Читать книгу Cathryn - Shannon Waverly - Страница 9

ALARM RIPPED THROUGH Tucker like a bullet, sending his heart racing. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Maybe she really is sick. You’ve played dead yourself a few times when you were under the weather and people knocked at your door.

Despite what common sense was telling him, Tucker scrambled back to the stoop and tried the door. It was unlocked. “Cathryn?” he called, stepping inside and peering into the living room. She didn’t move. With his heart caught in his throat and his imagination in overdrive, he crossed the room, dread in every step, and forced himself to touch her. “Cathryn?” he repeated, shaking her gently by the shoulder. It was warm, he realized with tremendous relief.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, like those of a person in shock. For a moment she simply stared without recognition. Then, “Oh, Tucker,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “I didn’t hear…I must’ve fallen asleep.” She made an effort to sit up, then sagged again.

Tucker wanted to accept that she’d been sleeping, but his cynical twin refused to let him. “What’s the matter? Not feeling well?”

She swallowed. “No. Not very.” Tucker did detect the faint odor of vomit drifting from her clothes. Not a pretty smell, especially when combined with the apple-cinnamon scent that pervaded the room.

The first strokes of embarrassment began to lash at him. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about walking in the way I did, uninvited. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“No.” She lay so still, as if moving might shatter her.

“I brought back your things, your coffee urn and stuff.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Mmm. I was planning to leave it all on the front step, but then, just for the hell of it, I tried the door.”

As if he’d strung together too many thoughts for her to process, she frowned and slowly massaged her skull, her fingers buried in her tangled hair.

With feigned nonchalance, Tucker cast his glance about the dusky living room. “Where’s Dylan?”

“Out,” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s…out.”

“And the kids?”

“With my parents.”

“Can I…do anything for you? Get you anything?”

“No. Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t be more…” She lifted the hand that had been massaging her head and held it limply poised, palm up, as if it contained the rest of her thought.

“I’ll just bring in those things then.” He backed up a step, turned toward the door when he heard her sniff. Damn! He retraced his steps. “Cath, where did Dylan go? Maybe I should call him or something.”

“No, it’s okay.” Her face cramped into a mask of anguish underlaid with embarrassment. “Really. He’ll…he’ll be back soon.” Her jaw began to tremble. She tried to steady it, but her lips took up the trembling instead.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Tucker squatted on his heels to be at eye-level with her.

“Nothing. Please…Nothing.” But two plump tears slipped from her eyes and soaked into the couch pillow.

Every instinct Tucker possessed screamed at him to take flight. He’d walked into a domestic cataclysm. But he listened to the voice of responsibility instead, a voice that had been growing stronger ever since he’d learned he was going to be someone’s dad.

“Cathryn?” he implored, brushing back her hair. It was softer than he’d expected. Her chest hitched and she made a tight hiccuping sound as she tried to suppress a sob. “Cath, at the risk of butting in, are you and Dylan having problems?”

The pain that scored her features answered him better than any words. Cursing under his breath, he gently pulled her to a sitting position and wedged himself into the space beside her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, wondering when he’d lost his mind.

“No.” She began to tilt in the opposite direction, heading for another pillow. Tucker put his arm around her to keep her upright.

“There’s nothing to say, really.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks as her mortification deepened. “I’m sorry, Tucker. Please, just go. This has nothing to do with you.”

So true. But, masochist that he was, he continued, “Does it have anything to do with that woman who showed up after the funeral?”

Cathryn had been trembling already, but now the potency of her tremors grew until they rattled Tucker, as well. He tightened his grip on her, felt the pressure building, until finally she seemed unable to contain it any longer and cried out, “Dylan’s having an affair.” With that she crumpled forward, covering her face with her hands, and wept with such misery that Tucker found his own throat thickening.

He rubbed her back, a feeble attempt to let her know he was still there. After a while he asked, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, still buried in her hands. “He-e to-o-ld me so-o himself.” At least, those were the words Tucker thought he heard. They were too fractured for him to be really certain.

