“Oh God, Michael, how awful. It sounds like a nightmare.”
“It was. I was in a coma for a couple of days, and when I came to, she was already gone. I … I …” He almost couldn't say the words, but now he had to. He had to tell someone. He had never even told Ben. “I went back to her apartment when I got out of the hospital two weeks later, but it was already empty. Someone had just called Goodwill, and her paintings had … had been stolen by a couple of nurses from the hospital. She was an artist.” They sat in silence for a long time, and then he said the words again, as though to understand them better himself. “There was nothing left. Of me either, I guess.” When he looked up he saw tears running down Wendy's face.
“I'm so sorry, Michael.”
He nodded, and then for the first time in a year, he cried, too. The tears just slid slowly down his face as he took her into his arms.
Chapter 15
“Mike, what do you think of that woman running the Kansas City office of … ” She looked over at him, sprawled out on a deck chair in her garden. He wasn't listening. “Mike.” He was staring at the Sunday paper as they sat in their bathing suits, in the hot New York sun, but Wendy knew he wasn't paying attention to the paper either. “Mike.”
“Hm? What?”
“I was asking you about that woman in the Kansas City office.” But she had already lost him. She stared at him in irritation. “Do you want another Bloody Mary?”
“Huh? Yeah. I think I'll go to the office in a while.” He gazed past her at an invisible spot just beyond her left shoulder.
“Wonderful.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” He was watching her now, and he wasn't quite sure what he read in her face. If he'd tried a little harder, he would have understood instantly. But he never tried.
“Nothing.”
“Look, the medical center in San Francisco is going to have me working my ass off for the next two years. It's one of the biggest jobs in the country.”
“And if it weren't that it would be something else. You don't need an excuse. It's okay.”
“Then don't make it sound like I'm punching a time clock around here.” He shoved the paper away with his foot and glared at her as she started to steam.
“Time clock? You got here at twelve thirty last night. We were supposed to have dinner with the Thompsons, and you didn't even call me until nine forty-five, Michael. I should have gone out with them anyway.”
“Then why didn't you? You don't have to sit around waiting for me.”
“No, but I happen to be in love with you, so I do it anyway. But you don't even try to be considerate. What the hell is it with you? Are you afraid to be anywhere but at your desk, afraid someone will get their hooks into you? Are you afraid that maybe you'll fall in love with me, too? Would that be so awful?”
“Don't be ridiculous. You know what my work schedule is like. You should know better than anyone.”
“I do. Which is why I also know that half the hours you work aren't justified. You use your work as a place to hide, a way of life. You use it to avoid me. And yourself.” And Nancy. But she didn't say that.
“That's ridiculous.” He got up and strode around the narrow, well-tended garden, the flagstone walk warm under his feet It was September, but still hot in New York. After the first few happy weeks of their romance, he and Wendy had had an erratic summer. He had spent most of it working, but they managed one weekend away, on Long Island. “Besides, what the hell do you expect from me? I thought we cleared all that up in the beginning. I told you I didn't want to get—”
“You told me you didn't want to get too involved, that you were afraid to be hurt. You weren't sure you'd ever want to get married. You never told me you were afraid to be alive, for Chrissake, afraid to care at all, afraid to be a human being. Jesus, Michael, you spend more time with your dictaphone than you do with me. And you're probably nicer to it.”
“So?”
She felt a little shiver run up her spine as she watched his face. He really didn't care. She was crazy to stay with him. But there was something about him, a beauty, a strength, a wildness to him, a sorrow, that drew her like a magnet. And more than that, she sensed how great his pain was, his need. She wanted to reach out to him, to show him he was loved. But the bitch of it was, he didn't really give a damn. She wasn't Nancy. And they both knew it.
Wendy got up silently and walked into the living room so he wouldn't see the tears bright in her eyes. In the kitchen she poured herself a fresh Bloody Mary and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, trembling, wishing she could reach out to him and find him there. But she was beginning to think he would never be “there” for her. He wouldn't let himself be there for anyone.
She drained the drink with long steady gulps and set the empty glass down on the counter as she felt his hands float softly over her satiny bronzed skin. She spent every weekend in her garden, getting a suntan, alone. She said nothing as he stood there now, just behind her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she wanted him desperately, but she was tired of his knowing that, and of his being able to have her whenever he liked. Damn it, it was time she made it harder for him.
“I want you, Wendy.” Her whole body ached for him at the words, but she wouldn't let herself. She kept her back to him, hating the gentleness of his hands as they traveled smoothly down her back and over her buttocks and then around and up toward her breasts.
“As you said earlier, 'So?”
“You know I can't deal with that kind of pressure.” His voice was as soft and smooth as her skin.
“It's not pressure, Michael. It's love. The sad thing is you don't know the difference. Is that what it was like with her, too?” She felt the hands stop and the arms grow stiff. But she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to hurt him, too. “Were you afraid to love her, too? Is it easier now that she's dead? Now you don't have to love anyone, and you can spend the rest of your life hiding behind the tragedy of how much you miss her. It certainly takes care of things, doesn't it?” She turned slowly to face him now, and there was hatred brewing in his eyes.
“How can you say a thing like that? How dare you?” For a moment he reminded her of his mother, almost as hard, almost as cold. But not quite. No one could equal Marion. “How dare you twist the things I've told you.”
“I'm not twisting, I'm asking. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry. But I'm beginning to wonder if I am wrong.” She leaned against the counter, staring at him, and then he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Michael …”
But he said not a word, he only crushed his mouth down hard on hers, and at the same time tore away the top of her bikini, and then pulled hard at the bottom and it came away instantly in his hand. The little gold clasps at the sides had broken. But by the time Wendy reached the kitchen floor in his arms, she hated herself more than she hated him because she knew in her heart that she wanted to be there. At least he was alive, at least he was making love to her, whatever it took. But it took too much, and she knew it. It was costing a piece of her soul.
As they lay there panting and damp, ten minutes later, Wendy could hear the kitchen clock ticking in the silence. Michael said nothing. He only stared out at the garden, looking strangely sad.