The Witness: A Novel (52 page)

She embraced him and stepped back. She couldn’t look at Simon. He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face. “That’s a switch,” he commented. “You used to cry when you saw me coming.” His voice softened. “Ring me if you need me. Have a safe landing.”

Sinclair shook hands with each man. Hunt opened the door, and they were gone. “Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends,” she said. “Yeats.”

Colin put his arm around her. “Cup of tea?” he asked.

In spite of everything, she smiled. “Tea cures everything! It’s better than penicillin.”

He set the water to boil and took two cups from the cabinet. “I’m glad you have your trainers on,” he said. “When we finish our tea, I’ll change clothes, and we’ll go for a walk on the Heath.”

“What’s a heath?”

“A natural park. This one’s almost 800 acres.”

“Texas size!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he smiled, “but in Hampstead—north London.”

They walked down the stairs and left the block. They passed little shops on their way to the park and a bicycle with a small dog in its basket waiting for its owner to make his purchases and return. He took her past the ponds—“People swim in those?” she asked—and up the path to Parliament Hill. They sat on the grass, and he pointed out the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral. She leaned against him, listening to his voice and feeling the wind on her hair. Most of the poets she had studied had written of the winter wind, likening it to the cold hearts of men and the bleak power we have to hurt each other. This wind felt as warm as Colin’s hand on her arm, and it was sufficient to lift the Frisbees off course, causing the intended recipients to laugh and run after them. She wanted it to sweep her spirit clear of the cobwebs that had accumulated during her three seasons in the flat.

They took a different path out of the Heath, stopped in at a French bakery, and selected a variety of chocolate confections for dessert later. Then they entered Café Rouge, which she remembered from central London. She was glad to see that only his entrée was accompanied by French fries, miniature and very tasty but a potato product all the same. They enjoyed decaf coffee when their bottle of wine had been emptied. He did not hurry her back to the flat, stopping with her whenever she wanted to linger. They climbed the quaint streets slowly, hand in hand.

Inside the flat she felt the nervousness of a fourteen-year-old, not the calm and poise she thought she should have at age twenty-four. He sat beside her on the sofa and ran his fingers across her cheek, along her jaw line, and down her neck. When he kissed her, his pace was slow, and then he stopped altogether. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Jen,” he whispered, “but I’m not asking for a commitment now. I just want you to listen. I expect you’re a bit uneasy about men, but Jen—I believe we can wipe away whatever fear you have, one kiss at a time.”

“I wish I had your faith. I love being with you, but I just don’t know—”

He put a finger across her lips. “Sshh. I know it’s an adjustment, but I’m convinced that love can develop from trust. I know you trust me. I want you to trust yourself.” He leant toward her again. There was an assurance to everything he did which she wished she felt. Gradually her universe shrank to the sensations from his fingers on her lips, from his breath in her ear, and from his mouth on her mouth.

He stopped again to serve the dessert. Chocolate had never tasted so sweet, nor wine so smooth. She could see the twinkle in his blue eyes. She laughed aloud and curled her legs beneath her, responding in kind to his light conversation.

Finally he said, “I want you to feel safe with me. I’ll not pressure you in any way.” He gave her a quick kiss and took their dishes into the kitchen.

She showered and climbed into bed. A different bed. Different sheets. Everything about her life was going to be different now. No ghosts from the past. But it was too quiet. She missed the radio. It had been a security device, but over time it had signaled someone’s presence, as if the team were telling her that she was not alone. Was Colin asleep already? She slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the sitting room to his door. “Colin?”

She heard a rustle. “Yes?”

“Could I turn on the radio? Would it keep you awake?”

“Not at all. I’ll find a station with soft music. Just give me a moment.” He pulled on some trousers and came into the sitting room. She looked irresistible in her pyjamas and bare feet, but he would gain nothing in the long run if he pushed her now. One more goodnight kiss would have to do.

