Used-To-Be Lovers

Sharon yawned. “Well, I think I’ll turn in,” she said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Tony responded in a bland tone, still immersed in the plans for the next project.

Sharon fought an utterly childish urge to spill her coffee all over his blueprints and left the table. Halfway up the stairs, she looked back and saw that Tony was watching her.

For a moment she froze in the grip of some unnamed emotion passing between them, but her paralysis was broken when Tony dropped his gaze to his work.

Upstairs, Sharon took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, pulled on a cotton nightgown and crawled into the big, lonely bed. Gazing up at the slanted ceilings and blinking back tears of frustration, she wriggled down under the covers and ordered herself to sleep.

But instead of dreaming, Sharon reviewed the events of the evening and wondered why she couldn’t talk to Tony anymore. Each time she tried, she ended up baiting him, or sliding some invisible door closed between them, or simply running away.

She was painfully conscious of his nearness and of her need for him, which had not been assuaged by months of telling herself that the relationship was over. She put one hand over her mouth to keep from calling his name.

From downstairs she heard the low but swelling strains of familiar music. Once, the notes had rippled over her like the rays of the sun on a pond, filling her with light. They had flung her high on soaring crescendos, even as she clung to Tony and cried out in passion….

Sharon burrowed beneath the covers and squeezed her eyes shut and, an eternity later, she slept. When she awakened the room was filled with sunlight and the scent of fresh coffee.

After a long, leisurely stretch, Sharon opened her eyes. A dark head rested on the pillow beside hers, and she felt a muscular leg beneath the softness of her thigh.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, “we made love and I missed it!”

A hoarse laugh sounded from the pillow. “No such luck,” Tony said. “Our making love, I mean. We didn’t.”

Sharon sat up, dragging the sheets up to cover her bosom even though she was wearing a modest cotton nightgown. She distinctly remembered putting it on, and with a quick motion of her hands, she lifted the sheet just far enough away from her body that she could check. The nightgown was still in evidence.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing, Tony Morelli?” she demanded furiously.

He rolled onto his back, not even bothering to open his eyes, and simultaneously pulled the covers up over his face, muttering insensibly all the while.

“You guys made up, huh?” Briana asked from the doorway. She was all smiles and carrying two cups of coffee, hence the delicious aroma.

“No, we didn’t,” Sharon said primly.

“Not a very diplomatic answer,” Tony observed from beneath the covers. “Now, she’s going to ask—”

“Then how come you’re in bed together?” the child demanded.

“See?” said Tony.

Sharon elbowed him hard, and crimson color flooded her face. “I don’t know,” she said with staunch conviction.

Briana brought the coffee to the end table on Sharon’s side of the bed, and some of it slopped over when she set the cups down. There were tears brimming in her eyes.

“Damn you, Tony,” Sharon whispered, as though there were no chance of Bri’s not hearing what she said. “Explain this to her—right now!”

With a groan, Tony dramatically fought his way out from under the blankets and sat up. “There’s only one bed,” he said reasonably, running a hand through his rumpled hair and then yawning again. “The couch is too short for me, so I just crawled in with your mom.”

“Oh,” Bri said grudgingly, and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

“She didn’t understand,” Sharon lamented.

Tony reached past her to collect one of the cups of coffee. “Kids don’t need to understand everything,” he said.

If the man hadn’t been holding a steaming hot cup of coffee, Sharon would have slapped him. As it was, she glared at him and stretched out a hand for her own cup.

After a while Tony got up and wandered into the adjoining bathroom, and Sharon didn’t look to see whether or not he was dressed. When he returned, he crawled back into bed with her, rolling over so that one of his legs rested across both of hers.

His mouth descended toward hers, smelling of toothpaste, and he was definitely not dressed.

“Tony, don’t—”

The kiss was warm, gentle and insistent. Sharon trembled as all the familiar sensations were awakened, but she also braced both hands against Tony’s chest and pushed.

The motion didn’t eliminate all intimate contact—Tony had shifted his weight so that he was resting lightly on top of her—but it did make it possible to speak.

“No,” Sharon said clearly.

Tony slid downward, kissing her jawline, the length of her neck, her collarbone.

“No,” she repeated with less spirit.

His lips trailed across her collarbone and then downward. He nibbled at her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

Her voice was a whimper. “No,” she said for the third time.

Tony’s mouth came to hers; his tongue traced the outline of her lips. “You don’t mean that,” he told her.

Sharon was about to admit he was right when there was a knock at the door and Bri called out in sunny tones, “Breakfast is served!”

Tony was sitting up, both hands buried in his hair, when Briana and Matt entered the room carrying trays.

3

The downstairs carpets were far from dry. “Leave the fans on for another day or so,” Tony said distantly. Standing beside the dining room table, he rolled up a set of plans and slid it back inside its cardboard cylinder.

A sensation of utter bereftness swept over Sharon, even though she knew it was best that he leave. The divorce was final; it was time for both of them to let go. She managed a smile and an awkward, “Okay—and thanks.”

The expression in Tony’s eyes was at once angry and forlorn. He started to say something and then stopped himself, turning away to stare out the window at Bri and Matt, who were chasing each other up and down the stony beach. Their laughter rang through the morning sunshine, reminding Sharon that some people still felt joy.

She looked down at the floor for a moment, swallowed hard and then asked, “Tony, are you happy?”

The powerful shoulders tensed beneath the blue cambric of his shirt, then relaxed again. “Are you?” he countered, keeping his back to her.

“No fair,” Sharon protested quietly. “I asked first.”

Tony turned with a heavy sigh, the cardboard cylinder under his arm. “I used to be,” he said. “Now I’m not sure I even know what it means to be happy.”

Sharon’s heart twisted within her; she was sorry she’d raised the question. She wanted to say something wise and good and comforting, but no words came to her.