Right Next Door

Right Next Door Page 37

“I stood up and Jim stood with me, and I brought my son as close to my side as I could, looked the nurse in the eye and said, ‘She’s gone, isn’t she?’ The nurse nodded and Jim started to cry and I just stood there, dazed and numb. I don’t remember walking back to Gloria’s room, but somehow I found myself there. I lifted her into my arms and held her and told her how sorry I was that I’d been so stubborn and selfish, keeping her with me those three weeks, refusing to let her die. I told her how I would much rather have been with her, how I’d wanted to hold her hand as she stepped from one life into the next.”

By now Carol was weeping softly, unabashedly.

Alex’s fingers stroked her hair. “I didn’t mean for you to cry,” he whispered, and his regret seemed genuine. “You would have liked her.”

Carol had felt the same way from the first moment she’d seen Gloria’s photograph. Nodding, she hid her face in the strong curve of his neck.

“Carol,” he whispered, caressing her back, “look at me.”

She sniffled and shook her head, unwilling to let him witness the strength of her emotion. It was one thing to sit on his lap, and entirely another to look him in the eye after he’d shared such a deep and personal part of himself.

His lips grazed the line of her jaw.

“No,” she cried softly, her protest faint and nearly inaudible, “don’t touch me…not now.” He’d come through hell, suffered the torment of losing his wife, and he needed Carol. He was asking for her. But her comfort could only be second-best.

“Yes,” he countered, lifting her head so he could look at her. Against her will, against her better judgment, her gaze met his. His eyes were filled with such hunger that she all but gasped. Again and again, they roamed her face, no doubt taking in the moisture that glistened on her cheeks, the way her lips trembled and the staggering need she felt to comfort him. Even if that comfort was brief, temporary, a momentary solace.

“I’m sorry I upset you.” He wove his fingers into her hair and directed her lips to his. His mouth was warm and moist and gentle. No one had ever touched her with such tenderness and care. No kiss had ever affected her so deeply. No kiss had ever shown her such matchless beauty.

Tears rained down Carol’s face. Sliding her fingers through his hair, she held him close. He was solid and muscular and full of strength. His touch had filled the hollowness of her life and, she prayed, had helped to ease his own terrible loneliness.

“Carol,” he breathed, sounding both stunned and dismayed, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Everything.”

“I’m sorry…so sorry,” he said in a low voice.

Confused and uncertain, Carol turned to face him. “You are? Why?”

“For rushing you. For thinking of my own needs instead of yours.”

“No…” She shook her head, incapable of expressing what she felt.

“Are you going to be all right?”

She nodded, still too shaken to speak.

He placed his hands on the curve of her shoulder and kissed the crown of her head. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Reluctantly her eyes slid to his.

“For listening, for being here when I needed you.”

All she could manage in response was a tremulous smile.

For the rest of the evening, Alex was a perfect gentleman. He escorted her to the Home Show, where they spent several hours wandering from one display to another, discussing the ideas and products represented. They strolled hand in hand, laughing, talking, debating ideas. Carol was more talkative than usual; it helped disguise her uneasiness. She told him about her plan to dig up a portion of her back lawn and turn it into an herb garden. At least when she was talking, her nerve endings weren’t left uncovered and she didn’t have to deal with what had happened a few hours before…

After they’d toured the Home Show, Alex took her out to eat at a local Greek restaurant. By that time of the evening, Carol should have been famished, since they were having dinner so late. But whatever appetite she’d had was long gone.

When Alex dropped her off at the house, he kissed her good-night, but if he was expecting an invitation to come inside, he didn’t receive one.

Hours later, she lay staring at the ceiling, while shadows of the trees outside her window frolicked around the light fixture like dancing harem girls. Glaring at the clock radio, Carol punched her pillow several times and twisted around so she lay on her stomach, her arms cradling her head. She should be sleepy. Exhausted. Drained after a long, trying week. Her job took its toll in energy, and normally by Friday night, Carol collapsed the moment she got into bed, waking refreshed Saturday morning.

She would’ve liked to convince herself that Alex had nothing to do with this restless, trapped feeling. She tried to analyze what was bothering her so much. It wasn’t as though Alex had never kissed her before this evening. The impact he had on her senses shouldn’t come as any surprise. She’d known from the first night they’d met that Alex had the power to expose a kaleidoscope of emotions within her. With him, she felt exhilarated, excited, frightened, reborn.

Perhaps it was the shock of passion he’d brought to life when he’d kissed her. No, she mused, frowning, she’d yearned for him to do exactly that even before they’d arrived at his office.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried to force her body to relax. She longed to snap her fingers and drift magically into the warm escape of slumber. It was what she wanted, what she needed. Maybe in the morning, she’d be able to put everything into perspective.