She steadied her voice long enough to say, “What’s worse is, they’ve been seeing each other for…for over a year.” And then she began to cry again, harder than before.

Tucker didn’t know what else to do but pull her into his arms. “You didn’t suspect anything?”

With her face buried in his leather jacket, she gulped down tears and shook her head. In her sob-broken way she added Dylan and Zoe had apparently been discreet, for which she was extremely thankful.

Overcome with self-consciousness again, she moved away, scraped the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes and inhaled shakily. “This must be so awkward for you.”

“No, no…” he lied.

“Please, why don’t you just go? This isn’t your concern.”

“You made it my concern twenty years ago when you invited me to one of your parties—a clambake on the beach, I believe.”

“What?” She scrunched her nose in puzzlement.

“It didn’t matter that I was an outsider and a punk and the last person anybody would want at a civilized party. You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

A weak smile briefly lifted her tear-wet cheeks. “Yes, but I was also relieved you didn’t show up.”

Tucker clasped his heart and gasped. “And all this time I believed you were a saint.”

Using her sleeve again, she blotted her eyes and cheeks and surreptitiously wiped her nose. No great loss, in his estimation. The sweater, the same one she’d worn to the funeral, was an overly bulky, blah-gray thing better consigned to the ragbag.

He suggested, “How about I make us some coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Tea? Sure. You’d probably prefer tea.” He was reaching to switch on the lamp near him when Cathryn emitted a strangled groan and shot off the couch. In the sudden illumination all he saw was her back disappearing down a darkened hallway. The next moment he heard the sounds of retching.

Whistling tunelessly, he bided his time until he heard the toilet flush. Then he got up, slipped off his jacket and went to help her. She was still hunched over the bowl, clutching her stomach and shivering. He found a washcloth in the undersink vanity, wet it with cool water and pressed it to her cheek. She nodded her gratitude and took it from him. Next he found mouthwash and poured a shot into a paper cup. After rinsing and spitting, she straightened and met her image—and his—in the lighted mirror.

She mewled. “Oh, God!”

He couldn’t refute her. Her cheeks were blotched, her eyes were swollen and her nose was red as a June strawberry. Groaning, she made a futile stab at her hair, most of which had escaped its elastic and now hung in loose, wild tangles. “What a wreck!” she choked out, her gaze grazing Tucker’s. “No wonder Dylan…” She let her sentence trail off, squinched her eyes shut and clutched the rim of the sink with desperate tightness.

Standing behind her, Tucker studied her reflection curiously. She was a woman he hardly knew, a woman he hadn’t thought about in years and expected to forget again soon after he left. Yet, in those emotion-marred features he could still see the pretty little girl she’d once been, with bows in her hair, scabs on her knees, and a heart of pure gold. Although he’d often mocked her klutziness and fuss-budget ways, he really hadn’t minded her all that much. And he’d always appreciated her generosity toward him, her compassion—from the nerdy pom-pom hat she’d knitted for him his first Christmas on the island to the party she’d helped Winnie organize the day he left.

Tucker smoothed her hair and smiled encouragingly. “If you’re feeling better, maybe we can move to the kitchen?” She pulled in a deep breath and nodded.

Cathryn’s kitchen was much like the rest of the house, what little he’d seen of it, anyway—cabinets in light country oak, stenciled walls, ruffled curtains, and handcrafted doodads everywhere. Towels, place mats and chair pads coordinated. Cookbooks spanned the entire top shelf of a hutch. The rest held bric-a-brac, Valentines and photographs. Kids’ art and school papers patchworked the refrigerator, and a bulletin board that resembled command-central apparently kept everyone on track.

“Where do you keep your tea?” Tucker asked her.

“There. The cabinet by the fridge.”

