Phoenix Falling (49 page)

In a movie, Rainey would have cut away after they left the labyrinth. In real life, high drama inevitably descended to the mundane. When they entered the house, she asked, "Shall I heat up the spareribs Alma left?"

"Please. I'll shower while they're warming." Scooping Honeybunny onto his shoulder, he headed for the bathroom. He looked drained and far from happy, but the brittle tension she'd felt seemed to have dissipated. Though the marriage might not survive, Kenzie would, and so would she.

Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, she enjoyed puttering in the kitchen. Besides heating the ribs, she made a salad and set the table with candles and the checked tablecloth. Since there was nothing elegant about spareribs, she opted for the effect of a cheerful bistro. Several leaves and blossoms in a narrow vase completed the look.

Over a lazy dinner, she told Kenzie about the accelerated schedule for postproduction on
The Centurion
. He knew a lot about production, and made several shrewd suggestions that would save precious time. If he was dismayed that the movie would receive a wider release than originally anticipated, he didn't show it.

As they cleaned up after the meal, she said hesitantly, "It's pretty cool now that the sun has gone down. If you built a fire in the living room, we could both work there."

"Might as well use that mountain of wood I've chopped," he agreed. "I'll bring some in."

She made coffee and carried it into the living room. Outside the wide window, a rim of color edged the craggy horizon. Not a single artificial light was visible. They were a long, long way from Los Angeles.

Inside, Kenzie had turned on the reading lamps placed by the leather recliners, and was adding wood to the first crackling flames in the fireplace. "I love the smell of burning wood," she remarked. "This is tangy. The scent of the Southwest."

"Jim Grady supplied several different woods for chopping. Cedar. Juniper. Mesquite. They tend to burn fast, but they're wonderfully aromatic." He sipped his coffee, the firelight flickering over his handsome features in a ridiculously theatrical way.

"Your face might not feel like your own," she said hesitantly. "But most of it is. Plastic surgery might have given you more striking cheekbones and the cleft in your chin, but it didn't alter the shape of your skull or the fall of your hair or the texture of your skin. The beautiful green eyes that got you into trouble with Nigel Stone are certainly yours. You inherited your height and shoulders. It took years of discipline and hard work to develop a body that's powerful and perfectly proportioned. You created Kenzie Scott, and you've done it well."

He stood and gazed into the circular mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. "If I'd chosen to have plastic surgery, it would be different. Having my face rearranged without my consent was... alienating. Every time I look in the mirror, I think of how helpless I was."

"It's hell to be a kid with no control over your life," she agreed. "That's probably true even with wise, loving parents. But you're not helpless now, Kenzie. You're in a position where you can work or not work, pick only projects you like, live where you want, when you want. No one has power over you."

"No one?" He glanced at her obliquely before intercepting Gray Guy, who was showing an unhealthy amount of interest in the fire. After drawing the metal mesh screen across the fireplace, he asked, "Do you have any lined yellow tablets? I might as well start on my journal."

They spent a quiet evening working on opposite sides of the fireplace. Rainey organized her production schedule while Kenzie wrote. Occasionally his blue felt-tipped pen raced across page after page.

More often there were long silences while he stared into the flames, or petted whichever kitten had settled, or rose to put wood on the fire. His profile was like granite and he never spoke... but he kept writing.

When she finished her planning, she reluctantly picked up another yellow tablet to start her own journal. Where did one begin?

She gnawed on the end of her pen. Chronological? Free association? Whatever issue bubbled to the surface? She set pen to paper, and found herself writing.

As a child in my mother's house, I always felt as if I was raising myself, despite the nannies and housekeepers and hangers-on. Like Clementine, they came and went, though at least Clementine always came back, eventually.

Lolly was my favorite nanny. She promised me a special fifth birthday party with clowns and balloons. A week before, she and Clementine had a big fight and Lolly was fired. I ran crying into her room as she packed. She was crying, too, but she didn't stop packing. She gave me a hug, told me to be a good girl, and left. No birthday party that year. Clementine flew off to sing at a big concert in Central Park. She brought me back a wonderful music box with a twirling ballerina on top, but on my actual birthday, she didn't even call.

Rainey stopped writing, paralyzed by a wave of desolation. For an instant, she was five years old again, weeping alone in her bed because no one cared that it was her birthday. She might have cried now if Kenzie hadn't been sprawled on the sofa, writing down experiences that had to be a hundred times worse than a forgotten birthday.

No wonder I felt I was raising myself. No one else could be relied on. I've never fully trusted anyone, have I? Well, maybe my friends like Val and Kate and Rachel and Laurel. Those are relationships of equals. But I didn't trust Clementine, or my grandparents, or Kenzie. Anyone who might be assumed to have some emotional responsibility for me.

She gnawed at the end of her pen, thinking, before she continued.

I didn't trust them because I was sure they couldn't be trusted. Trust makes you vulnerable, so don't trust.

Yet without vulnerability, there can be no true intimacy. Being untrusting didn't mean that I escaped being hurt, but it sure guaranteed that I'd never develop a really deep relationship. The classic example is the way I expected the marriage not to last. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

She smiled wryly.

Must work on this.

The fact that she could smile was a sign that Tom was right: The act of writing helped create a sense of distance and control. She was no longer a desolate five-year-old, but a grown woman looking back on her five-year-old self with compassion.

Despite Clementine 's failings as a mother and the anger I've felt toward her, I loved her desperately. Sometimes she was so very much there. Loving, playful, beautiful. So driven by her talents and demons.

Rest in peace, Mama. I know that you did your best. It's not surprising that you couldn't run my life well, when you couldn't even run your own.

Blinking back more tears, she stroked Honeybunny's tummy. Pets were definitely therapeutic.

