My Man Pendleton (39 page)

"Dammit," he repeated. Then he punctuated the sentiment by kicking the baseboard. Hard.

The sound of Maury's mad yipping at the kitchen door stirred Pendleton enough to make him find his way back downstairs to let the puppy inside. And on his way through the dining room, his gaze inadvertently fell to the table, where the scattered mail from the day before still lay unopened. Except for one piece that
was
open, he noted. The invitation to Sherry's wedding.

Oh, man.

Pendleton gave his forehead a good, mental smack, then, because he deserved it, he opened his hand and gave his forehead a good, physical smack, as well. Only two days ago, Kit had accused him of still being in love with his ex-wife. And only two days ago, he hadn't been able to contradict her. But now, two days—and two nights—later, he knew better.

He wasn't in love with Sherry.

It was that simple. And in many ways, he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever really loved her at all.

Cared for Sherry? Yes, much as he cared for all the friends he'd made in childhood. Lusted after Sherry? Oh, most definitely. He absolutely lusted after her. Much as he lusted after Michelle Pfeiffer, Anais Nin, and Miss January 1979.

But the thing about all those women was
…
they weren't Kit. And what he felt for Kit—the caring, the affection, the lust—went
waaaaay
beyond the tepid reactions he'd had to other women. Too, Kit commanded
more
from him than other women had.

Admiration, for one thing. Respect, for another. And fear. And worry. Exasperation. Confusion.

And, of course, love.

His gaze fell once again to the wedding invitation that had been addressed to R. Pendleton and guest. He smiled as he picked it up and read the words engraved so elegantly upon the creamy card. Then, without one whit of emotion, he tore the card in two, casting one half to the left, the other to the right.

Gee, that had been easy. Would that all things in life were dealt with as effortlessly. Of course, Pendleton was in love now. That meant ease and effortlessness went right out the window.

The first thing on his agenda, he knew, was finding the woman who had kidnapped his heart and was holding it for ransom. He'd pay whatever price Kit demanded, as long as he got her back. Safe and sound, and in one piece. Oh, and in love with him, too, something he was fairly certain wasn't going to be a problem at all. No one could have made love the way he and Kit had without being utterly, irrevocably in love. So the only problem he could see for the short term was that he had absolutely no idea where to look for her.

Only one thing to do now, he thought. Wait for a postcard. And just hope like hell that one came soon.

* * *

Kit stood outside the surprisingly inoffensive offices of the Louisville Temperance League, realizing that she had expected a temperance group to house themselves in something a little more dramatic. Say a bleak, impenetrable castle, sitting atop a craggy, impassable mountain, beneath angry skies rent open by the wrath of God.

But when she reached the office of Faith Ivory, all she saw was your basic working woman's environment. Wall-to-wall beige carpeting, icky eggshell paint, old, fat Venetian blinds on the windows, a handful of framed degrees and awards on the walls. And behind a scarred, battered desk, one slight, impassive woman in a simple, gray flannel suit. A woman who looked very, very tired and very, very unhappy.

Goodness, but Kit was glad she had come.

"What can I do for you, Miss McClellan?" Faith Ivory asked, clearly uncomfortable with her unannounced visitor. "You'll excuse me if I say that it's something of a surprise to see you here."

"I don't know why that would be surprising," Kit said mildly as she brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from her brown tweed trousers and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her cream-colored shirt. "I'm a social person by nature. And I thought it was about time you and I got to know each other a little better. We didn't have much of a chance to chat that night at Cherrywood." She punctuated the observation with a bland smile.

Faith responded with an equally tepid smile of her own. "Yes, well, although that's certainly true, I didn't expect to see any of the McClellans again, since I told Holt—"

"Now, now," Kit interrupted her, still smiling benignly. "Don't be coy with me. Holt may fall for that kind of thing—he's unbelievably soft-hearted, the big sap—but you're talking to a seasoned professional now, li'l sugar dumplin'. You say you don't want to see Holt again—or any of the rest of us, for that matter—but I ain't buyin' it. So let's chat."

Faith Ivory's expression probably would have been the same if Kit had just hit her in the face with, well, a li'l sugar dumplin'. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on," Kit cajoled. "I'd know that wounded martyr role anywhere. I perfected it myself a
looooong
time ago. You're wasting your time playing it with me."

Two bright spots of red colored Faith's cheeks. This was going to be
sooooo
easy. "In the first place, Miss McClellan—"

"Please. Call me Kit," she interrupted. "And I'll call you Faith. Since we're going to be speaking so frankly, I think we might as well put ourselves on a first name basis, 'kay?"

Faith inhaled deeply, held the breath for what Kit could only assume was a count of ten, and then began to speak again. Her voice was low, calm, and monotonous, a clear indication that she was starting to get really, really steamed. Perfect.

"Miss McClellan—"

"Kit."

"Whatever," the other woman bit off crisply. "I have no idea what you're talking about, nor do I think I want to know. Perhaps it would just be best if you left right now."

Kit pretended to think about her suggestion, then shook her head. "Nah. Not until we've cleared the air about something."

Faith didn't even blink as she asked, "And that would be?"

Kit leaned forward in her chair, cupped her hands daintily over her knees, smiled sweetly and said, "About how much it pisses me off when someone hurts somebody I care about."

For one long moment, Faith only gazed at Kit as if she'd lost her mind. Then her expression softened just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her gaze to the hands she folded stiffly on her desk. "Miss McClellan—"

"Kit."

"Kit," Faith conceded. She glanced back up and said, more evenly this time, "I appreciate your motives, but whatever happened between your brother and me is really none of your business."

