Читать книгу From This Day Forward - Irene Hannon - Страница 8

Wiping his hands on a damp rag, Sam reached for the can of soda balanced on the rungs of the ladder. As he took a long swallow, he gave the finished bedroom a satisfied survey. In the four days since Cara had agreed to come, he’d transformed the bland, beige room into an oasis. The walls were the exact shade of aquamarine his wife favored, and he’d given the dark woodwork three coats of semigloss white enamel to brighten up the space. Once he moved in the furniture, the bedroom would be a welcoming haven.

And he wanted his wife to feel welcome…even if he couldn’t say the words.

A headache began to throb in his temples, and he moved to the window to raise the sash higher, hoping to lessen the smell of paint fumes. As he took in a deep breath of fresh air scented with new-mown grass, he recalled a conversation he’d had with Cara on their second date, after she’d teased him about his quietness.

“I was a home-schooled only child,” he’d explained as they strolled to his car after attending a concert. He’d been tempted to take her hand, but fear that she’d reject his overture had held him back. Instead, he’d stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was a very solitary upbringing. Mom was great at teaching me math and English and science, but I never had much opportunity to learn social skills.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she’d responded, her deep green eyes sparking with mischief as she tucked her hand through his arm with a natural ease he could only envy. “You may not be the smoothest talker I’ve ever met, but you managed to get me to go out with you.”

“That was pure luck. Just like our meeting. If you hadn’t given me a megawatt smile when you came over to our table that night at the request of my date, I don’t think I would have had the guts to ask you out.”

“It took a lot more dinners before you did. How many nights in a row did you eat at the restaurant? Six?”

“Ten. And I have the credit card bill to prove it.”

“I’m sure your date rues the day she sent her compliments to the kitchen and insisted on meeting the chef.” Cara had grinned at him.

“It was just a blind date, anyway.”

“Are you serious?”

He’d felt her curious gaze and responded with a diffident shrug, hoping the lights from the shops they were passing weren’t strong enough to illuminate his face. “Yes. A well-meaning coworker was determined to beef up my lackluster social life.”

“You don’t date much?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?” He’d been at a total loss about how to interpret her response. And in truth he hadn’t been sure he wanted to. But her next words had reassured him.

“It means I’m honored you asked me out. I like you, Sam Martin. And as for the communication thing, we can work on that together, don’t you think?”

He’d agreed, Sam recalled, as he downed the last of his soda and tapped the lid of the paint can back into place. He’d have agreed to almost anything Cara asked in those days, when the heady euphoria of new love had warmed his heart and added a dazzling brightness to his days.

But with thirteen years hindsight, he knew he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. When things had gotten tough, he’d reverted to old habits and shut down, destroying the marriage that had been the best thing in his life.

Gathering up the drop cloth and painting supplies, Sam gave the empty room one more swift scan. Soon it would be occupied by the woman he loved. Soon she would eat in his kitchen, walk through his garden, watch his television. Soon she would be back in his life.

And he intended to do everything in his power to convince her that that was where she belonged.

For always.

Flicking a glance in the rearview mirror, Cara edged into the exit lane on I-44 at Cuba, Missouri. So far, the drive had gone without a hitch. Not that she was surprised, given the brief but precise directions Sam had e-mailed her shortly after their phone conversation seven days ago. He had always been a stickler for accuracy, an attribute that had served him well as a surgeon, Cara reflected. His spare communication style, on the other hand, hadn’t mattered a great deal in his medical specialty, given the limited interaction surgeons had with patients. But it wasn’t good for establishing—or maintaining—relationships.

Recognizing that, Sam had made a concerted effort to be more communicative in the early days of their marriage, sharing both the events of his day and his feelings with her, even though that had been difficult for him. But later, as they’d grown apart, he’d gone back to his old ways, withdrawing into himself and sharing little of his life…and less of his emotions.

