Daniel's Gift (49 page)

His words hit her like bullets, each one hurting more than the last, and her only defense was to hit back.

"Don't blame it all on me, Sam. I wasn't the only one who wanted out, just the one who had the guts to ask."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell I don't," she said sharply. "When I found that box of clippings and photographs of Tessa, I felt like I'd just stumbled upon you in bed with another woman."

"I was never unfaithful to you."

"Maybe not in body, but in mind you certainly were. How do you think it feels to know the man who is touching you is thinking about someone else?" Her voice shook with the depth of her pain. She could still see herself sneaking into Sam's office to surprise him with an intimate anniversary dinner, only to find a box of Tessa's photos hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk. She'd been looking for the corkscrew he kept there so she could open the wine she'd brought to celebrate nine years together. What a fool she'd been.

"It was never like that," Sam said.

"It was always like that. And it wasn't just the box of photos. It's been so much more, and you know it. I wanted more children, Sam, and you refused over and over again. Because having another child with me, making a deliberate choice to add to the family, would mean you were planning to stay with me. But you couldn't make that commitment, could you? You couldn't cross that line, because you weren't planning to stay forever. Well, I just cut the time short."

Before Sam could reply, Megan returned to the room.

"Look, Mommy, I made you a candleholder out of a wine bottle, see?" Megan held up the paper-mache-covered bottle with a proud smile. "Daddy helped me. Can we light a candle for dinner?"

"I guess."

"No," Sam said abruptly. "We don't need a candle."

Megan's smile vanished. "Why not, Daddy?"

"Candles are for special occasions, honey," he said more gently as he headed for the door. "I'll get some drinks."

* * *

Sam walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall, stopping to catch his breath, to steady his pulse. Candles are for special occasions. What a stupid thing to say. But the thought of a candlelight dinner with Alli ... No, he couldn't do it.

Alli put his stomach in a knot every time she walked through the door, every time she opened her mouth. She'd destroyed his life not once but twice, for when he'd finally come to terms with being a father and a husband—after he'd struggled so hard to make it all work, she'd bailed on him.

A twinge of guilt poked at his conscience. Okay, so maybe he'd kept up with Tessa's life, stored a few photographs. They were harmless pictures. Half the world owned magazines with Tessa's face on the cover. And how could he tell Alli that her grandmother had given him most of the clippings? It would only destroy their relationship, because she'd think her grandmother was favoring her sister.

And what did it all matter anyway? He'd married Alli as soon as he'd found out she was pregnant. He'd been twenty years old, Alli only eighteen. But they'd had to grow up overnight. He'd thrown aside all of his plans of traveling and seeing the world and gone to work for his father, eventually taking over the business and working his ass off to provide for his family.

Damn it all. He felt as unsettled as the weather outside. He didn't know whether to be furious or relieved it was all over. He didn't know why he couldn't look at Alli anymore, why her voice made him so nervous, why he was so afraid that the merest touch of her hands would be the death of him. They'd lived together for a long time, but he'd never been as aware of her as he was right now.

Alli walked out of the family room and bumped into him, not expecting to find him still standing there. He automatically reached out to steady her, his hands coming to rest on her waist, his fingers burning as the warmth of her body seeped through the thin material of her dress.

She sucked in a short breath, and his pulse quickened. He didn't want to look into her eyes. It was bad enough that he could smell her favorite perfume—that he could feel her body under his hands, that he could hear her breathing.

He couldn't look into her eyes. He couldn't take that risk. He didn't know what he would see there.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know. She'd confused him since the day she'd moved in next door as a bossy little girl, changing personalities as often as a chameleon changed color. Just when he thought he knew who she was, she turned into someone else.

"Sam?" she questioned, her voice turning husky.

It almost undid him. He'd loved her voice in the dark of the night, whispering, promising ... He drew in a breath and dropped his hands from her waist. "I'll get those drinks."

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Look at me."

He sent her a brief glance that barely grazed her face, then turned away. "I'm thirsty."

"Sam—" The ringing phone cut off her words, and Sam felt a great relief. He brushed past her, returning to the family room to find Megan on the phone.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Beckett," Megan said. "Yes, he's here."

Sam took the phone from her hand. "William? How are you?"

"Not too good, Sam." William's usually brisk seventy-six-year-old voice trembled. "It's Phoebe. I don't know how to tell you this, but she's—she's had a stroke."

"No!" Sam couldn't stop the word from bursting out of his mouth. He sat down on the edge of the desk, grateful for the support. Not Phoebe. Alli's grandmother was strong, vital and energetic, and he couldn't imagine the world without her. "How bad is she?"

"I don't know yet. We were walking along the pier and all of a sudden she stopped making sense and she couldn't walk. I got help as soon as I could," he said helplessly. "We're at the hospital now. They said to call the family. I couldn't find Allison. She's not home."

"She's here."

"Then you'll tell her?"

"Yes. I'll tell her." Sam looked at Alli standing in the doorway and saw the fear draw sharp lines in her face.

"And Sam ..." William hesitated. "I know there's bad blood and all, but I've called Tessa and asked her to come home. She agreed. She'll be here tomorrow."

Sam's entire body tightened, a knee-jerk reaction impossible to stop. He hadn't seen Tessa since the night he'd told her he was marrying her sister. And now she was coming home.

Because Phoebe was sick, he told himself. It had nothing to do with him.

"Sam?" Alli asked after he'd said good-bye to William and hung up the phone. She'd wrapped her arms around her waist, as if she could protect herself from whatever was coming.