Tucker opened the door and a pantry unfolded. His eyes widened as he took in the well-stocked shelves. He was about to ask her what kind of tea she wanted—she had nine different flavors—when she said, “I really don’t want tea. I’d much prefer brandy.”

He turned, frowning. “Can your stomach handle it?”

“Yes. This nausea is all nerves. The brandy will actually help.” She shuffled toward a cabinet near the hutch. “Sit. I’ll get it. What can I get for you?”

Tucker marveled that, even with her world tumbling around her, she felt obliged to play hostess.

“No. You sit. Just point me in the right direction.”

“No, I insist…”

After going back and forth a few more times, she deferred to him and slipped shakily into one of the Windsor chairs at the kitchen table. Tucker poured her some ginger brandy and got himself a beer—Dylan’s beer, he thought, wanting to kill the bastard.

“Do your parents know about this situation?” he asked, joining her at the table.

Cathryn lifted her brandy snifter with two hands to minimize the trembling, took a careful sip and swallowed. “No. I phoned my mother and asked her to pick up the kids at school and keep them overnight, but I lied about why. I said…” Her jaw quivered. She took another sip. “I said Dylan had surprised me with a belated Valentine gift—dinner and an overnight stay at the Old Harbor Inn. I know the excuse has holes, but it was the only one I could come up with. Dylan and I were in the thick of our…our discussion.”

Tucker nodded understandingly. “Have you called anyone else? A friend maybe? Is anyone coming over?”

Cathryn bowed her head, tears gathering on her lower eyelids. “No.”

Great. So he was IT, the ear for her to pour her troubles into, the shoulder for her to cry on. “Okay, Shortcake,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Tell me all about it.”

Hugging her waist, she slowly tipped forward until her forehead rested on the table’s polished surface. Tucker sighed. The woman could not sit up straight to save her life. It was as if she’d lost all strength in her backbone.

“Cathryn?”

“Mmm.”

“I understand your reluctance. I hate to talk about my personal life, too. But talking helps. At least that’s what they say.”

Cathryn raised her head and reached for her brandy. She was quiet so long, staring at the glass, that Tucker figured she’d decided to disregard his suggestion. But then, in a small, dull voice she began.

“IT ALL STARTED when I found a pair of earrings,” Cathryn said, uncertain if talking to Tucker was a good idea. Who was he, after all? she thought. At best, a distant acquaintance she hadn’t seen in years. At worst, a reprobate who probably endorsed extramarital affairs.

Still, he was here, and nobody else was, and maybe he had a point. Talking would make her feel better, regardless of who was listening.

Oh, but it was hard. She’d never talked about her marital problems before, and until now most of them had been minor. Her relationship with Dylan was sacred territory, not to be betrayed.

Then again, she’d been the only one playing by the rules, hadn’t she? She went on with her story.

“…Finally I simply confronted him with the fact that I’d found the earrings, and since he hadn’t given them to me…”

The brandy she’d sipped between sentences was having its desired effect. She was warming from the inside out, knots of tension releasing.

“I could see he was trying to invent an excuse but couldn’t. He had nothing to say, nowhere to turn, so he admitted the truth, he’s seeing her.”

“And he’s been seeing her for a year?” Tucker said unobtrusively.

“Fourteen months.”

Tucker raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How’d they pull that off on such a small island?”

“Apparently they met off-island, too. Times when I believed he was at a trade show or buying equipment or some such thing.” Despite the effects of the brandy, Cathryn felt a sharp echo of the shock and grief she’d felt upon first learning this. She pressed her fingertips over her lips and waited for the pain to subside, but it didn’t. She was in the van again, sitting beside her husband on the edge of hysteria, while the world as she knew it shifted and slid. She kept hearing Dylan apologize. “I’m sorry, Cath. I’m so sorry.” And then the crucial phrase, “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

Unthinkingly she’d snapped, “Oh? How did you want me to find out?”

“Not…this way. I thought we might go away for a few days. Just the two of us.”

