Paradise Found (19 page)

“I will not beg.”

“Who said anything about begging? Can't you just ask?”

Pain seared him, spilling into red-hot rage. He'd be damned if he'd ask her. She'd have to come to him and do the asking. A little begging might not be a bad idea either.

***

By the seventh day, Matt realized Sara was not going to contact him. He'd waited every day for her to call and make amends, his patience thinning by the second. But she hadn't and now he was in the middle of another sleepless night. All because of her.

What time was it? His fingers scanned the watch on his wrist. Four thirty in the morning. He and the early-morning hours were becoming good friends. In the last several days, he'd spent time with each of them, tossing and turning at two, cursing at three, pacing at four, and falling into an exhausted sleep by five.

How much longer was he going to put himself through this kind of hell? He needed closure, one way or the other. His writing wasn't worth shit right now, he barked at everybody, including Rosa, and he didn't even like himself.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled his cell out and pressed speed dial number one. Adam had gotten her number from Jeff and programmed it on his phone—just in case, was what he'd told Matt. The phone started ringing. It would be seven thirty in Pittsburgh. She'd probably be awake, maybe getting ready for work.

“Hello?” It was a man's voice, thick with sleep.

What the hell? “Is this Sara Hamilton's residence?” Maybe Adam had programmed the wrong number.

“Yeah,” the man said. “I think she's in the shower. Is there—”

Click.

Matt didn't wait to hear any more. He threw the phone across the room, letting out a satisfied grunt when it crashed against the wall. Now he knew how Sara spent her nights. Now he had his closure.

***

Sara wrapped a towel around her wet hair and padded barefoot into the living room. “Who was on the phone?”

Her brother rolled his big frame to one side of the burgundy-striped sofa and squinted a brown eye open. “Some guy,” he said, letting out a yawn.

Some guy? “He…didn't leave a name?”

“Nope.” He yawned again. “Asked for you, then hung up.”

Sara gnawed on her lower lip. Could it have been Matt, maybe calling to tell her he missed her, wanted her to come back? Of course not. That was only very wishful thinking, something she had to stop if she were to maintain her sanity. Matt Brandon was not going to call her or show up on her doorstep, no matter how many different ways she'd dreamed it.

She pulled the towel from her hair and started combing out the tangles. “Since you have to report back to base tomorrow, I thought we'd go out tonight. Japanese, maybe?”

“Sounds great,” he mumbled, his eyes closed.

“See you at six.”

“Hmm.”

Sara watched her brother drift off to sleep. Greg was a Marine, from the top of his half-inch crew cut to the soles of his laced boots. He was seven years older, a man committed to God, country, and family, who said what was on his mind. No pretense, no facade. No games.

She could never talk to him about Matt and the heartache of loving and losing that threatened to crush her. He wouldn't understand, because half the time, she didn't understand it. Part of her was desperate to contact Matt and crawl back into his arms, no matter how temporary. But the other part, the survivor, squelched the mere thought of it.

Either way, it didn't matter. Matt's silence told her what she needed to know. He didn't want her. Now or ever.

Seven months later

Matt pulled a tan and black sweater over his shirt and looked out of his hotel window. Pittsburgh in April was cold, dreary, and dark, with a chiller wind that sliced through a spring jacket faster than a ground ball to first base. A slow steady rain dripped from the sky, covering the ground like a damp blanket.

He turned from the window. Some things never changed. And others…well, others did.

Three more days and he could head home. He hadn't wanted to come here, had fought his publicist for weeks. But there was a lot riding on
Over the Edge—
a lot more than money. His publisher had pushed the book through, jumping every deadline, skipping over the shortcuts to get it on the streets. This was his first book since ‘the accident’ and readers would be looking for signs that Matt Brandon still had the touch. Pittsburgh was a good launching pad. Hometown boy and all that

So here he was, on the ninth floor of the hotel, with an hour to go before his book signing and all he could think about was her. She was here, in the city. So close. It had been seven months. When in hell was the wanting going to stop? When was he going to eat an orange or see a slice of lemon and not think about her?
When was he going to feel alive again?

His vision was perfect. Dr. Myers had been right on target. Three months after the exam, Matt could function as well as he had before the accident. With one exception. He no longer frequented the fashionable nightspots or trendy restaurants of his past life. Gone were the models and starlets. Funny thing was, he didn't miss them, didn't miss any of it. Not really. When Thanksgiving rolled around, instead of hopping a plane to Vegas or some other party spot, he'd stayed home and eaten Rosa's turkey with habanero stuffing and watched eight straight hours of football with Adam and Rex.

And not once did he think about her, not until that jerk-off commercial came on spouting the luxuries of a Caribbean cruise and zooming in on a huge buffet piled with crab claws, jumbo shrimp, filet mignon, lemons… Lemons! Why not strawberries? Or mangos? It was a Caribbean cruise for Christ's sake—it should be something exotic. Pineapple. Coconut. Kiwi. Why the hell did it have to be lemons? That was it, the rest of his night was spent in gloomy silence, staring at the television, cursing the jerk-off on the commercial with his too-happy voice and bleach-whitened smile.

