritude,” he said. “That’s a big word.”

  “It is. Do I get extra points for all those syllables?”

  “You get extra points, sweetheart, just for breathing. You hungry?”

  She tilted her head and looked up at him. “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, MacKenzie? Food and sex, sex and food. That’s all you ever think about.”

  “Hey, a man has to survive, and there are certain basic building blocks to survival. One is food, the other one’s sex. And maybe indoor plumbing, although the jury’s still out on that.”

  “If my vote counts for anything, I’m all for indoor plumbing.”

  “Of course you are.” He patted her fanny, let his hand rest there. “You’re a girl.”

  “And aren’t you glad I am?”

  “I remain ever grateful that you’re a girl. This whole relationship would be really awkward if you weren’t. So what do you say? I’m starving. We never ate dinner. Let’s heat it back up.”

  The kitchen clock read 2:37 a.m. It wasn’t as though it would be the first time; they had a tradition of late-night eating going back nearly two decades. “Why not?” she said, and stepped out of his arms. “You open a bottle of wine, and I’ll reheat the food.”

  “Babydoll,” he said, and leaned to kiss the tip of her nose, “you read my mind.”

  Rob

  He hated like hell to wake her.

  She looked so relaxed, so comfortable, sleeping face down with her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders and across the pillow, that he wished he could let her stay this way forever. Casey was typically an early riser, but they’d been up for half the night. After the wine and the reheated dinner, they’d managed to squeeze in a very satisfying round of canoodling.

  This morning, he’d let her sleep as late as he dared. He’d been up for two hours already, had gotten in an eight-mile run and a long, hot shower and h
ad sipped his first cup of coffee on the way into town to top off the Explorer’s gas tank. Under normal circumstances, he might have crawled back into bed and stayed there with her, their limbs intertwined in a random tangle of post-dawn wedded bliss. But their particular brand of normal was about to undergo a sea change, and he had no idea what the end result would look like.

  Atkinson, the attorney, was expecting them around noon, and it would take at least three and a half hours to get to Boston. Maybe longer, depending on traffic. So he crouched down beside the bed, coffee mug in hand, swept aside her dark cloud of hair, and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.

  “Mmph.”

  He recognized that sound, knew it well. Translated, it meant, Go away and leave me alone. Prepared for the challenge, he ran a finger down the center of her spine. She reached for a pillow and draped it over her head, and he used the final weapon in his arsenal, tilting the coffee mug so the aroma of fresh-ground Colombian beans wafted directly up her nose.

  That did the job. She flung the pillow aside and with obvious reluctance, opened her eyes.

  “Morning, gorgeous,” he said.

  She wet her lips and said in a groggy voice, “You fight dirty.”

  He grinned. “I know your weaknesses.”

  She sat up, wrapping the sheet around her modestly, as if he hadn’t already seen and explored in depth every inch of that hot little body. Prudishness was one of her quirks that he found alternately endearing and maddening. He leaned forward, gave her a lingering kiss, and handed her the mug of coffee. “Thank you,” she said, and took a sip. “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight. We really need to roll. You want to grab breakfast on the road, or should I just make toast?”

  “Toast is fine.” She took another sip and closed her eyes. “Once I get a shower and some caffeine, I’ll be human again. I promise.”

  “You’re dragging this morning. I guess I was too much for you last night. Must be a looove hangover.”

  She opened her eyes, studied him at length. “Don’t flatter yourself, MacKenzie.”

  He grinned. “Woman, do you have any idea how much irreparable damage you just did to my poor, battered ego?”

  “Tell your poor, battered ego to stop fishing for compliments. If I have any complaints, I’ll let you know.”

  “So I at least performed adequately on what may have been our last opportunity for the next decade to have hot jungle sex?”

  She reached out a hand and straightened his collar. “You got the job done, Flash. And it won’t be a decade. It’ll only be three years.”

  “Only three years without sex. I feel so much better.”

  Over the rim of her coffee mug, she gave him one of those heart-stopping smiles that always turned him inside out. “Hand me my robe, my incredibly oversexed man, and go make toast.”

  He picked up the ice-blue silk robe she’d hung neatly over the back of a chair. “Oversexed?” He handed it to her. “Hardly. No pun intended.”

  “Toast,” she said. “Vamoose! Give me ten minutes to shower and get dressed.”

  Most women, when they said ten minutes, meant an hour. But his wife was a low-maintenance woman, and when she said ten minutes, she meant ten minutes. Punctuality was another of her primary character traits. Twenty minutes later, beneath clear blue skies, they were on the road, both of them nursing coffee and private thoughts. He glanced over at her, took a sip of coffee, and said, “You’re quiet this morning.” He suspected the enormity of this had finally hit her.

  She turned to look at him, her opaque sunglasses hiding her eyes, making it impossible to gauge her mood. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Are you sure you’re really cool with this? It’s different for me. She’s my kid. I have a blood connection with her. But for you—”

  “Come on, Rob. Do you really think I’m that shallow?”

  Eyes on the road ahead, he said, “Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. But part of me feels like I’m forcing her on you, and you’re too polite to tell me to take a long walk off a short pier.”