She’d stared at him a long incredulous moment. What was Dylan saying? That he did want her to find out? Then, as understanding dawned, her already shifting, sliding world utterly shattered.

“Why?” she’d implored. “What went wrong? I thought we were happy.”

“And did he give you an answer?” Tucker asked.

Cathryn was jolted out of her daze by his voice. Had she been talking all this time?

“He said it just…happened.”

“It just happened?”

“Yes.” Cathryn reached for the brandy bottle and poured another dose into her glass. “That’s what he said, at first anyway. But I guess I kept after him, and eventually he got so angry he began to admit things he’d never intended to.” She had to pause until the anguish gripping her released some of its hold. “Apparently Dylan’s been unhappy with me for some time.”

“With you?” Wide-eyed, Tucker looked ready to go ten rounds with her statement.

She nodded. “He said I ignore his needs. I spend all my time tending to the house and the kids.”

Tucker laughed sarcastically. “Aw, poor baby.”

Cathryn raised a hand. “No, he’s right. I have become too absorbed with homemaking and the kids’ activities. I have become complacent about us, Dylan and me.” Complacent was Dylan’s word, though. She’d always thought in terms of contentment, and it hurt more than she could express that he didn’t feel similarly contented.

Cathryn blinked her burning eyes, battling tears, as she recalled the myriad complaints Dylan had registered with her that afternoon, each one an arrow straight to the heart.

“The son of a bitch,” Tucker rasped. “He’s caught having an affair and he turns on you? You should be outraged.”

Cathryn swallowed, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. “I would be, except that much of what he said is true, and I’m not surprised he turned to another woman.”

“Would you explain that to me, please?”

“Well, you know…” She cast about for something she could say that wouldn’t lead to a discussion of sex. “The way I’ve let myself go, for instance.”

“Did he accuse you of that, too?”

“Well, look at me, Tucker. I’m not exactly the girl Dylan married twelve years ago.”

“That’s right. You’ve improved.”

“Ha! I’m a big, worthless hunk of fat.”

Tucker sat forward, scowling with the fierceness of a lion. “Okay. So you’ve put on some weight, but you’re hardly fat. To be honest, I kinda like you this way. Holding you, a guy knows he has a woman in his arms.”

“Oh, please.” She dragged her gaze away from Tucker. “On top of being fat, I’m stupid, too. Stupid for not realizing Dylan was so bored and unhappy.”

“All right. That’s enough of that,” Tucker snapped. “You’re not stupid, Shortcake—except for calling yourself stupid.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you call a woman who doesn’t know her husband’s having an affair—for a whole year?”

“Maligned,” Tucker shot back angrily.

Cathryn bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Yes, she did feel maligned. Maligned and betrayed. When she thought about all the things she and Dylan had done and shared over the past year—the hundreds of meals and chores, the socializing with friends, the lovemaking—oh, especially that…

Tucker got up and set his empty beer bottle in the sink, his scowl still in place. “Is he coming back tonight?” he asked, staring out the darkened window. Not a glimmer of daylight remained.

Cathryn needed a moment before she could answer. “No.”

Tucker turned in hopeful surprise. “Did you toss him out?”

“No! Of course not. Dylan simply thought it would be better if he left. Otherwise, he said, the house would be too tense, the possibility of our arguing in front of the kids too great.”

Tucker’s narrowed eyes met hers. “Do you have any idea when he will be back?”

“To live?” She swallowed more brandy, welcoming its numbing bite. “No. I asked, but all he said was, he needs time to sort things out.”

“Things?”

“How he feels, I guess. If he wants to stay in the marriage.”

“Is he going to continue seeing the Anderson woman?”

“I don’t know that, either.” She’d been afraid to ask. Afraid, also, to inquire where he’d be sleeping tonight.

Tucker folded his arms and rested his hip against the counter. “What are you going to do about the kids?”

