Читать книгу The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 100
ОглавлениеEvangeline rolled over and pulled the sheets up around her neck. Cold. And still dark. Though her brain languished in the fog of semiconsciousness, she could tell Matt wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too even.
Two weeks and four days into it and she could already gauge his state of consciousness. She also knew his favorite foods, the exact rhythm to move her hips to make him explode, how to get that blinding, sincere smile out of him that shivered her insides.
And if he was awake, she knew she’d never go back to sleep.
They were becoming dangerously entangled for two ships who were supposed to be passing in the night.
Supposed to be. But she was still here.
She kept looking for a reason to leave. Kept waiting for claustrophobia to set in or for Matt’s true colors to shine through. The longer she spent with him, the more convinced she became that he was the real deal and she could trust him. He was a genuine guy who wasn’t looking for the quickest way to get rid of her. Who treated her like he’d stumbled upon a rare treasure.
Instead of scouting for the exit, she stayed. The longer she stayed, the more obstacles she saw to keeping this Venice bubble afloat.
Why couldn’t she have met Matt in six months? A year? At any point in the future when she’d figured out who she was going to be and could give Matt what he deserved—someone a lot more together, at a different place in her life.
She scooted across the cool sheets and nestled into his arms. “You need a glass of warm milk?”
He kissed her temple. “Did I wake you up? Sorry.”
“You didn’t.”
But maybe on some level, he had.
That instantaneous spiritual bond hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. Sometimes, he finished her sentences, and sometimes, she didn’t have to speak at all. It was more than gelling and she puzzled over the indescribable, powerful nature of their relationship.
It should feel weird. Suffocating. It didn’t.
“I’ll go downstairs so you can sleep.”
Something was bothering him. Matt’s ghosts continually haunted him and lots of great sex hadn’t produced quite the exorcism she’d have wished.
She snaked an arm over his chest to hold him in place. “Don’t you dare. Talk to me.”
“It’s not a middle-of-the-night subject. But thanks.” His hand wandered over to stroke her breast and as lovely as that was, his touch carried a hint of preoccupation.
“Anything is a middle-of-the-night subject. It’s dark. Sleepy. What better environment is there to lay it all out?” Unless he was about to call it off. That froze her pulse. She didn’t want it to be over.
She’d thought they were both happy to live in the here and now. Both happy to see what unfolded. The lack of boundaries made it easier for her to stay but also made it easier—for either of them—to walk away.
Should she have checked in with him before now?
The hand on her breast stilled, but didn’t move away. “You wouldn’t rather go back to sleep?”
“I’d rather you weren’t upset. Tell me, and let me make it all better. That’s what I’m here for, right? To beat back the demons.” Which was a two-way street, and he did his part well. “But unlike other forms of self-medication, I don’t come with a hangover.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you?” A deep breath lifted his chest. “I was thinking I should be over Amber by now.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
Oh, that was such a better subject than calling it off. He hardly ever mentioned his wife, and she respected his privacy. But curiosity pricked at her, naturally. What had Amber been like? What was so special about her to have shattered Matt into so many pieces?
“It’s been a year and a half. How can I still be so messed up?”
“You can’t put a time frame to grief. Life doesn’t have checklists.”
“We weren’t married a whole year. She’s been dead longer than the length of our marriage.”
“So? You loved her.” Obviously a lot, more than Evangeline had ever loved anyone, or could even imagine. She could, however, easily imagine how it would feel to be the object of such unending devotion.
Especially Matt’s.
That put a hitch in her lungs. She suddenly, unreasonably wished for something impossible—the hope that she might one day take Amber’s place in his heart. Impossible, because she’d have to open herself up in return and trust Matt with her deepest layer. Impossible, because he was still hung up on his wife. That was the biggest obstacle of all.
Apparently dark-and-sleepy was a good environment for her conscience to spill confessions, as well. As long as she didn’t start doing it out loud...
Matt shifted restlessly. “Am I doomed to suffer for the rest of my life because I fell in love with someone? It’s not fair.”
He was destroyed. No one should have to bear that much of a burden without relief.