Once, Cara had believed she held the key to unlock his heart, that she could help him release the deeper feelings she knew were trapped inside. She’d tapped into them often enough to nourish her soul, to remind her that this often silent, solitary man loved her with an intensity that could take her breath away. Had their lives followed a different path, she felt sure they could have laid the groundwork for a solid marriage that would have endured.

But long before that foundation was established, life had intervened. Careers, commitments and demands had left neither of them with enough spare time or energy for the task. In the months preceding Sam’s tragedy, they’d become less like loving spouses and more like strangers who lived under the same roof.

Fighting back a wave of melancholy, Cara forced herself to focus on the rural Missouri landscape around her on this mid-June Sunday. Rolling hills, green fields and forested knolls created a restful ambience that was a world removed from the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia—and from the stresses of her trip, which had been magnified a hundredfold by her unsettled emotions.

Oak Hill, and its quiet Main Street, offered yet another contrast to big-city life. A mere two blocks long, it reminded her of a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with soda fountain, feed store, single-screen movie theater and a homespun-looking café called Gus’s.

She slowed as she approached the cross street at the end of the compact business district. Glancing to the left, she noted an elementary school, church, city hall and a few businesses tucked among residential properties. Swiveling her head the other way, she spotted a police station, newspaper office, more houses, a tiny library—and Sam’s office.

This was it. He’d told her to turn here, pass his office, continue for another quarter mile, then make a left onto his street.

A sudden, familiar anxiety swept over her as she swung the wheel to the right, escalating with a rapidity that always frightened her. Since the robbery, she’d had these panic attacks far too often. In most cases, they struck for no reason. Today, however, she could pinpoint the cause: coming face-to-face with the man who had stolen her heart—and broken it.

Yet identifying the source of her alarm did nothing to stop her hands from shaking or to dispel the dizziness that swept over her. Gripping the wheel, she eased back on the gas pedal, willing herself to focus on the road as she traversed the short distance to Sam’s street.

When she made the final turn and the house he’d described came into view, however, the shaking became so severe that she was forced to pull to the side of the road or risk losing control. She sensed danger here as surely as she’d sensed it that night at the restaurant parking lot, when a prickle at the base of her spine had alerted her to trouble—seconds too late.

Well, it wasn’t too late now. She could still turn around. Go back to Philly.

But that would put her no closer to a solution to her problem than she’d been before, she acknowledged. Short of seeking professional counseling, this was the only option that seemed to offer even a remote chance of jump-starting her recovery. If things didn’t work out, she could always try therapy. But she’d disappoint both herself and Liz if she didn’t give this a chance.

As she struggled to get her breathing under control, Cara studied the modest bungalow that Sam now called home. In contrast to the condo they’d shared in the fashionable Society Hill area of Philadelphia, the house was simple and unpretentious. Constructed of redbrick and stone, with a generous front porch, it looked to date from the forties or fifties. Stately oak trees in the large yard sheltered the dwelling, and a climbing rosebush covered with profuse pink blossoms cascaded over a white lattice arbor on the side.

It looked homey, Cara reflected. The kind of place that would welcome you back after a long day. And it looked safe, just as Sam had promised. More than anything, that appealed to Cara. If she could feel secure here, maybe this would be the answer to her prayers after all.

Putting her trust in the Lord, Cara shifted the car back into gear and moved forward.

Not until the car started to roll again did Sam exhale.

He’d been standing at the edge of the large picture window in his living room for the past fifteen minutes, watching for Cara. Her plane had landed on schedule—he’d checked. He’d calculated the approximate time it would take her to claim luggage and pick up her rental car. He knew the precise duration of the drive from the airport to Oak Hill. She was right on schedule.

When the unfamiliar car had stopped at the end of his street, however, he’d panicked. Assuming it was Cara, he’d been prepared to bolt from the house and run after her if she got cold feet and turned around.

Much to his relief, that hadn’t happened.

Yet.

But it still could, he conceded. And if it did, he’d deal with it. In the meantime, he had other problems to worry about, the most pressing one being the worst case of nerves he’d had since the night he’d proposed.