“Oh, God. My kids.” Cathryn braced her forehead on one hand and closed her eyes. “They’re going to fall apart when they hear about this.” Out of the blue she burst into tears. She didn’t want to cry. Crying was weak and dumb and humiliatingly messy. But thinking of her kids broke down every defense she had.

She felt something nudge her elbow—a box of tissues Tucker was pushing at her. She helped herself to several, and after a lengthy mop-up said, “Dylan’s coming by tomorrow afternoon to help me tell them. He promised he’d be here when they got off the school bus. I’m not quite sure what we’ll say or how we’ll say it…” She’d never in her life felt so lost, so vulnerable. “Do you have any suggestions, Tuck?”

“Me?” He stood up straight. “Hell, I’m so out of my element here.” He sighed heavily, shook his head and contemplated the problem. “I probably wouldn’t say anything about the affair. You’ll have to tell them eventually—assuming your separation continues; in such a tight community, they’re bound to hear something. Better from you than some kid at school. But not tomorrow. They’ll have enough to cope with as it is.”

Cathryn plucked another tissue from the box and pressed it to her eyes, fighting back a renewed surge of tears. She nodded. “Yes. Better to take small steps, move the kids through this in stages.”

“Also, whatever you do, make sure you and Dylan tell them you love them.”

“Of course.”

“And that you’ll always love them, no matter what.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll always be there for them.”

“Okay.”

“And your problems are not their fault.”

She kept nodding, filing away his advice.

“Other than that,” he shrugged, “I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

Cathryn gazed up at Tucker, standing at the table with his large, suntanned hands resting on the bowed back of a chair. She studied his hair, caught back in a low ponytail, his beard, his garnet earring, his belt buckle with its carving of an eagle in flight, gripping a rattlesnake in its talons. She saw a man who, in giving advice regarding her children, claimed to be out of his element.

He could’ve fooled her.

Just then Tucker’s stomach growled. Loudly. “Oh, Tuck, I just realized how late it is. Have you had dinner?”

TUCKER BACKED UP a step. Hell, he thought, she was going to offer him something to eat. And although he was hungry, he’d much rather eat alone at his uncle’s house where no one’s problems but his own existed to give him indigestion. But he couldn’t very well leave Cathryn in her current state.

“Not yet. Have you?”

“No. But I’m not hungry. Please let me get something for you, though. There’s leftover stroganoff in the fridge, and homemade chicken soup, and tons of stuff in the freezer. Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza…”

“Pizza sounds good. Which freezer?”

“The chest.” She started to get up, swayed and gripped the table.

“I can get it. Frozen pizza is a bachelor’s specialty.” Tucker noticed she didn’t argue this time. She smiled feebly and sat.

Tucker opened the freezer and his mouth gaped. It was full of food, the kind of food he’d forgotten existed—roasts, pork chops, whole chickens, huge economy-size bags of vegetables, ice cream bars, homemade pies, gallons of milk. He didn’t even know milk could be frozen.

His aunt used to shop in bulk, too, stock up on the mainland a few times a year. He remembered the sense of security he’d felt looking into her storeroom, the sense of wealth, of provenance and self-sufficiency. Those feelings had been all new to him when he’d first arrived. Back in the Bronx, he’d often had nothing to eat at home and survived mostly by stealing.

He’d tried doing the same on Harmony, although he’d no longer had a need to. Stealing had just become a way of life. He’d gotten caught, of course. Here, proprietors recognized their customers and knew when stock had been tampered with.

He’d expected to be taken to the police station and then hauled off to juvie. But to his amazement, no one had prosecuted. Instead, they’d talked to him, helped him understand there was a different way to live. In exchange for his doing odd jobs, they’d given him spending money. Thus, he’d learned the value of working for a living; he’d learned decency and the true meaning of the phrase, “It takes a village…”

“Not the microwave!” Cathryn yowled. “That’ll make the pizza inedible!”