When she walked back into her room, she realized that it wasn’t completely dark. There was a nightlight plugged in by the bed. Thank you, Brian. She could hear the faint strains of the radio, and she pulled the flowered duvet over her and remembered Colin coming into the sitting room bare chested. After a long while, she slept.

W
hen Jenny woke, she was unsure for a moment where she was. Then her eyes fell on the chrysanthemums, the beautiful soft pink chrysanthemums Colin had left on her chest of drawers. She almost laughed aloud, wondering if he recognized the irony—mums when she no longer had to keep silent to be safe, mums when she could shout from the rooftops that she was free and going home. She pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and went to find him. He’d either been out while she was sleeping or had planned ahead: There was a chocolate croissant waiting for her. “You’ll need sustenance,” he told her. “We’re going to do some travelling today—on foot.” He poured her tea.

And travel they did—up one side of Hampstead High Street and Heath Street and down the other. They bought ham and cheese crepes and stood on the pavement eating them. He purchased strawberries from the market. At the bookstore he chose two Hampstead books for her, one composed of picture postcards and the other, a history of the area, detailing the struggle to preserve the Heath from commercial development. It was late afternoon before he guided her past the library and Keats House and back toward his flat.

After a brief respite and time to wash and change clothes, they walked to an Italian restaurant for dinner. It had a French-sounding name, but everything inside was Italian: the waiters, the menu, the wines. A romance language, a romantic meal, and a man across the table from her, romancing her, asking her questions about less turbulent times and teasing her when her cheeks warmed from the glass of vino rosso that he kept filled. Their waiter taught her an Italian proverb: “Buon vino fa buon sangue,” or “Good wine makes good cheer.” He was right.

“I wish we had more time,” she said after they returned to his flat. The warmth she felt now had nothing to do with alcohol—his touch had kindled it.

“That’s what I’m asking for. We’ve been under horrific pressure, artificial time constraints. It takes time for things to unfold as they’re meant to. Postpone your trip.”

“I’d like to see more of England than hospitals and courtrooms. But how can I not go home? I’ve missed them for so long.”

“Jenny, I’m in love with your optimism, your vitality, your humour. I want more of them.”

She wanted more kisses. Her chest rose and fell to his touch. His fingers explored the skin under her t-shirt. “I don’t want you to stop, but my scars are there. I don’t want you to see.”

He reached across her and turned out the lamp on the end table. The only illumination came from the kitchen behind them. When he kissed her neck and eased his hand over the cup of her bra, she began to feel shivery. Did he feel that way when she kissed him? She felt his fingers inside the cup. Why hadn’t she worn a blouse with buttons? With the t-shirt it was all or nothing—she was either covered or totally exposed. “I can’t—I want—I don’t know what to do.”

That meant stop. Damn. She had been responding. “My love is real, Jen. It’s not going to go away.” He moved his hand away but continued to kiss her, lightly, gently. He wanted to prolong the experience, to tempt her to stay, to make her remember his touch after she’d gone.

O
n Sunday they packed a picnic lunch, sandwiches, strawberries from the day before, and a bottle of wine. Eventually they found a relatively private spot to sit on the Heath and watched the motley world go by, laughing together at the snippets of conversation they heard and what they imagined a companion’s response might be.

They walked back with the empty picnic basket. He watched her open her suitcase and survey the space she had left in it. “You won’t be needing your winter things in Texas,” he remarked. “Or the books you’ve finished reading. Why don’t you leave them here? I’ll post them to you. It’s far more important that you take your flag.”

She felt a terrible ache in her chest when he handed it to her, the flag he had given her as encouragement when she had sent her father home without her. The flag that had been an integral part of her life, waking and sleeping. “You’ve been such a gentleman, Colin—no pressure, no anger. I’m sorry. I know I’ve let you down.”

He sat down beside her on the floor and took both her hands in his. “Jenny, physical love between a man and a woman is God’s creation. It’s too fantastical to have come about in any other way. I want you to experience it with me, but I want you to experience it because you love me and you want it as much as I do. You haven’t let me down, and you aren’t burning any bridges by visiting your family. Families are important. I respect your commitment to them.”

