The Passion Play (17 page)

Thinking of which, she should not linger like this in his arms. Her remaining work awaited. She levered herself up and away from her and he let her go, his hands giving her a final stroke as they helped her upright. She scooped up her blouse and thrust her arms into it.

"You don't have to dress again for me. I like it when you're naked."

"I've noticed. But it's too cold in here."

"So turn up the thermostat. I foresee more nudity in your future."

"Not this second. You've distracted me enough."

"Yes, Ma'am.
I'll just watch some TV, then."

"Uh, okay." She hated the background noise of television, especially the canned laughter that would dominate the airwaves at this time, but she could close her study door. She brought him the remote control. It had not been touched since Dan left.

"Thanks," he said, took it, inspected it and pressed a button. The chatter of strangers chased her out of the room.

When she finished her notes in her client database she checked the current mortgage rates, then the performance of the shares she was tracking. Then she shut down the computer with a sigh, rubbed the back of her neck as was habitual, and found it unusually soft, the muscles relaxed.

Well. The wonders of a foot massage and a lot of sex. Not to mention home-cooked meals she had not needed to prepare. She got up and opened the study door, intending to go down the hallway to him, but the television noises stopped her. Pressing her lips tight together she changed direction and went into her craft room.

Here everything was orderly and precise, each tiny tool in place, the fabric and threads and paper and card and every other lovely thing sorted by
color and pleasantly arranged. She stroked an idle hand over the front of her newest purchase, cloth in a print of citrus fruits on a white background, out on display to let her think how to use it. Best to put that away too, for now, since nothing had come to mind.

It was comforting to refold it precisely square, then open her filing cabinet and compare it to the
lengths of fabric already within, draped over suspension file hangers. Similar overall color to these, lighter than this one, darker than that. Here was the perfect place. She put another suspension file in the spot and hung the fabric over it, smoothed it down lovingly and shut the drawer. Then she sat in her desk chair, laid her hands flat on the desk and looked around her for inspiration. What should she make?

But immediately her gaze fell on the shelf of scrapbooks just above her head. That was why she had chosen that spot for them: the eyes went there first.

Gorgeous scrapbooked albums full of photographs meticulously embellished, spanning more than a decade of her life. A life with Dan. He was not in every image, of course. Plenty were of her with friends, in her cooking classes, receiving awards for her work at financial aggregator conferences, with her parents, her brother, at his wedding or with his and Caroline's three sons.

But Dan was a presence throughout. She only needed to look at the album spines to see the images scroll past her mind's eye. So many of them careful poses for a camera someone else held, while she
strove to look happy and relaxed in a supposedly candid scene. She had set up most of those shots to take home and put in these albums. They told a lie of a contented life together. It was hard to even look at the albums. She could not face them.

She stood abruptly and strode from the room, down the hall
and into the room where Luke lounged on the sofa. "Do you have to have that on so loud? I can't even think in here."

He looked up in surprise,
then reached for the remote. "Sorry."

"It's an open-plan space. When you have that on it dominates everything."

"Yeah, you're right."

"You have work tomorrow, don't you?"

"Sure do."

"I suppose you better get a good night of sleep, then."

His smile died, his face went blank. "I should." When he got up the throw slid off him to the floor, leaving him completely naked. She looked away. After a moment he picked up his clothes and started to put them on. "You want me to go?"

"It's probably a good idea. You'll sleep better at your own place."

"Something happen you want to talk about?"

"No. Thanks."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine." He stepped forward and lifted a hand as if to cup her cheek. She saw it coming and turned away as if she had not seen, went to the fridge and took out a jug of filtered water, poured herself a glass, drank a sip and put it down with a clunk on the granite counter. She gave him a bland stare.

He pressed his lips together, picked up the remote and switched off the muted television, tossed the throw onto the sofa and walked towards the door with a slow, deliberate stride.

She stayed where she was.

She heard the front door open, and he called out "See you later." It was not a question. He went out and closed the door quietly behind him. The snap of the latch was loud in the silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

H
e did not come back for three days. She missed him.

Stupid, but there it was. The house was very big, very empty when she was alone. The bed was empty too. It was not fair for a man to make a woman accustomed to his company, to a feast of great sex, and then simply leave. Not appropriate
behavior at all.

It was not like she really needed him. She had only had him in her bed for – she had to count it up on her fingers to be sure, because it seemed like longer – four nights, one of which he had missed because he was preparing for his Sunday game. Hardly enough time to form a habit, even.

The silky sassafras out of her bedroom window was a reproach, crowded about by its uncaring brethren. On Thursday she phoned a tree company who promptly sent a man to remove the redcedars, leaving nothing but forlorn twigs and mounds of dirt where the stumps had been ground down. There. Problem solved.