She was on the verge of quitting for the night when Kenzie rose and crossed to the fireplace. Drawing the screen open, he knelt and began feeding pages to the flames, one at a time, his expression unreadable. Tearing the pages from her tablet, she joined him.

"Ritual magic," he said. "It seems to work, too."

"Thank you, Brother Tom." She laid her journal pages on the fire at a ratio of one of hers to three or four of Kenzie's so that they finished about the same time.

As the yellow sheets curled and blackened before exploding into flame, she felt a surprising lightness of being. She rose, suppressing a yawn, feeling that part of her life had been purified by fire.

Kenzie pulled the glass doors shut so the fire could burn out safely, then followed her down the hall. She turned to say good-night, one hand on the knob of her door, then paused, startled by his rigid posture as he watched her. As clearly as if the thoughts were her own, she sensed that he wanted to be with her, but wasn't sure he was ready for a greater level of intimacy.

The relaxed mood vanished. She wanted him so much it hurt, but she'd be a fool to ask too much, too soon.

Wordlessly she extended one hand.

A muscle in his jaw jumped as his gaze locked on her hand, but he didn't move to take it. Softly she said, "Only to sleep. Nothing more unless it's what you want." She smiled a little. "I'll even wear the most decent nightgown I own."

Movements jerky, he clasped her hand. His fingers were cold. "I can't promise that I won't freak out again."

"I understand." She lifted their joined hands and pressed them to her cheek. "Thank you for daring to try."

Side by side, they entered her bedroom to risk the night.

* * *

He awoke rested. A miracle. Or rather, the effect of having Rainey burrowed against him, her head on his arm and her bright hair a silky cascade. It was early, the sky not yet fully light and the air in the bedroom chilly, but under the quilt was all the warmth a man could ever ask.

Though she'd kept her promise and wore a cream-colored, lace-trimmed nightgown, the fabric didn't disguise her desirability. In fact, the gown made the curves of breasts and hip more tantalizing, riper than a few weeks earlier, when she'd been working herself to the bone in England. Now she was relaxed and sweetly provocative.

Arousal was instantly accompanied by stabbing images of sexual violation. He closed his eyes and held himself absolutely still, fighting to control his frantic reaction.

Rainey's hand skimmed down his body, familiar, deft, fully and delicately female. "Don't think anything else, Kenzie," she said quietly as his pulse accelerated. "Only us. Only now."

With absolute certainty, he recognized that reclaiming his sexuality would never get easier than this moment. The more he obsessed and worried, the more difficult physical intimacy would become. When her hand slid inside the shorts he'd worn to bed, he surrendered to passion, and learned that concentrating on the moment pushed the horrors of the past to the edges of his consciousness.

All his attention was on his wife. Her eyes, misty gray in the morning light before they drifted shut. The luscious softness of her skin as he pulled the nightgown over her head to reveal her dearly loved body. The beat of her blood under his lips as he kissed her throat, her breasts, the tender curve of her waist. Her rapturous sigh as he entered her, every muscle straining for control so he could make this joining as wondrous for her as it was for him.

When she cried out, he let himself dissolve into searing release. This was how lovemaking was meant to be. A passionate joining, a bond of trust, an annihilation of self beyond the shadows.
With my body, I thee worship...

* * *

It was full light when Rainey woke again. She wanted to laugh out loud, except that might wake Kenzie. Emotional healing was a patchwork process, but based on the way he'd made love, he was well on his way to unraveling the emotional knots that had kept him at a distance since they'd left England.

Her well-being diminished as her stomach began to churn. She fought the nausea, but it increased with violent speed.
Hell!
She slipped from the bed, praying Kenzie wouldn't wake, and darted into the bathroom. She barely made it in time. After vomiting into the toilet, she curled into a miserable ball, her cheek pressed against cold porcelain.

Kenzie was so quiet that she didn't know he was there until he wrapped a warm robe around her shivering body. His, apparently, since it was huge on her. "What's wrong, Rainey?"

Panicked, she pulled the voluminous fabric close. "A touch of food poisoning, I think. Or the spareribs were too spicy. I shouldn't have eaten so many." She tried to stand, then doubled over dizzily, retching again.

When there was nothing left to throw up, he put a glass of water in her hand. She rinsed her mouth and felt better, though not so good that she was ready to leave the bathroom yet.

Clad in jeans and nothing else, Kenzie sat on his heels, one arm around her shoulders. In a carefully neutral voice, he said, "This has all the elements of a cliché."

Her first instinct was to lie, but that would be a temporary reprieve at best, assuming he even believed her. "I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant," she said wearily.

As she expected, he went rigid. Near hysteria, she blurted out, "Don't worry, it isn't yours. I was having nooners with one of the crew guys in England, and it's his."

The arm around her shoulders was trembling. "You're a poor liar, Rainey. Even assuming you wanted to sleep with two men at the same time, you didn't have the time or the energy to be carrying on another affair."

She began to weep uncontrollably. "I'm so damned sorry, Kenzie! It was an accident. I was so crazy busy that I missed a pill." She'd thought missing a pill was no big deal, until she'd researched the subject as her suspicions of pregnancy grew. It turned out that the directions for her low-dosage pills warned that a single missed day meant using another form of protection for the next seven days."

And she hadn't. "I never would have gotten pregnant deliberately, but don't worry, you needn't have anything to do with this baby. I'll deny that you're the father and raise it myself."

He swore under his breath, but kept his arm around her. "Do you think I'll abandon my child like my father abandoned me? Or your father abandoned you? I... I don't know anything about being a parent, but if you think I'll walk away because you're pregnant, your common sense has been scrambled by hormones."