Sam knew this was his last chance to repair the damage he’d inflicted on their marriage. He also knew he had to be prudent and careful in his approach. If Cara discovered his hidden agenda, she’d disappear as quickly as the deer he sometimes startled on the rural roads he often traversed. The operative words were patience, consideration and—most important of all, he reminded himself—communication. His weakness. He’d never been very good at expressing his feelings, but he was even willing to ask the Almighty for help in overcoming that impediment if that’s what it took to win back his wife.

The car slowed to a stop in front of his house, and he watched as Cara opened the door and exited, as eager for his first glimpse of her as a sea-weary sailor is for the sight of land.

She stood beside the car for a few seconds, giving Sam a chance to savor her shoulder-length, springy red curls. Burnished by the late-afternoon sun, the color was as glorious and full of life as he remembered. Then she reached for her handbag, slung it over her shoulder and moved around the front of the car.

When she started up the curving stone walkway toward his front door, Sam shifted back a bit into the shadows and continued to scrutinize her. Black slacks hugged her trim hips, and her soft, black-and-white-striped knit top hinted at her curves. A smile whispered at the corners of his mouth as he recalled the way he used to tease her about being a slender chef, suggesting that a slim figure wasn’t a good advertisement for her culinary skills. She’d always countered by saying that it demonstrated her remarkable discipline, yet never failed to lament that she could afford to lose a few pounds.

Well, she couldn’t afford to anymore, he realized, his smile fading as the setting sun backlit her, emphasizing her too-willowy five-foot-six silhouette. She’d lost more than a few pounds since he’d last seen her. Too many, in fact. And as she drew closer, he saw other indications of the toll the stress had taken on her. Her face, though a bit pale, was as beautiful as always, the smooth forehead, pert nose, soft, full lips, and strong, determined chin just as he remembered. And her startling green eyes were still fringed by those amazing long lashes. But the shadows beneath them, along with the tense line of her jaw and her taut lips, provided clear evidence of the lingering effects of her recent trauma.

Thanks to Oak Hill’s sheriff, Dale Lewis, Sam now had a better handle on the incident that had triggered Cara’s visit. After years on the police force in L.A., Dale had law enforcement contacts all over the country—including Philly. At Sam’s request, he’d been able to get a police report on the incident and recap it for Sam.

According to the investigating officer’s write-up, Cara and her coworker, Tony, had been the last to leave the restaurant that night. As they crossed the parking lot, a masked gunman had accosted them, demanding their money. While Cara had handed over her purse at once, Tony had balked. As a result, the perpetrator had grabbed Cara, put the gun to her head and told Tony to toss his wallet on the ground or she’d be history. Tony had complied, but as the robber pushed Cara aside and reached for the wallet, Tony had lunged at him. The man had shot Tony, then run off.

A passerby heard the gunfire and called the police, but by the time they arrived Tony was dead. No suspects had yet been arrested. Cara had been questioned but could remember few details of the shooting, and the assailant’s mask prevented her from making an ID. However, with her purse in hand, he could identify her.

Dale’s summary had left Sam with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the gunman had been high, or desperate for a fix, or worried about witnesses despite his mask, he could have shot Cara, too. Killed her. The very possibility caused Sam’s blood to run cold. And strengthened his resolve to do whatever it took to let her know how much he cherished her, and how sorry he was for the mess he’d made of things.

As Cara stepped up to the door, Sam rubbed his hands down his jeans. Even before the highest-stake surgeries, he’d never gotten sweaty palms. He’d been sure of his ability to save lives. But he wasn’t anywhere near as confident in his relationship skills as he was wielding a scalpel. Especially when his future was on the line.

Moving to the door, Sam took a steadying breath and pulled it wide, forcing his stiff lips to curve into the semblance of a smile. “Hello, Cara. Welcome.”

Her finger poised to ring the bell, Cara froze.

When the silence lengthened, Sam spoke again. “I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Come in.” He stepped aside.

“I left my things in the car, and I didn’t lock it.” She cast an uncertain look over her shoulder.