She bought a glossy guidebook for France, and another for Italy. She had studied French at school. It was a natural place to start.

She discovered she could no longer imagine finding a man with whom she could conceive a child naturally. The thought had become distasteful. What had made the difference? Was it several days of imagining her child might have light brown hair, hazel eyes and be good at sports? Surely not.

If she could not face physical intimacy with a stranger
– despite her efforts to loosen up and be less conservative – it would have to be a sperm donor. She spent time on the internet reading about the experiences of different people with sperm donation and IVF, thought about ordering more books on the subject, but could not summon the enthusiasm to pursue it right now.

So much for his passion for her.
It could hardly be so strong if just being snappy at him made him give up on her. Though he had said he would be back. Where was he? She considered calling him, but did not. This should not matter to her. His absence should cause barely a ripple of concern. Perhaps he had given up. Perhaps - once back in the midst of his ordinary routine - she was forgotten. Boring, conventional Felicity.

But he had really liked her. Had he not? Surely her instincts could not be so wrong.

Why did he not come back, so she could say she was sorry . . .

On Friday late afternoon when she heard the knock she almost ran for the front door, hoping it was him, dreading it was not.

It was him. She pulled the door open with slightly too much haste and raised anxious eyes to his, waited to see what he would say. He looked serious for once, tall and a little intimidating when his face was still like that, almost stern.

"Luke."

"Afternoon. Thought I'd swing by early, in case you have plans for the evening."

"Nothing planned, no."

"No work meetings?"

"I've already finished for the day."

"No dancing?"

"Like I said, I'm done with that. Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, Ma'am." But he stood still until she pulled the door wide in clear invitation, and the smile he gave her then did not quite reach his eyes.

Oh, she did not like this solemn version of Luke at all. As he went past her she impulsively put her hand on his forearm. He halted at the slight touch.

"Luke, I'm sorry I made you unwelcome the other night. I was cranky, but not at you. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"I'm sure you had your reasons," he said slowly. "But I don't think it was respectful. You want some space, just tell me so. I don't mean to be a pest. But don't drive me out like you think I am one. Just ask."

"It's hard to ask."

"It's hard to ask if you're used to people telling you
you can't have what you want because it might inconvenience them. I get that. But I'm not a fan of passive aggressive. You got a right to defend your boundaries. I'm not saying otherwise. But you don't need no kind of aggression with me. I'm not your enemy. We're friends. You tell me what you want and if I can I'll give it to you."

She felt ashamed, and turned away. "Okay.
Fine. I was just about to eat some fruit. Would you like me to chop some for you?"

"I would. Yes please."

He followed her through to the big open-plan living and kitchen area, and she was acutely conscious of his presence just behind her, of the wall between them that had not existed until she created it on Tuesday night. She wanted to touch him, more than a little brush on the arm, just to reassure herself everything was all right. But she was not bold enough just yet. "Have you had a good day?"

"Busy. Full on.
Quiet night in sounds appealing. How about you?"

"It's been a long week. I'm glad to be at the end of it."

"Anything nice planned for the weekend?" he asked politely.

"I'm going out for dinner with friends on Saturday night, to a restaurant down town."

"Anyone I know?"

"No one from the team, no.
Some old school friends."

"Ah."

It was so stilted, so different from his usual banter. When she turned away from the fruit bowl, towards the kitchen island, she saw he had taken a seat on the sofa and though he was watching her, he had a book in his hands. She did not recognize it. "What are you reading?"

"I got a book on local tree species. There's plenty of stuff on the internet but I wanted more depth and I like to write notes in the margins. I plan best on paper."

"Is that for my garden?" He nodded. So, even while he had been gone he had thought about her, planned to come back, as he had said. "Make a note of what it cost and I'll pay you back."

"I will not."

She looked up, met his very level gaze, and raised her eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"B
eg
your
pardon, but I don't expect you to pay for my education."

"But if you're tinkering with my garden-"

"If you are kind enough to lend me your garden to amuse myself in, I'll repay you by adding some value to it. And that doesn't mean shrubs and trees dying off in it because I didn't know exactly what they needed in your soil." He lifted the book to indicate he would find the information he sought in there. "And while we're at it, I'll stock your garage with the tools you need to get it set up and take proper care of it. Call that payment in kind."

"It doesn't sound equitable to me." He just looked at her, and she returned him stare for stare, then hitched one shoulder up in a slight shrug. "Maybe I'm defending my boundaries."

Immediately his expression lightened, and he grinned at her. "Nice. Okay then. You can buy me a pair of secateurs to say thanks. The best damned pair of secateurs I've ever had. I'll keep them at home and use them if I ever plant a windowbox in the condo. And you're going to come and sit outside while I work, too. Don't forget."

"So you mean I have to clear my schedule for Tuesday?"

"Yes."