  “I believe being polite with each other for the sake of politeness went out the door around 1975. Believe me when I say that if I had any objections, you’d know about them.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I also believe it’s crucial that we’re open and honest about this situation. Because if we’re not honest—with each other, with ourselves—that’s when things will start to go sour. And that’s the absolute last thing we want.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. I’m absolutely one hundred percent behind you in this. She’s your daughter, and we will take her into our home and raise her. I’ve never for an instant considered not taking her in.”

  “But?”

  “But. You pointed it out yourself. This will change things. Now that I’ve had more time to think it over, it makes me a little nervous. Fear of the unknown can do terrible things to your psyche. And—” She paused. “Even the act of admitting this makes me feel small and petty, and I hate it. But there’s a part of me that’s jealous.”

  “Jealous?” he said blankly. “Tell me you’re not afraid I’ll cast you aside in favor of my daughter. Because if you are, I can assure you that hell would freeze rock solid before that would happen.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You have this wonderful opportunity to get to know your daughter. To watch her grow up. To have a relationship with her.”

  “And?”

  She gazed out the passenger-side window, away from him. “And my daughter is buried up on that hill beside her father.”

  It struck him without warning, a hard, sharp pain, somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone. That beautiful little girl, who’d inherited the best of both her parents, had broken so many hearts when she died. Including his. “I’m a cretin,” he said, wishing there were some way he could apply his size-eleven foot to his own posterior, and kick hard and repeatedly. “I never even thought about Katie, or about how this might stir things up for you. You cannot know how sorry I am.”

  “You have your own daughter to think about right now. I wouldn’t expect you to be thinking about mine.”

  “But I should’ve been. It just didn’t occur to me.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it. This has nothing to do with you. This is me being petty and small and selfish. And that’s just a fraction of what I’m feeling right now. My emotions are springing around like a pinball out of control.”

  “Mine, too. And you are not petty, or small, or selfish. You’re a bereaved mother.”

  “I should be over it by now. It’s been five years.”

  He set down his coffee cup, reached out and took her hand, threaded fingers through hers. “It’s not the kind of thing you get over, babe. It gets easier, but it doesn’t go away.”

  “The only reason I survived it is because you were there.”

  Squeezing her hand, he said, “I know.”

  They were both silent for a while. Sometimes she went away, to a dark place where he couldn’t follow her. And it killed him that he couldn’t, but there was no changing it, no matter how much he loved her. She was a mother who’d lost her child, and nobody, except another parent who’d gone through the same thing, could ever understand.

  “But let’s not be maudlin,” she said. “Because another part of me feels as though I’ve been given a second chance at motherhood. I don’t expect to take the place of Paige’s mom. But the opportunity to give her the guidance and the love she’ll so badly need…I’m excited about that. I know we’ll hit rough patches, bumps in the road. Yes, I need to be a mother, and yes, I want your babies. But Paige is your baby. And I get to help you raise her to adulthood. I feel so honored.”

  She was a truly amazing woman, his wife. He brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too. So wh
at are you feeling about all of this? Now that you’ve had some time to think it over?”

  He dropped her hand, wiggled his shoulders around a little to ease some of the tension. “How do I feel? We can start with terrified, because I don’t know where to even begin to be a father. Pissed off at Sandy for keeping me in the dark for fifteen years. Resentful about having my life disrupted like this, just when you and I have finally found our way to being us. Excited to have a kid. I’ve wanted kids for so long, and I’m bringing her home with me, where I can be her dad. A little giddy, because from here on in, she’s ours, and you and I get to watch her grow up. Sad, because she’s lost her mother, and Sandy won’t have that same opportunity to see her grow up. Then I remember she deliberately denied me the opportunity to experience those first fifteen years, and I bounce right back to pissed off again.”

  She saluted him with her coffee cup. “That’s what I call honesty, my friend. I’m so glad to know I’m not the only one who’s bouncing all over the place.”

  “What if she hates me? What if she hates you? What if she’s more than we can handle? What if she needs psychiatric help to deal with the trauma of losing her mother? What if—hell, I don’t even know. All these what ifs are circling around in my head like vultures, and I’m the carcass they’re waiting to pick.”

  “Don’t borrow trouble. If she needs counseling, we’ll get her counseling. Your sister’s a social worker, she knows everybody. She’ll be a great resource if we need her. And as far as resources are concerned, we certainly don’t have to worry about money. We’re so lucky. Whatever Paige needs, we can afford to pay for, including a decent college education when the time comes. This will all work out. You’ll see.”

  Traffic on I-95 was heavy, and he popped in Mellencamp’s Lonesome Jubilee and focused on his driving. Music was an obsession for him. He craved it, needed it flowing through his days the way most people needed caffeine flowing through their veins. But when Casey was with him, unless he could find an oldies station, he never played the radio, for fear the deejay would spin a Danny Fiore record and she would freak. Silently, of course. His wife never said a word, but her body language was eloquent. Almost four years after his death, she still couldn’t handle hearing Danny sing.