“I don’t have all the answers.” She rested her palm on his heart, which beat strongly despite her suspicion it was badly broken. “The only thing I know for sure is life sucks and then it gets better until it gets worse again. Sometimes I think God likes to see what happens when the carpet is pulled out from under you.”
After a long minute of silence, he said, “It doesn’t bother you that I’m moping around over another woman?”
Well, now that you mention it...
“I didn’t say that.” Boy, he’d taken her no-subject-off-limits-in-the-middle-of-the-night seriously, hadn’t he? Despite asking, she didn’t think he’d actually appreciate knowing about the burning-in-the-gut jealousy of Amber she’d just discovered. “But we’re cool. I understand. Of all people, trust me. I understand.”
Probably too much. Other women wouldn’t put up with being a form of self-medication. But Matt wasn’t presenting her with a buffet of choices. What would she pick if he did?
The question bounced around inside her with no answer.
“The pastor at Amber’s funeral said something that’s stuck with me. The valleys of life are impartial and temporary. If that’s true, I should get over it already, right?”
“Is that why you’re beating yourself up? That’s total crap!” Evangeline’s vision grayed for a furious moment. Pastors should soothe people in their time of grief—not spew lies. “The valleys of life are anything but impartial. Or temporary. Both of us had the center of our existence ripped from our fingers. No warning. That’s as personal as it gets, and I refuse to accept that we don’t have the right to be pissed off about it because it’s gone forever.”
His arms tightened around her, holding her close, calming her. He was calming her. “Is that what happened? You had the center of your existence ripped away?”
“Yeah. I did.” Her chin trembled.
“You don’t talk about it.”
Just like he didn’t talk about Amber. “No voice. It kind of puts a crimp in the talking thing.”
“That’s a cop-out. Especially with me. Should I tell you again how sexy I think your voice is?”
She sighed. Transparency was one of the many things she couldn’t avoid with Matt. It went hand in hand with the vibe between them. And it went both ways. He’d veered away from Amber on purpose, maybe to avoid talking about her. Or maybe to find some straw he could grasp from her own experiences. They were both fighting their way out of the valley.
He was so compassionate and decent and didn’t want anything from her but her company. She should honor that.
“I lost everything.” She shut her eyes. “Not just my career. I sang my whole life, from as early as I can remember. Back then, my voice was the one thing that belonged to me and no one else. Singing was a coping mechanism.”
“What were you coping with?” he asked gently.
“You know, stuff. My home life.” She hadn’t thought about it in years. But that had been the genesis of using her voice to express all the things going on inside.
“My dad, he was a hockey player for Detroit. A seagull who swooped in, got my mom pregnant and never called her again. She tracked him down, got child support. She moved to the U.S. so he could know his daughter. Guess how many times I heard from him?”
“Evangeline...” Matt nearly pulled her on top of him in a fierce hug, lips buried in her hair.
“It’s fine. I’m over it.”
“I don’t think so,” he murmured and softened the contradiction with a light kiss. “You started to say you had family in Detroit. When we were dancing.”
God, she had. How did he remember that? “He’s not my family. He lost that chance. But, I...have a...sister.”
“Are you and your sister close?”
Evangeline laughed but it came out broken. “She worships me. Not like in a million-screaming-fans way. Because she wants to sing.”
Lisa texted her all the time asking for career advice. Evangeline still didn’t know why she’d ever answered. No one had helped her. But before the surgery, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from pathetically responding each and every time. Once, she flew Lisa and three friends to London for a concert for Lisa’s fifteenth birthday. It was the last time she’d seen her sister.
After the surgery, Evangeline went into a hole and stopped responding to the texts. One of these days, Lisa’s name on her caller-ID wasn’t going to cause such deep-seated anguish. She hoped. It wasn’t Lisa’s fault their father was a bastard.
“Is she any good?” Matt asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve never heard her sing. Too busy, I guess.”
“You’ve got time now,” he pointed out quietly, but his words reverberated in her head like the boom of a cannon.
“Yeah. I should call her.” She wouldn’t. What would she say? They had no relationship, had only ever connected over their mutual interest in singing. Now they had nothing in common other than a few strands of DNA. “Armadillo.”
She was done with midnight confessions. Lisa was a corner she couldn’t stand being backed into.