“They’ll be fine. You’re not in Philly anymore. I’ll get them in a few minutes.” Though she appeared unconvinced, she stepped over the threshold. “Did you have any problem finding your way?”

“No. You were always good at giving directions.”

But not other things. Sam almost voiced that thought, then restrained the impulse. It was too soon to get so personal. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No. I’d prefer to get settled in and unpack.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long day.” He’d worried how she would cope with the stresses of the trip, but aside from her slight pallor, she seemed okay. “Let me show you around, then I’ll get your things.”

He gave her a quick tour of the house—the sunny kitchen with attached breakfast room that overlooked a private backyard; the back porch, inviting but bare; an empty dining room; an underfurnished living room featuring a lone couch in front of the fireplace with a table, lamp and straight chair beside it; his uncluttered office. He identified a closed door as his bedroom when they passed, but didn’t pause until they reached the last room at the end of the hall. Stepping aside, he ushered her in. “I hope this will be okay.”

Based on the sparse furnishings in the rest of the house, Cara wasn’t expecting much. Certainly nothing like the exquisite room waiting for her when she stepped over the threshold.

The walls were washed in her favorite shade of aquamarine, the smell of fresh paint still in the air. A queen-size brass bed sported an ivory dust ruffle and a comforter in a Monet-like print in shades of blue, green and lavender. A matching valance hung over the large window. There was an overstuffed chair, a reading lamp, a small TV and an antique walnut dresser with a large oval mirror above it. A cut-crystal vase of old-fashioned pink roses graced the nightstand, their fragrance wafting through the room.

“There’s a private bath, too.” Sam followed her in and swung open a door to reveal a spacious, modern bath replete with granite countertops and fluffy towels.

Stunned, Cara could only gape at the lovely suite she knew he’d prepared just for her.

“If there’s anything else you need, I hope you’ll feel free to let me know.”

After living with Sam for ten years, Cara was familiar with every nuance of his voice. She heard the uncertainty now, sensed his tension and trepidation. This couldn’t be easy for him, either, she realized, whatever his motives might be. There was too much history between them to allow a comfortable co-existence. At the very least her presence would disrupt his life, alter his routine. Yet he’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.

She looked around again, troubled by something about the arrangement. Then it hit her. Considering the attached bath, this had to be the master suite.

Frowning, she turned to him. “Was this your room?”

A dismissive shrug preceded his words. “It was more space than I needed.”

“I can’t take your room.”

“It’s done, Cara. These aren’t my colors. I’m more an earth-tones kind of guy.” A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Just enjoy it.”

At his unexpected generosity, her throat tightened with an emotion so long absent from her life that it took her a moment to identify it.

Tenderness.

And that wasn’t good. Sam could be charming; he’d demonstrated that early in their relationship. But she knew about his other qualities, too. The self-absorbed preoccupation that had changed into bitterness after his life was turned upside down, and an anger so cold and hard, so close to violence, that it had frightened her and made living with him stressful and difficult. It would be wise to remember those aspects of his personality if she found her attitude toward him beginning to soften.

“I appreciate all you did. I didn’t expect you to go to any trouble on my behalf.” Her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears. But if Sam noticed her sudden aloofness, he let it pass.

“It was no trouble. I’ll get your bags.”

Before she had a chance to regroup, he was back, her carry-on and larger suitcase in tow. “Shall I leave these by the closet?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

Setting them down, he turned to her. “When I did rounds at the medical center in Rolla earlier I picked up some Chinese food for tonight. I hope that’s okay. Oak Hill has many attributes, but fine dining isn’t among them. There’s a Middle Eastern restaurant, but the food’s a bit spicy for my taste. And of course, there’s Gus’s. Okay for a turkey sandwich now and then, but I wouldn’t recommend it for much more. He only knows one way to cook—deep fried.” Once more, the whisper of a smile teased his lips.

“Chinese sounds good. Thank you. But I can take care of my own meals after today.”

“However you want to arrange things is fine with me, Cara.”