Tucker shrugged diffidently and moved to the stove. On the wall above the burners hung a plaque that read, Martha Stewart Doesn’t Live Here. But Cathryn McGrath Does!

With the pizza in the oven cooking properly, he turned and noticed Cathryn reaching for the bottle of brandy again. In three strides he arrived at the table and scooped the bottle away from her. “I think you should eat something. Drinking’s only going to give you new problems.” Hypocrite. If he’d been in Cathryn’s shoes, he’d already be passed out on the floor.

“Tuck, I can’t eat.” She did look kind of queasy.

“I know, it’s hard. You’re hurting pretty bad. But think of your kids, Shortcake. In the days ahead, they’re going to be hurting, too, and looking to you for comfort. To take care of them, you’ll have to be strong, and whether you want to face it or not, emotional strength and physical strength go hand-in-hand.” Tucker wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was talking about, but she seemed to buy it.

“Okay. Um…Soup, I guess.”

Tucker warmed a bowl of her homemade chicken soup—she conceded he could use the microwave for that—and set it on the table. “Eat slowly,” he admonished, donning a cow-shaped oven mitt before fetching his pizza.

Cathryn ate about half of her soup dutifully before sitting back and raising her hands in surrender. Tucker didn’t push the issue. He polished off his pizza with another of Dylan’s weak-as-piss beers, cleared the table and thought longingly again about going home. He needed to go home, needed to sit on the porch, clear his head in the cold night air and figure out how people became married, not separated.

But that would have to wait a little longer. While putting their plates in the dishwasher, he’d noticed Cathryn’s gaze drift toward the display of family photographs in the hutch, and there it remained.

“Cathryn?” he asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He wasn’t sure if the coordinated cloth towels were meant to be used.

She swallowed, turned and forced a teary smile. “Yes?”

“Are you still friendly with that redheaded girl? What was her name? Laura?”

The question surprised her and dried her tears. “Lauren?”

“Lauren. That’s it. Is she still around?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. She returned to Harmony just last year to buy her mother a house and ended up marrying her old boyfriend, Cameron Hathaway.”

Tucker, about to toss the wad of damp paper into the wastebasket, swung around in astonishment. “The kid who got her pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Why do you ask?”

Why? Because he needed help here. Because the situation was soon going to be more than he could handle. “Maybe we should call her, ask her to come over and stay with you.” Primarily he was thinking about getting Cathryn showered and put to bed. He’d watched her trying to stand a couple of times and knew she’d had too much brandy.

“Calling wouldn’t do any good,” Cathryn said, yawning widely. “Lauren and Cam went to Boston. They’re seeing Rent tonight. Not coming home till tomorrow.”

Tucker kept his curses silent. “How about your other friend, the one who used to do that show up at old man Finch’s crazy little radio station? She still around?”

It pleased him to see Cathryn smile. “Julia came back, too.” Her smile widened around another yawn. “Better watch out, Tuck. All she planned to do was attend a funeral, too, and she ended up marrying the editor of the island newspaper.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to keep up my guard. In the meantime, do you know Julia’s phone number offhand?”

“Forget it. Jules now owns Preston Finch’s crazy little radio station and is presently, even as we speak, doing her show. She won’t be off the air until eleven.”

Tucker’s heart sank. He knew enough not to ask about the other classmate who’d been Cathryn’s friend. He’d heard about her death. “Looks like I’m IT again,” he muttered in an undertone.

Cathryn blinked at him groggily, uncertain if he’d spoken. She looked so tired, he was sure that if he walked out now she’d fall asleep right there, head on the table, soiled clothes still on her back. Not that the clothes really mattered. But she might tumble off the chair and hurt herself. At the very least she’d wake up with a stiff neck.

“Okay, Shortcake,” he said, clapping and rubbing his hands as if he were about to propose a great adventure. “How about we head to the bathroom and get cleaned up for bed.”

She blinked again, her eyes widening with sudden alertness.