Kit eyed her thoughtfully for a moment in return before requesting, "Just tell me one thing."

Faith dipped her head forward in consideration. "All fight. If I can."

"Do you like my brother?"

Faith hesitated before responding. At first, Kit thought she was going to try to lie about it, but surprisingly, the other woman nodded once, almost imperceptibly and said,
"Yes.
I like him very much."

"Then why do you refuse to see him?"

This time Faith hesitated not at all. "You couldn't begin to understand the reasons that I can't see your brother again."

"Try me."

Faith shook her head adamantly. "Unless you've lived with an alcoholic yourself you can't possibly imagine—"

"I have lived with an alcoholic," Kit interrupted again. "Holt started drinking when he was still in high school, and it went on until just a couple of years ago. I saw the way he acted, heard the things he said. I understand completely what living with an alcoholic is like. It's hell."

Faith shook her head. "You didn't fall in love with one. You weren't married to one. You didn't go one-on-one with him. You weren't in a situation where you had no one but yourself to rely on, no one but yourself to find comfort in. You had your family there to help you cope."

This time Kit was the one to answer crisply. "You obviously don't know my family." When Faith arched her eyebrows in surprise at the statement, Kit chuckled, but there wasn't an ounce of good humor in the sound. "I told you you're not the only one who can play the wounded martyr."

"You don't know what went on in my marriage," Faith pointed out, her voice softer now. "You can't know what it was like. Stephen was…"
She inhaled a shaky breath, but didn't elaborate. Instead, she said, "There was a time in my life when I was a strong woman. I thought I could handle Stephen. I thought I could help him. I thought I could change him." She met Kit's gaze levelly. "I was wrong. And I paid for that
…
I paid for that with my soul. He took it away from me, piece by piece, a little more every day, until there was just nothing of me left."

Kit didn't flinch. "I wouldn't say there's nothing left. You seem pretty hardy to me."

Faith smiled sadly. "That's because you don't know me. You don't know what I was like before."

"I know enough to see that you're a woman who's trying to come to terms with what happened to her. Who's trying to put her life back together again. You haven't just given up on everything."

"Haven't I?"

Kit shook her head. "No. You haven't. If you'd given up, you wouldn't be working here now, trying to change something you see as wrong. You're fighting, Faith. Can't you see that? That's what this organization does. It fights. And you're a part of that."

The look in Faith's eyes became positively bleak, so dark, so cold, that Kit found herself wanting to physically reach out to her. "But there was a time in my life when I was so much more. When I—"

"That time is gone," Kit interjected. "Whatever went on in your marriage, it affected you. It changed you. Accept that and know that's over now. Now it's time to put that behind you and start new. To do that, you
have
to take chances. You
have
to have trust." She smiled. "You have to have faith, Faith."

When Faith said nothing to counter her assertion, Kit continued hopefully, "Look, Holt doesn't make excuses for what he was when he was drinking. He knows what he did to his family, to his wife, to everyone he came into contact with. But he's done his best to make amends. He got help, stopped drinking. He takes chances, has trust, has faith, every single day of his life. That's how he's getting through life. And sober, he's a good man. He deserves a chance to prove that to someone he cares very much about."

"I don't dispute the fact that he's a good man," Faith said. But before Kit could pounce on her concession, she added quickly, adamantly,
"When he's sober.
That's the point. I don't know what he's like when he's drunk. And I don't want to find out."

"You won't ever see that side of him," Kit vowed. "He's not that man anymore, and he never will be again."

"Can you guarantee that he'll never take another drink again, for the rest of his life?"

"Yes," Kit assured her. "I can."

Faith didn't look convinced. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

"No, I won't forgive you."

The other woman gaped at her. "Pardon me?"

"I said I won't forgive you," Kit repeated. "You could have someone in your life right now who genuinely cares for you, who could potentially
love
you, if you'd allow him to. Don't you understand how important, how rare, that is? To be loved? Genuinely, truly loved?"

Faith shook her head. "No. I don't know how important that is. It's never happened to me."

Kit nodded, fully understanding. "But it
could
happen to you, don't you see? The possibility is there for you, if you'll just open yourself up to it and let it happen. Not everyone has that opportunity, to be loved for the simple fact of who they are. But you do. And right now you're just throwing it away without even giving it a chance."

Faith studied Kit for a long time in silence before she finally looked away. "Giving it a chance," she said quietly, "could cost me everything I've gained since Stephen's death. It's not much, but it's all I have to hold on to right now."

"Not giving it a chance could cost you even more. Faith," she added softly, sincerely, "whatever you're holding on to now, it's got to be exhausting doing it by yourself. You don't have to do it alone anymore. I don't know what to say to make you understand how very precious that is—to have someone there to help you. Someone there to cling to. To love. To love you back. Forever."

Kit realized then that she wasn't just talking about Faith's situation with Holt anymore. The advice she found it so easy to offer someone else, the solution that seemed so clear to her, was suddenly far more personal, and therefore far more impossible.

"Look," she said, standing, "maybe you're right. Maybe this is none of my business. I didn't mean to intrude. I apologize. I just know that my brother cares for you very much. And I wanted to try to talk you into giving him a chance. Into giving yourself a chance. So that both of you might find happiness."

"Your brother has already tried to talk me into giving him a chance," Faith said. "What makes you think that anything you say will change my mind?"

"I don't know," Kit replied honestly. "Maybe because I've been where you are. I know how it feels to have someone you cared for, someone you trusted, turn on you. But I know my brother, too. Holt may have his faults, even in sobriety, but betrayal isn't one of them. You can trust him. Truly you can."