“I should call my brother. I haven’t talked to him in a month.” Matt rolled away and she missed his warmth. Had she hurt his feelings?
A sick niggle in her stomach unearthed the realization that she’d set up the code word as a way for him get out of difficult subjects, but only she used it.
“Is a month a long time?” she asked.
“We saw each other every day. His office was next to mine. We went to the same college, played basketball with some guys once a week. And you know. He’s my brother. It’s my job to make sure he stays out of trouble.”
“You miss him.”
It wasn’t a question. She could hear it in his voice and didn’t have to ask if they were close. Could Evangeline have a similar relationship with Lisa if she tried harder?
No. Evangeline wasn’t cut out for family relationships. Didn’t want to be. It hurt too much.
“That was before. When Amber was alive. After, I drifted through everything, disengaging until everyone stopped trying. I kept thinking something would happen to snap me out of it. Then my grandfather died and I realized. I had to snap me out of it. So I dumped my entire life in Lucas’s lap and left.” He chuckled derisively. “I even sold him my house. He’s in my house with a wife he’s gaga over, making new memories, about to deliver my parents their first grandchild. I should be there, living that life.”
There. Not here. Venice was a temporary fix. She knew that. So why did it make her so sad?
“Are you jealous that your brother is happy?”
At least they had that in common.
“No. Not really. Maybe a little.” He sounded defeated all at once. “Mostly I’m glad. I never thought he’d get married. He was kind of a screwup. But he met this woman who transformed him into a guy I didn’t recognize. He’s responsible. Committed. Expecting a baby who will be the first of the next generation of Wheelers. That was my role. A role I couldn’t do any longer. And I need to figure out how to do it again.”
He had more demons than she’d realized. “You’re not just trying to get over Amber. You’re trying to fit back into the life you had with her.”
A life that included lineages. Babies. Roots and new branches on the family tree. Concepts so alien she barely knew how to label them.
He huffed out a breath. “I can’t. I know that. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve done the right thing. I ran Wheeler Family Partners, and I was good at selling real estate. Successful. Amber was a part of that. She had connections, came from a distinguished family. There were five hundred guests at our wedding. CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. A former U.S. president. The governor. We were happy being a power couple. People could depend on me. I want that back.”
Her stomach dropped. No wonder he hadn’t cared about her celebrity status or her money. He had his own social clout, in a world far removed from hers.
A cleft, one she hadn’t realized was there, widened.
He hadn’t embraced the wanderlust—he’d been desperate to find the magic formula for curing his grief so he could pick up the broken pieces of a life he’d abandoned, but yearned to return to.
Unlike her, he could go back. And would. Not only did neither of them have a whole heart to give to anyone else, they came from different places and were going different places.
She kissed his cheek. “I depend on you. Right now, you’re my entire world.”
How pathetic did that sound? He had a career waiting for him. A family. Both would welcome him back with open arms, she had no doubt. No mother who took the time to teach her son to cook would turn her back on him.
“Right now, I’m pretty happy being your entire world.”
Shock flashed behind her rib cage. “Really? I thought you were heading toward the big breakup.”
He should be heading toward the breakup. She should, too.
“What, you mean of us?” He laughed and shifted suddenly, rolling her against him, tight. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Why would I give that up?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about? You want to go home.” Home to a place she couldn’t follow. Her gypsy soul would wither and die in the suburbs. “This is...our Venice bubble. It’s not going to last.”
Quiet settled over them, and she waited for him to agree.
But he said, “I don’t know if I can go home. My family—the obligations. It feels so oppressive. Like it’s too much for me to handle. I want to be me again, but at the same time I want to keep hiding.” He chuckled darkly. “God Almighty, I sound like the biggest pansy.”
No, he sounded like a man in incredible turmoil. For once, she’d stayed. She’d done it as an attempt to block out the future, but instead, quite by accident, she’d discovered this sensitive, wonderful person. What a juxtaposition. She ached to salve his wounds, knowing the moment she did, he’d leave her.
Rock. Hard place.
“I want to sing. I can’t. We’re both stuck in a rut we can’t get out of.”
* * *
Matthew listened to the sound of Evangeline’s heart against his and threaded fingers through her hair.
“Rut. Valley. Same difference.”