"Your grandmother has had a stroke. She's in the hospital."

Alli's eyes searched his. "Is she—"

"No one knows anything yet," he said quickly.

"I don't understand. Grams never gets sick. She's strong. I just spoke to her a few hours ago. I have to go. I have to see her." Alli looked wildly around the room, searching for something. Sam reached out and closed her fingers over the keys she still held in her hand.

"Easy," he said. "I'll take you."

She looked into his eyes with desperation. "She has to be all right. She has to be."

"She's a fighter, All."

"But she's seventy-six years old."

"Mommy, is Grams going to die?" Megan asked.

Alli turned and opened her arms as Megan ran into a tight hug. "I hope not, honey. I really hope not."

They clung together for a long minute, and Sam itched to join them, but he couldn't. Alli had made it clear that she didn't want him in her life.

Finally, Alli set Megan aside. "Go get your things, honey. We need to leave."

Megan ran out of the room, and Alli slowly straightened. Sam dug his hands into his pockets to stop himself from doing anything foolish, like hugging her.

"I can't lose Grams," Alli whispered, her eyes filled with fear. "She's all I have left of my family."

Sam didn't say a word. It wasn't true, because Alli wasn't alone. She had a sister—a sister who was coming home. He couldn't stop the sudden quickening of his pulse.

Alli's eyes suddenly changed, and he wondered if she could read his mind.

"Oh, my God! William called Tessa, didn't he?" she asked.

Apparently she could read his mind, or she'd simply added up the equation. Despite the animosity between the two sisters, Phoebe MacGuire adored both of her granddaughters.

"Yes, he called Tessa." It felt strange to say her name out loud. And stranger still to think of seeing Tessa again, her blond hair, her blue eyes, her generous smile. Not that she'd be smiling at him.

"Is she coming back?" Alli asked, her face so tense she could barely get out the words.

"Yes."

"Then those divorce papers can't come a minute too soon."

Sam touched her arm, but she shrugged him away.

"Don't touch me, Sam. You don't have to pretend you care about me anymore. We both know it isn't true."

"I married you, didn't I?"

"There it is again, your favorite refrain—you married me. That was your gift to me. And I'm divorcing you. That's my gift to you. Now I guess it's Tessa's turn."

BUY JUST THE WAY YOU ARE

BONUS MATERIAL
: Check out this excerpt from Barbara's award-winning book,
RYAN'S RETURN

Copyright 2011 by Barbara Freethy

All Rights Reserved

His bed was on the sidewalk!

Ryan Hunter slammed the door of the cab, tossed a twenty-dollar bill at the driver, and ran across the busy Los Angeles intersection, dodging cars and honking horns. As he reached the sidewalk, two men emerged from his three-story apartment building with a bookcase.

"What the hell is going on here?" Ryan dropped his overnight bag on the ground, taking more care with his saxophone case and camera bag.

The moving men set the bookcase down on the sidewalk. The younger man, who wore white coveralls with the name Craig embroidered on the pocket, grinned. "Oh, hi, Mr. Hunter. Your lady's moving out. Third one in a row, isn't that right?"

"Yeah? Who's counting?" Ryan grumbled.

The older man, Walt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. "I do believe you're our best account, Mr. Hunter. Shall we put this on your tab?"

Walt and Craig laughed in unison as they picked up the bookcase and set it in the truck.

Ryan surveyed the furniture strewn around the sidewalk and the steps leading up to his apartment building with a weary sigh. He had spent the past thirty-six hours on three different planes, traveling through three different time zones. All he wanted to do was sleep— in his own bed. Only his own bed was now in a moving van.

The men loaded the easy chair next, the one perfect for stretching out with a beer. Behind the chair was the big-screen television.

"Not the TV." Ryan groaned. He gave it a loving pat as the men walked by him.

Craig laughed. "You don't have much left up there, Mr. Hunter, just that old sofa with the springs sticking out, a couple of crates, and a fan. Maybe instead of getting a new woman, you should buy yourself some furniture."

"Thanks for the tip, Mack."

"The name is Craig, and you're welcome."

Ryan stalked up the steps. He met Melanie on the landing just inside the front door. She wore her usual aerobics gear, a pair of hot pink Lycra shorts, a midriff tank top, and tennis shoes. Her blond hair bounced around her head in a ponytail. She was the perfect southern California woman, tan and fit—great body, great in bed, and great furniture. Sometimes life sucked.

Melanie stopped abruptly, her bright pink lips curving downward in dismay.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I thought I'd be gone before you got home."

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I'm moving out, Ryan."

"That's obvious. Without saying good-bye, without offering a word of explanation?"

"Ryan, honey, you've been gone seven weeks."

"I was working."

"You're always working."

"Did you see my photographs from Israel?"

"Yes, they were on the cover of
Time
. Very impressive. Excuse me, but I have to go."

"Melanie, wait."

She shook her head. "Ryan, we've been living together for three months, and you've only spent ten nights in that apartment with me."

"It has to be more than that," Ryan said, truly surprised by the number.

"It's not. I should know. I had plenty of time to count." Melanie sighed wistfully. "You're a great guy when you're around, but you don't love me."

"I don't?"

"Seven weeks, Ryan." She poked her fingertip into his chest. "No phone calls, no letter, not even a postcard."

Melanie was right. She was a nice woman and fun to be with, but he didn't love her. He didn't love anyone. It was not an emotion that he wanted in his life. Love was too complicated, too messy.