“I mean you,” he said quickly. “You get ready for bed. I’ll just be close by if you need help.”

Her face flushed a deep pink. “Thank you, but you’ve done more than enough already. You should go home.” Bracing on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet, and the color in her cheeks drained to ash.

Tucker flew around the table and supported her, one arm around her back, one under her elbow.

After a moment, she said, “I’m okay.”

“Great. I’ll hang on to you, then.” That earned him a gratifying chuckle—and compliance.

He escorted her through the living room, up the stairs to the bedroom she’d shared until now with Dylan. An oil portrait of them, twelve years younger and resplendent in wedding gear, hung over one of the washed-oak dressers. Ever so slowly, she gathered up her nightgown, slippers and robe. Tucker remained at her elbow, urging her onward whenever her path crossed an item of Dylan’s.

At last, he shuffled her into the adjoining bathroom, sat her on a brass vanity stool and removed her shoes.

“Tucker,” she protested, obviously embarrassed.

“That’s all. You can do the rest.” He stepped to the tub and slid open the glass shower door, moved some towels closer and spread a mat on the floor.

“Tucker,” she said on an exasperated chuckle. “I’m just tired and a bit tipsy. I haven’t been lobotomized.” She rose and pushed him out of the bathroom with surprising vigor. “Go home!” she ordered, shutting the door.

“Okay, see ya,” he called back, dropping into a comfy-looking reading chair. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and crack her head and be lying in there all night, alone and helpless.

His gaze roamed the room. It looked like something out of a J.C. Penney catalogue. Thick flowered comforter, matching curtains and table skirt and wall border. About thirty-two pillows on the bed…

Tucker’s gaze drifted to the wedding portrait again. Dylan was a handsome guy, he couldn’t deny that. But Tucker had gotten his number when they were still just kids. Although Dylan was a year younger than him, they’d shared a few mixed-grade classes, and Tucker had seen him cheating on tests. Later, he’d caught him cheating at cards. And there, standing beside the double-dealing bastard, was the straightest arrow Tuck had ever come across. Sincere, ingenuous Cathryn. Blind, gullible Cathryn.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened revealing pink, naked Cathryn.

Cathryn screamed and ducked back into the steam. Wincing, Tucker eased to his feet with thoughts of tiptoeing out of the room. As if that would erase what had just happened.

“Tucker!” she wailed from behind the closed door. “You said you were leaving.”

“I lied.”

“No kidding.”

The door opened again. She was bundled in flannel from chin to toe. Her wet hair, combed straight and sleek, framed a face that blazed.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker sputtered, embarrassed too. “I didn’t think.”

“Oh…” She flapped an arm as if to finish her statement. “It’s all right. With the beating my pride took today…” The sentence trailed off to another arm flap.

“Would you like some hot milk?”

She grimaced. “No. Please. Just my bed, although I doubt I’ll sleep. My mind keeps racing.”

“Well, at least give it a try. Remember, you have to be strong for the kids.”

Tucker regretted taking that approach. Her expression filled with sadness. Still, she nodded and said, “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now, hit the sack, lady.”

Cathryn climbed onto the bed on all fours, batting away pillows until only two remained. Real pillows. Then she flopped face forward into one of them. “Good night,” she said, her words severely muffled.

Tucker tugged the comforter down, pulling it under her, until it cleared her slippered feet, then covered her with it and sat on the edge of the bed.

She turned her head and said, “Go home.”

He smiled and placed his hand on her head. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said, lightly stroking her wet hair. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

Cathryn swallowed, pressed a bunched hand to her mouth, and tears glistened along the lashes of her closed eyes. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He could get up now, he realized. He could go downstairs and have another beer and watch TV. But he sat awhile longer, stroking her hair and wishing he could say everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. All he could say was, “I’ll be here,” because his instincts were telling him that nothing was going to be right in Cathryn’s world for a very long time.