There was nothing quantifiable about the grieving process. It had stages, or so he’d read. But they weren’t easily identifiable so he had no idea if he’d gone through them all, remained immobilized in one, or had stumbled his way back to the beginning to run through them a second time.
He’d been stuck in the valley for far too long. And he was sick of it.
Her lips grazed his throat and stayed there. They’d both lost so much. Did she find it as comforting as he did to be in the arms of someone who understood? She not only understood, she’d given him permission to be mad.
That was powerful.
Because he was mad. And felt guilty about being mad. Evangeline somehow made it okay to let all that out, let it flow, and the anger cleansed as it burned through his blood.
“I was part of something,” he said. “In Dallas. Some sons rebel against the family business, but I couldn’t wait to be on the team. My parents were proud of me, and I thrived on that. Thrived on being married and looked forward to starting a family. Then it was gone and I couldn’t function. I don’t know how to get that back.”
The sheer pressure of life without Amber had nearly suffocated him. But it was more than missing her. They’d been like cogs in a complex machine, complementing each other. He didn’t know how to be successful without her.
“I admire you,” she said quietly.
He snorted. “For what, disappointing everyone?”
That was at least half his onus—how did he face everyone again, knowing he’d abandoned them? Knowing they were eyeing him with apprehension, waiting for him to freak out again?
“For recognizing that you needed time away to get your head on straight. It was brave.”
“Cowardly, you mean,” he corrected. “People deal with pressure gracefully all the time. I cracked. It wasn’t pretty.”
“But you changed things. You left your comfort zone and struck out to fix it, without any idea how or where that would occur. That’s sheer courage in my book.”
He started to tell her she should reread that book but closed his mouth. She saw him differently. But that didn’t mean she needed glasses. Perhaps he did.
“Thanks. That’s nice to hear.”
“You had a choice and made it.” The unspoken I didn’t wrenched his heart.
“Have you ever noticed the stuff people say when you’re grieving makes no sense?” That was another gripe he’d been carrying around since the funeral.
“What like, ‘Sorry for your loss’?”
“Yeah. My favorite is, ‘But think of all you do have.’” He struggled to voice the anxiety whipping through him. Struggled to phrase it in a way that didn’t sound self-centered. And gave up. This was Evangeline. He didn’t have to pull punches. “It’s meaningless. Thanks for pointing out I still have a mom and a dad. That makes it all better. And oh, yeah, I have my health. The fact that I’m still breathing is supposed to get me through the valley?”
“I got an, ‘At least you still have all the money’. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful I can afford to eat. A lot of people can’t after losing their job. But money doesn’t make up for losing who you were.”
“Exactly.” It was like she peered down his throat and read the words in his heart, expressing for him what he couldn’t formulate. “Singing was your purpose. So what do you do now that it’s gone, right?”
She laughed without humor. “Isn’t that the million-dollar question?”
He’d meant it rhetorically, but something in her tone tugged at him. “Is it?”
She didn’t answer, and he lightly bumped her head with his chest. “Middle-of-the-night. Nothing is sacred.”
Don’t call armadillo. His senses tingled. This was critically important, he could tell.
Her soft sigh drifted across his skin. “I don’t know what to do now. That’s my demon.”
“The one I’m here to beat back for you?” The phantoms in her eyes weren’t just from losing her voice. How could he have missed that? Because he’d been wallowing around in his own problems instead of tending to hers.
“Singing is all I’m good at. My only talent.”
“Not hardly.”
“Being good in bed isn’t a talent.” The eye-roll came through loud and clear.
He bit back a chuckle and the accompanying comment—it is the way you do it.
“You’re good at making me cheerful. That’s something no one else could accomplish, so don’t knock it. But I was going to say the music industry can’t be easy to crack or everyone would do it. Persistence is a talent. You worked hard to achieve success.”
“Yeah. Hard work.” Her voice fractured. “There was a lot of that.”
There was more, something else she wasn’t saying, and she was hurting. The inability to fix it crawled around in his chest. But this middle-of-the-night was exactly what he’d asked for—the exploration of what two damaged souls could become to each other.
Dang it if he’d fail at being what she needed.