Closing her eyes, however, proved to be a mistake. Instead of being engulfed by peace, she was confronted with the image of Alex’s tormented features as he told her about Gloria. I figured you’d understand better than most what it is to lose someone you desperately love.

Carol’s eyes flew open. Fresh tears pooled at the edges as her sobs took control. She’d loved Bruce. She’d hated Bruce.

Her life ended with his death and her life had begun again.

It was the end; it was the beginning.

There hadn’t been tears when he’d died—not at first but later. Plenty of tears, some of profound sadness, and others that spoke of regrets. But there was something more. A release. Bruce had died, and at the same moment, she and Peter had been set free from the prison of his sickness and his abuse.

The tears burned her face as she sobbed quietly, caught in the horror of those few short years of marriage.

Bruce shouldn’t have died. He was too young to have wasted his life. Knowing he’d been drunk and with another woman hadn’t helped her deal with the emotions surrounding his untimely death.

I figured you’d understand better than most what it is to lose someone you desperately love. Only Carol didn’t know. Bruce had destroyed the love she’d felt for him long before his death. He’d ravaged all trust and violated any vestiges of respect. She’d never known love the way Alex had, never shared such a deep and personal commitment with anyone—not the kind Alex had shared with Gloria, not the kind her mother had with her father.

And Carol felt guilty. Guilty. Perhaps if she’d been a better wife, a better mother, Bruce would have stopped drinking. If she’d been more desirable, more inventive in the kitchen, a perfect housekeeper. Instead she felt guilty. It might not be rational or reasonable but it was how she felt.

“Well?” Peter asked as he let himself in the front door the next morning. He dumped his sleeping bag on the kitchen floor, walked over to Carol and dutifully kissed her cheek.

“Well, what?” Carol said, helping herself to a second cup of coffee. She didn’t dare look in the mirror, suspecting there were dark smudges under her eyes. At most, she’d slept two hours all night.

“How did things go with Mr. Preston?”

Carol let the steam rising from her coffee mug revive her. “You never told me James’s mother had died.”

“I didn’t? She had leukemia.”

“So I heard,” Carol muttered. She wasn’t angry with her son, and Alex’s being a widower shouldn’t make a whole lot of difference, but for reasons she was only beginning to understand, it did.

“James said it took his dad a long time to get over his mother’s death.”

Carol felt her throat muscles tighten. He wasn’t over her, not really.

“James keeps a picture of her in his room. She was real pretty.”

Carol nodded, remembering the bright blue eyes smiling back at her from the framed photograph in Alex’s office. Gloria’s warmth and beauty were obvious.

“I thought we’d work in the backyard this morning,” Carol said, as a means of changing the subject.

“Aw, Mom,” Peter groaned. “You know I hate yard work.”

“But if we tackle everything now, it won’t overwhelm us next month.”

“Are you going to plant a bunch of silly flowers again? I don’t get it. Every year you spend a fortune on that stuff. If you added it all up, I bet you could buy a sports car with the money.”

“Buy who a sports car?” she challenged, arms akimbo.

“All right, all right.” Peter clearly didn’t want to argue. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

Peter’s attitude could use an overhaul, but Carol wasn’t in the best of moods herself. Working with the earth, thrusting her fingers deep into the rich soil, was basic to her nature and never more than now.

The sun was out when Carol, dressed in her oldest pair of jeans and a University of Oregon sweatshirt, knelt in front of her precious flower beds. She’d tied a red bandanna around her head, knotting it at the back.

Peter brought his portable CD player outside and plugged it into the electrical outlet on the patio. Next, he arranged an assortment of CDs in neat piles.

Carol glanced over her shoulder and groaned inwardly. She was about to be serenaded with music that came with words she found practically impossible to understand. Although maybe that was a blessing…

“Just a minute,” Peter yelled and started running toward the kitchen.

That was funny. Carol hadn’t even heard the phone ring. Ignoring her son, she knelt down, wiping her wrist under her nose. The heat was already making her perspire. Bending forward, she dug with the trowel, cultivating the soil and clearing away a winter’s accumulation of weeds.

“Morning.”

At the sound of Alex’s voice, Carol twisted around to confront him. “Alex,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why?”

He joined her, kneeling beside her on the lush, green grass. His eyes were as eager as if it had been weeks since he’d seen her instead of a few hours.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded again, digging more vigorously than necessary. She didn’t want to have this conversation. It was too soon. She hadn’t fully recovered from their last encounter and was already facing another one.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice harsh and husky at once, and tinged with a hint of anger as if the lack of control bothered him. “You were upset last night, and we both ignored it instead of talking about it the way we should have.”