Christmas was another bonanza of television, this one on DVD. Matt chose
The Godfather I, II, and III—
they could eat up a whole day and there weren't any commercials, no opportunity for some asshole to start gushing about love and romance. And no close-ups of lemons. But damn it to hell, if a barrel of oranges didn't come crashing down when Marlon Brando got blasted outside the neighborhood fruit stand. Fifteen, maybe twenty of those suckers rolling down the road as Brando staggered then hit the ground. Now he couldn't even watch
The Godfather
without thinking of her.

The week after Christmas, Amy and the boys flew in, and Matt's ten and twelve-year old nephews showed him how to celebrate New Year's Eve, pre-adolescent style. They'd blasted some god-awful music on the stereo, hurled streamers off the patio, tossed bunches of champagne-glass shaped confetti in the air, stuffed their faces with Doritos and guzzled Sparkling Grape Juice from plastic cups. It was a decided difference from the live band, filet mignon, and Dom Perignon at the Ritz.

When the boys finally fizzled out around twelve thirty, Matt and Amy settled themselves on the patio for a few minutes of quiet. “You were wonderful with the boys,” Amy said.

Matt lifted his cup and saluted his sister. “Thank God, they're finally asleep. I'm beat.”

“Children are so incredible. Exhausting and overwhelming, but absolutely incredible.”

He nodded, tipped back his head and swallowed the last of his Sparkling Grape Juice. God, but this stuff was sweet. No wonder kids got cavities.

“Ever consider having any of your own?”

He was still thinking about bicuspids and sugar. “Huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Children.”

The plastic cup cracked in his hand. “I know I'm a modern guy, but I'm still old-fashioned enough to believe there should be a husband and wife before there's a child.”

“I know that, silly.” She tilted her head to one side, waited. “Well?”

Matt tossed the scrunched-up cup on the table beside him. “Well, I'm not married, so it's not an issue.”

She sighed and narrowed her gaze on him. “You used to do this when we were kids. Whenever I'd ask you something you didn't want to answer, you'd played dumb, just like you're doing now.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Leave it alone, Amy. Just leave it alone.

“Right. And the Pope's Protestant.”

“Just because Nick isn't here, doesn't mean you have to nag me instead.”

“I do not nag my husband,” Amy said. “I prod him, ever so gently.”

“Nag.”

“Don't change the subject.” She leaned forward, braced her hands on her knees like she was getting ready for a really big secret. “What happened to all the super skinnies? Are they too hung up on their eating disorders to have a meaningful relationship?”

“I'm done with super skinnies.” She'd had curves, lots of them.

“Oh?” She leaned in closer. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I just don't find them particularly attractive.”

“But you used to.”

“Sort of.”

“Oh.” She eased back, folded her arms, crossed her right leg over her left and started kicking it back and forth. “That makes a lot of sense. You dated these toothpicks and only found them sort of attractive?”

“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean, I did…” He closed his eyes, ran both hands over his face. “Hell, I don't know what I mean.”

“Matt?”

He picked up the cracked cup, tossed it in the air, caught it. “What?”

“Are you involved with someone?”

“No.”
No. No!

“Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “
Were
you involved with someone?”

“It's over.”

“Oh.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “She wasn't one of your super skinnies either, was she?”

“No, she wasn't.”

That had been the end of the discussion, not that his sister wouldn't have loved to sit there until dawn, perched on the edge of her chair, dissecting every word, analyzing every movement, interpreting every silence. But he'd ended it there, walked away, and refused to let her bring it up again.

But Amy hadn't forgotten, not that woman. When he'd visited her, Nick, and the kids two days ago, she'd leaned in close and whispered that sister's intuition told her he was still mooning over
that
woman. Did he want to talk about it, maybe air out his feelings a little? Just a little? Matt had forced a smile and told her she had the most active imagination he'd ever seen and maybe she should have been the writer. And right now, he wished to hell she were the writer in the family instead of him. Then he wouldn't be standing in the middle of a hotel room, half hyperventilating because he had to do a book signing.

He wanted this to be over. Why was he so uptight? He'd done hundreds of book signings. No big deal. But never in the same city as the woman who had jilted him the night before he would have asked her to marry him.

She'd never show at his signing. And if she did? Hell, he didn't even know what she looked like. And that was more pathetic than anything.

There'd been an opportunity, once a few months ago. Adam had come into his study, carrying a large manila envelope.

Matt had ignored him, until he shoved the envelope under his nose.

“Rex gave me this.”

“What is it?” He'd picked up the envelope, turned it around.

“Pictures,” Adam had said. “Of you and Sara.”