“Hey.” He brought her hand to his cheek and held it there, reminding them both he wasn’t going anywhere. “This demon of yours, what does he look like? Big and scary? Small and quick with a sharp stick? I’ll do a much better job of keeping him away if I have an idea what I’m looking for.”
She laughed, low and easy, drawing a smile from him. “Big. With claws. And he doesn’t shut up. Ever.”
“What does he sound like? James Earl Jones or more Al Pacino?”
“Dan Rather.”
Ah. “So your demon moonlights as a reporter who asks you questions you don’t like.” And he’d bet the demon answered to the name armadillo.
“Yeah.”
The single syllable quaked through her damaged vocal cords and snapped something behind his rib cage.
“Like what?” he whispered, his voice nearly as raw as hers.
“It’s not the questions.” She shifted and wet pooled into the hollow of his shoulder right about where her eye had been. Tears. “It’s the lack of answers. Bad stuff happens. They were just vocal cords. Why don’t I know what to do next?”
“Because,” he countered fiercely. “You’re not out of the valley yet. Once you clear it, then you’ll see where to go.”
He had to believe that was true, had to believe it was possible. He wanted out of that valley—for himself, but also to show her the way.
“Music was a part of my soul.” More tears dripped onto his chest, but he didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t move at all for fear of stemming the tide of her grief. “And I thought it always would be or I wouldn’t have inked eighth notes on my body permanently. How do you find a new direction when something so ingrained is gone?”
Silently, he held her, suddenly furious that he didn’t have the answers. Her anguish vibrated through him and wedged into a place he’d thought was dead and buried.
“I could have the tattoo removed,” she continued brokenly. “Turned into something else. But what? Who am I going to be for the rest of my life?”
Yes. That was the million-dollar question. Evangeline voiced things he could hardly define, let alone articulate. They gelled because she struggled in exactly the same ways he did.
And perhaps they’d solve it together.
“Is there no way to keep a hand in music? Do you play an instrument?”
“Piano.” She sniffed. “I wrote all my songs.”
An odd sense of pride filled him with the admission. She’d produced something from nothing, using a creative energy he couldn’t fathom.
“That’s amazing. I thought other people wrote songs for recording artists.”
A tune filled his head instantly. Hers. She’d written the notes, sang them. He wished he could have heard her live. Wished he could ask her to sing for him, here in the dark.
His gut split in two over the loss of something he’d never dreamed he’d want.
“Other people do write songs, when the artist is just a voice. Like Sara Lear.” She growled. “I hate how catty that sounds. But geez, I could trip and fall into a piano and accidentally write a better song than the ones she sings.”
Was her ability to connect dots broken or was she too close to see the obvious? “Then do it. Write one for her.”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “I can’t.”
“Can’t, or don’t want to?” he countered softly.
“The words...they’ve all dried up.”
“They’ll come. You’re an artist who isn’t just a voice.” He stroked her hair. “You’ll figure it out. We’ll both figure it out, and in the meantime, we’ll hold each other in the dark and lay it all out there.”
“Matt?” More snuffling. “I’m glad I stayed. I don’t stay as a rule. No rules is nice for once.”
Finally, he breathed a little easier. The conversation could have veered into something ugly. But he’d navigated it pretty well—he hoped—despite a distinct lack of experience with damaged souls, his or anyone else’s. His relationship with Amber had been straightforward and undemanding. Safe.
He’d certainly never experienced quite so many highs and lows when she’d been alive.
“It can’t last. This thing between us,” he clarified. Evangeline was merely passing time with him until she figured out her next steps. She’d said as much. It shouldn’t hollow him out—wasn’t that what they were both doing here?
“I know that,” he added, “but I can’t stand to be in the valley alone. Please don’t think less of me for selfishly dragging it out.”
“I don’t think you’re selfish.”
She wouldn’t. Evangeline was the single most nonjudgmental person he’d come across. He could tell her anything. Had told her things he’d never said out loud. He didn’t worry about disappointing her with his failures. Ironically, because he’d set out to be someone else with her, his internal censor-switch had shut off. He had the freedom to pour out the angst and fear he’d carried for months.
He wished he had more to give her in return and was suddenly sorry they’d met while they were both still stuck in the valley.
