Second Honeymoon

“I didn’t say that, Lucy.” Belatedly Troy struggled to find the right words. “I want intimacy and companionship and a family—all the things you and I shared that felt so right. The things that made me so happy. I still want them with you, of course I do. But——”

“I can’t, Troy! Not again, never again…It hurts too much.”

It was a cry from the heart. “You can’t hide forever,” he said fiercely. “You never were afraid of living, Lucy. When I met you, you had enormous courage.”

“That was then. This is now. I’ve changed; you’ve got to accept that.”

“I won’t allow you to turn into someone less than who you are!”

“Maybe you have no control over it,” she retorted. “I’m not one of your patients—I’m not a nurse you can order around.”

“Dammit, I’m not like that! I love you—that’s why I’m here.”

“Love should set you free,” she said incoherently. “You brandish love in front of me like a set of chains.”

With deadly emphasis Troy said, “So the answer’s divorce.”

“Stop putting words into my mouth! I’ve seen you once in the last year, yet you waltz in here, as though you own the place, and expect me to make a huge decision with all kinds of ramifications in the space of five minutes, just because it’s convenient for you—you really do have a nerve, Troy.”

“So how long will it take you to make up your mind?”

“How can I possibly know that?” she snapped.

“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” he said furiously. “Keep me dangling like some kind of tame rabbit and in the meantime live exactly as you please. It won’t wash, Lucy. I’m sick to death of it.”

“I’m not making a decision at eleven o’clock at night that’s going to affect my whole life,” she seethed. “Go home, Troy. On the first plane. I’ll write to you; I promise.”

Knowing he was shooting himself in the foot, yet hearing the words spill from his mouth, Troy sneered, “And does that promise mean any more to you than the blueberry muffins you promised Quentin?”

“You really are intolerable,” Lucy cried. “Get out of here. I’ve had more than enough and right now divorce seems like a very viable option.” She whirled and flung the door open. “I’ve said I’ll write to you, and I will.”

He let go of the table, flexing his fingers, and crossed the painted wooden floorboards. “You can’t fool me—you don’t like the word divorce any more than I do. You might want to think about that tomorrow while you’re mixing that batch of muffins.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You might also want to think of what best honors our son’s memory. Running away from reality like a child afraid of the dark—or embracing everything that life brings with it, both good and bad, happy and tragic.” Lightly he ran one finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Goodnight.”

He walked out on to the porch and closed the door in Lucy’s face. Her jaw had dropped at his last speech—almost the only one he’d made that he’d rehearsed beforehand—and she’d been, temporarily anyway, speechless. He had needed that small victory, because his whole body felt sore, as though an unseen opponent had pummeled him mercilessly against a concrete wall.

She hadn’t agreed to a divorce. But she had accused him of holding her captive with a love that was like chains.

An image he hated with all his soul.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9df19475-d984-5cff-9e3f-b9be10cb1938)

WHEN the bell chimed for breakfast the next morning, Troy had just finished shaving. He gazed at himself in the mirror, dabbing at the small cut on his chin. He looked exactly like a man who’d had about three hours’ sleep. Although three was probably an exaggeration.

His eyes, deepset at the best of times, were now bruised by the remnants of a night trapped between nightmares and the raging hunger of his sexuality. To know that Lucy was so near and yet so far had been torture. Worse, perhaps, had been the extinguishing of any hope that he no longer cared for her. He loved her—heart, soul and body. He’d probably, he thought gloomily, running a comb through his hair, love her forever.

For all the good it would do him.

His mother had once compared the color of his eyes to the rock from the quarry near where he’d grown up. Maybe chains were that same unrevealing, stony gray. If he stayed here, would he be treating Lucy like some medieval prisoner? Manacling her to him by force?

His cut appeared to have stopped bleeding; he should go down to breakfast. He straightened the mirror, remembering how Lucy had used to love tracing the strong line of his nose and the curve of his lips down to the cleft in his chin with her fingertip. She had used to find him irresistible.

Not any more.

If he were smart he’d take her advice and get on the first flight out of here. And then he’d accept the job in Arizona. If she did come back to him they could live just as well in Arizona as in Vancouver; with her at his side, he didn’t care where he lived.

She was afraid of love. Afraid of its costs and penalties.

Or else she hated his guts; that didn’t seem too unlikely either.

He adjusted the collar of his blue open-necked shirt and then, as though he couldn’t help himself, he replaced his wedding-ring on his left hand.

When he went downstairs only his place was empty at the trestle table; the birders had all been up at dawn and were now ravenously tucking into heaped blueberry pancakes and jugs of hot maple syrup. The buff-breasted sandpiper had been usurped by the long-billed dowitcher as the main topic of discussion. Troy drained his orange juice and helped himself to a pancake.

“Would you like coffee?”