Then he'd turned and left. Matt remembered sitting there, in his chair, touching the envelope, tracing the lines, so slowly, like a caress. Once, he'd almost opened it. He'd even lifted the metal fastener and reached inside, brushed his fingers over the glossy prints, felt them almost pulsing under his skin. Sara… Oh, God, Sara… Then he'd yanked his hand away and tossed the envelope in the garbage. He was a fool, a goddamn, pathetic, miserable fool. But that knowledge didn't stop him from wanting to see her face, look into her eyes, even if it was only a picture. He'd tortured himself, staring at the manila envelope sticking out of the garbage can, battling between need and self-preservation, desire and logic. One look and her image would be ingrained in his mind forever. Eyes, nose, lips, hair. What was wrong with him? She'd gone home to Pittsburgh, back to the sonofabitch who'd answered the phone. That's when he'd pulled out a match and burned the damn envelope.

But there hadn't been a night he hadn't wondered what she looked like. Hadn't thought about the envelope. Hadn't tortured himself with memories of her.

He glanced at his watch. It was time. He picked up the leather jacket on the bed and headed out the door.

***

Sara stood in front of the bookstore, staring at the huge glossy in the window. It was Matthew Brandon, larger than life, staring down at her with those piercing, silver eyes. He was in there, right now, just a few hundred feet away. So close.

Three weeks ago, she'd been flipping through the morning paper, when Matt's silver gaze had jumped out at her from the front of the Arts & Life section. ‘Hometown Boy Returns’ was the headline. She'd spent the rest of the day alternating between hysteria and depression. Time had not lessened the pain. The wounds were as deep and raw as they'd been seven months ago. The only consolation she had was knowing she'd done the right thing by leaving him before he dumped her. And he would have, she had no doubt. If he'd cared about her, really cared, he would have come after her, demanded answers, tried to work things out.

He’d done none of those things. She'd read in the paper that his vision had returned, though he'd not been spotted much in the social circuit. In fact, reports had it that he hadn't been spotted anywhere. A few magazines speculated as to the possibility that months of blindness had made him ‘see the light,’ while another headlined with ‘Matthew Brandon on the Enlightened Path.’ Every few months or so, Jeff dropped snippets of information about Matt's progress, referencing it as casual points of information.

Only once had Jeff asked her about her level of involvement with Matt. It was the morning after he got back from his two-week stay in California. Sara had just handed him his first cup of coffee, black, no sugar.

“It's good to have you back,” she'd said. “Jessie and I missed you.”

“Good to be back.” He'd taken a sip of coffee and said, “I don't think my stomach could have taken another week of Rosa's cooking.”

It was such an innocent statement, but the mention of Rosa linked Sara to other people in that house, people she'd been trying to forget. She'd forced a smile and nodded, saying nothing.

“She made this one meal, rice with pork and chunks of tomatoes…and lots of red pepper.”

“And habaneros piled on top?”

“That's the one. Rex called it Firestarter.”

She laughed, remembering how she'd guzzled a full glass of water after her first bite.

“Matt called it TNT.”

The laugh died in her throat.

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing.” She was getting used to walking around with her heart scabbed over, until somebody mentioned Matt’s name and ripped it open all over again.

“Sara?”

“I'm fine.”

Jeff set down his mug, rubbed his chin. “Funny, Matt says the same thing when I ask him why he looks like he's been shot in the gut every time I mention your name. Fine, fine, fine. That's all I get.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “What happened out there, Sara? What happened between you two?”

“Nothing.” She stared into her coffee mug.

“Come on, it's me you're talking to, remember?”

She shook her head. “It's too difficult to talk about.”

“I see.”

Sara met his gaze, blinked back tears. “Then you understand why I can't talk about it.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Let's just say that once again, I learned that one-sided involvements don't work.”

He must have gotten the message because he never asked again. And now he was too busy playing daddy to his little girl to contemplate something as depressing as a friend's broken heart.

The wind sliced through her gray sweat outfit, jarring her back to the present—to the bookstore where her ex-lover's face was plastered against the window. She'd spent the last three weeks planning this meeting, from the oversized thermal sweats, size XXL and plain blue ball cap pulled low over her eyes and hiding most of her hair, to the folded note in her pocket feigning laryngitis. She wanted to see him, just this once, get close enough to breathe in his scent. She could be in and out of there, mission accomplished in less than fifteen minutes with enough memories to fill her sleepless nights for a long time.

Sara started for the entrance, forcing herself through the double oak doors.
Keep moving. Just keep moving.
She followed a group of women around a display of books. Off to the right and in full view, sat the man everyone had come to see. Handsome, smiling, self-assured, Matt shook hands with a beautiful blonde and handed her his book.

Oh God, how I've missed you.

She took her place at the end of the line. There were about thirty people in front of her, mostly women, mostly beautiful, mostly blond. Sara looked down at her sneakers and felt safe. With all the designer bodies strutting around, he wouldn't give her a second look.

He was still as handsome as ever, his silver gaze intent, dark hair curling up around the collar, tanned skin giving him that healthy California look. But there was something different about him, something that had nothing to do with his renewed eyesight. She studied him. There were lines around his mouth, deep brackets carved into skin, much more severe than before. And his eyes…they were guarded or guarding, as though…as though someone had hurt him.