His gentle response to her defensive comment made her feel like an ingrate. She tried again. “It’s just that I don’t want to upset your routine any more than necessary. It might be easier if we each do our own thing.”

“Sure.” He headed back to the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’d like dinner. I’m in no hurry if you want to take a shower or a quick nap first.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and closed the door behind him.

For several minutes, Cara stood unmoving, overwhelmed by Sam’s efforts to welcome her—and more than a little nervous about his motives. He’d gone way above and beyond simple hospitality. You didn’t vacate, redecorate and furnish a master suite for a mere guest. When she’d agreed to come, all she’d been looking for was a simple room in a safe place where she could begin to put the nightmare of the murder behind her. She didn’t need—or want—any complications. And she’d been clear about that with Sam. He knew where she stood. If he was expecting anything more, that was his problem.

Suddenly weary, Cara slipped off her shoes and sat on the bed, tempted by Sam’s suggestion of a quick nap. It was amazing how the mere presence of another human being could provide the elusive peace of mind that had kept her awake through the long, dark, endless nights since the attack. If Sam offered her nothing else during this visit, that would be enough.

Scooting onto the bed, she stretched out and closed her eyes. She’d give herself twenty minutes, she decided. Then she’d be ready for dinner.

Sam stood outside Cara’s door, debating his next move. Three hours had passed. Dusk had descended, and the rumbles in his stomach were growing more persistent. While the hectic schedule in his old life had often dictated late dinners, since moving to Oak Hill he’d become accustomed to a six o’clock evening meal. He’d missed that by two and a half hours.

But he was far more worried about Cara than his protesting stomach. He’d stopped outside her door a couple of times, but he’d never heard a sound. No running water, no drawers being opened and closed, no muted background noise to suggest she’d turned on the TV.

Acutely aware that she wanted her space, he was loath to invade it already. But he was beginning to think that she might be ill. Earlier, he’d attributed her paleness to fatigue and stress from the trip. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Yet if she was sick, if she needed anything, he suspected that asking him for help would be the last option she’d pursue. She’d push him away, much as he’d pushed her away when he’d most needed help.

Torn, Sam wavered, realizing even as he vacillated how much he’d changed in the past couple of years. He’d once been decisive. Confident he had all the answers. In control. That sense of self-importance—of omnipotence, almost—had been honed by his professional success, he now realized. And it had spilled over into his personal life—to the detriment of his marriage. If nothing else, the violence that had been directed against him had destroyed that arrogance. The reining in of his ego might be the one good thing that had resulted from the nightmare, he reflected.

Making a decision at last, Sam reached up. But as he stood poised to knock, he paused to stare at the scars on the back of his hand. From just above his wrist to the tips of his fingers, there wasn’t a square inch untouched by the network of shiny white lines. Even now, almost two years after the attack, his hand remained slightly misshapen, the function improved but still impaired. Though he maintained the physical therapy regime prescribed by his doctors, and continued to note small improvements, his fingers would never regain the dexterity required to perform surgery. Bill West had achieved his goal.

A flash of terror from that dark night, along with a recollection of acute pain, swept over Sam. While he hadn’t been able to control the nightmares that had plagued him in the beginning, it had been months since he’d let himself think about the incident that had robbed him of his career.

And this wasn’t the time to start. He’d moved past that, gone on with his life. Thanks to the skill of the colleagues who had reconstructed his hand with painstaking care, he’d recovered far more function than anyone had dared hope for. Considering that his hand had been smashed beyond recognition, and factoring in the extensive nerve damage he’d suffered, the fact that he could use it at all was nothing short of a miracle—if one believed in such things.

Putting such reflections aside, Sam forced himself to knock on the door. Cara might not be pleased at the intrusion. But too often in his marriage he’d held back, pulled away and shut the window to his heart at the very time he should have thrown wide the door and invited her in. Only in retrospect had Sam recognized how hurtful that had been to his wife—and how damaging it had been to their relationship. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. This time, he was going to follow his heart.

No matter the risk that entailed.