"What if I've already booked an appointment?"

"Shift it to another day."

"That's not professional-"

"You wanted equitable." He grinned at her. "These are my terms."

She was relieved to see the expression, put one hand on her hip and challenged him. "I thought I was supposed to say what I want and you'll give it to me. What happened to that?"

"Of course. But everything's a compromise. You want me to do nothing for you. I want to get my hands on your garden. You think you have to pay me back for that. I concede so you'll feel comfortable, and then you want to barter. You got to hold firm somewhere."

"Do I?"

"Sure do. A man respects a woman who can hold firm."

"I think your logic is very dodgy. And are you saying you don't respect me?"

"Are you trying to pick a fight?"

That silenced her. She considered it. "Maybe," she said cautiously.

"I've got a better idea. Let's go let off some steam, and you chop up that fruit later." He came around the corner of the bench, the light of purpose in his eyes, and she backed away hastily.

"Don't pick me up!" she said, half laughing, her hands up in front of her.

"Then run!"

And she ran, shrieking and laughing, to the bedroom, with him close behind. 

It was Tuesday morning, only an hour past dawn. She stood inside the house and watched him. He was mesmerizing. Completely physically controlled and competent, using his body with a grace that invited admiration.

He worked hard, too, fully committed to the task of improving this
large square of earth with its overabundance of trees. When he saw the small cleared area around the sassafras he had nodded approvingly, but said there was more to do. A number of the crowding conifers were marked for execution and there were other spaces to be filled.

She was ashamed to think she had doubted his abilities, now she knew of his college degree in landscaping. Why had he not told her about it straight away? Perhaps he was so relaxed about his own worth he did not rush to establish credibility as others d
id. It made a difference to her that he was qualified. She could trust him.

Not that he had made all the decisions.
 

"I've drawn a few sketches. Come and look, and tell me what you think," he had said, spreading sheets of paper out on the dining table to replace the dinner dishes she had just cleared away.

She came and stood next to him, not quite touching, and examined the pencil sketches of the garden, drawn from above. It was a collection of gentle, sweeping curves, large and small, a suggestion of potential beauty.

"See, if I
thin this clump here and leave this shape behind it can cup a flower bed, with some shrubs to either side so you get a graduation of heights. That same shape can be echoed over here in this area. This space would be great for a swing set or even a whole playground if you want. Then you can see it from the house, and watch the kids while they play. You could have a fort here and a playhouse over here. You don't have to build any of that right now, but I can leave the space free for you to use when you're ready. Now, I heard you don't care for the barbecue area either way, but it's a popular thing to add to a garden and would raise the property value, if that matters to you."

"I suppose I should keep that in mind," she said, noncommittal. She had heard the word 'kids', the plural of it. It made her heart beat hard to think what he might be imagining when he said that. She had not even committed to one child with him, and already he was thinking multiples.
Don't let me break your heart, Luke. I'm not ready for so much.
Like the jaws of a genial trap closing around her, he eased her one step at a time. Could he not see how dangerous this was for him, for them both? She needed time to get past Dan, to reclaim herself, before she could step into a new life. Everyone knew that was how it worked. That was just the way things had to be. Did he not know the rules?

"Being a financial adviser and all."

She had lost the thread of the conversation. "Yes," she said blankly.

"Then you have the dining area here, with paving from there to the house. If you have it the same or very similar to the flagstones just inside the door you get that real sense of flow between the two. It welcomes you outside. Then the
arbor over the dining area and-"

"What's this?" She tapped an area near the back corner of the garden where curves became cubes filled with tufted shapes.

"A vegetable garden."

"Like I said, I don't think the upkeep is worth it."

"Upkeep is dictated by how it's put together. If I build raised garden beds and they're filled with commercial compost it will be weed free. Then all that's left to do is sow seeds or plant seedlings, water and cut. I can install irrigation and put it on a timer-”

"What about pest control?
I don't like sprays-"

"Then we put up a frame like this and drape netting over the top to keep the bugs off."

"Won't that be ugly?"

"With this bank of trees and shrubs over here it'll be hidden from the house, and also from the outside dining area."

"This is a huge plan. A lot of changes. Surely it'll take months to do all this all by yourself."

"Probably," he said cheerfully. He returned her look with calm aplomb. Unspoken between them was her reluctance to commit.

She sighed and gave in without a fight. She could not bear to chase him away yet again, trying to put distance between them, to manage this thing they had, and minimize it. And that was the problem. She was leeched on to him, even when she did not want to be, longing for comfort and company, for a companion to fill the emptiness. It was so unwholesome. She should face the solitude and come to terms with it so she could heal properly. Not latch on to him like this, no matter how he encouraged her to. Rebound relationships never worked out.

Yet she could not let him go. Not this instant.
Soon.