He had pizza delivered. After dinner he held her. His kisses were gentle. He rubbed her back and massaged her shoulders to ease the tension he felt there. “I’d like you to take something of mine home with you.” He went into his room and retrieved his Bible. “It’s a book of love and hope, Jenny. Think of it as a bridge between us, as proof positive that nothing has ended here, because I’ll want you to return it.”

“How is that possible? I live half a world away.”

“Love doesn’t know any boundaries, Jen. My feelings for you aren’t going to change. I’ll be ringing you while you’re in Texas.”

Her hands were full. His were empty. She had nothing to give him, this handsome, cordial man. She had lost consciousness—died, in a sense—in a little room with a monster. She had awakened to pain and to this man’s face and voice. Her injuries had healed, her pain had receded, but this man had not stepped aside. He had walked with her through the corridors of fear and the halls of justice. The thought of going home had been her guiding star for so long. Now she was going, and she thought her heart would break.

I
n the morning Colin drove Jenny to Heathrow. His final professional responsibility was to get her on the plane safely. At the corner of the jet way she turned to see if he were still there. He was, but he did not wave, and neither did she. One hand was on the handle of her rolling bag and the other swiping at her tears. She had not expected to cry leaving London.

She cried at the Houston airport, too, glad to be in her parents’ arms. Her brothers hung back until she teased them about being the only girl they were shy with—her mom had told her that BJ had a girlfriend and Matt spent all his money on weekend dates. She sat between them on the drive home, tired from the long flight and slow march through customs. She listened contentedly to the voices of her family and watched the landscape through the car windows, broader and brighter than she remembered it, and hoped it would be a metaphor for her future.

Seeing her room, however, was a shock. It was a little girl’s room, and she realized with dismay that she didn’t belong in it. She wasn’t sweet and innocent anymore. With a wave of panic she missed the witness protection flat, so used and worn it never looked really clean, its furniture a little battered from previous occupants. She swept the pink pillows from the bed, reversed the spread, and wished she could tear down the frilly curtains. She called Colin to let him know that she’d arrived safely and felt hollow inside when she hung up the phone.

Her dad grilled steaks for dinner, and her mom served potato salad she’d made earlier in the day. Jenny found it difficult to explain why she laughed at the potato salad, having to assure her mother that yes, she still liked it, and that no, she wouldn’t have preferred anything else. Angel food cake with fresh peaches was the dessert.

Before she went to bed, she opened her journal and started a new page with the heading,
Things That Are the Same. 1. Men are sleeping in the other rooms
. No, her brothers were boys, old enough to drive and date but not likely to be much help if a threat came. 2.
I’m safe
. No, the house has no alarm system. Her father would have to defend her mother, too—bad odds. Did he lock all the doors at night? Would she have any warning if someone tried to break in? Maybe they should get
a dog.

She looked at her list. Short, but it demonstrated how different everything was. Colin was not downstairs, a mere phone call away. He would not be calling by. She smiled at herself for adopting the British expression for coming over and began a new list:
Things I Wish For. 1. Colin’s touch
. Amazing—after the monster’s attack, she hadn’t thought she’d want any man to touch her, ever. 2.
A feeling of safety
. When bad things had happened, the guys had known what to do. Danny had saved her life at the hospital and Sergeant Casey at the courthouse, twice. Colin had, too, in a way, with his attentiveness and affection. 3.
A sense of belonging.
She imagined Colin saying, “I can grant that wish, Jenny.” Could he? 4.
An identity separate from the events of the past months.
Was that possible? 5.
A sense of purpose.
A new mission, Sergeant Casey—Simon—would say. Having a normal life would be good. “What does that mean, Jenny?” he would ask. He wouldn’t be satisfied when she confessed she didn’t know.

In the morning she discovered that there was no tea in the house, except the iced tea variety, so she asked her mother for a Coke.

“For breakfast?” her mother asked with surprise.