Claire didn’t know how she could stay with Isaac for any length of time without getting in his way. He said he didn’t want her to see other men, and he acted as if he didn’t plan to see anyone else, either, but that would necessitate a pretty big change of behavior, and she had no confidence he could pull it off long-term. In a day or two, maybe even tomorrow, she could be packing her bags and dragging them somewhere else, humiliated because the whole town would then be privy to their breakup. She’d placed her pride—as well as almost all her other relationships—on the line.
A soft knock interrupted. “You going to be in there all night?”
Claire wished she could stay in the bathroom. It felt safer than anywhere else at the moment. “I’m coming.”
“That was your friend on the phone,” he volunteered.
She put on a pair of panties and a T-shirt, one of her own. She couldn’t wear David’s when she was with Isaac. But she craved the comfort and familiarity of it. She craved David’s blessing on what she was doing, too. He’d always been a stabilizing influence in her life. “Laurel?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she waiting to speak to me?”
“No. I said you were in the shower.”
“What did she want?”
“To pick you up.”
David, should I go to Laurel’s?
There was no point in asking—she received no answer. She hadn’t felt her husband’s presence in a long time. Had he left her for good?
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re fine here.”
Was she?
“Isn’t that true?” he asked when she didn’t respond.
“Of course. I—I appreciate your hospitality. But I can’t imagine I’ll need to inconvenience you for long.”
There was a significant pause before he spoke again. “Is that what you’re doing? Inconveniencing me?”
She was coming across as too stilted, but she didn’t know how to act anymore. She’d become estranged from the people who were normally close to her, and grown close to the one person from whom she was normally estranged. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a rough day. Do we have to define…anything?”
His tone softened. “No. I think we’re both too tired for that.”
“Thanks.”
“Does that mean you’ll open the door and come to bed?”
The number of beds in his house hadn’t changed. Unless she opted for the couch, they’d be sleeping together.
Tonight she probably would’ve chosen the couch, except she didn’t feel that would seem very grateful after all he’d done for her. “Sure, I’ll be right there.”
Hoping he’d be asleep when she slipped into the room, she turned on the sink faucet as if she still had to brush her teeth. She’d already done it, twice, but she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t even want the lights on. She hoped to crawl in beside him and escape consciousness until she could rebound, at least a little.
But when she came out, he was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, waiting for her. “You okay?”
He’d asked her this at the diner. She was tempted to give the same meaningless and automatic answer—to conceal the morass of emotion inside her. Except that she wasn’t “fine.” Not at all. “I don’t want to lose my family,” she admitted.
“Are you saying you’d like me to fire the P.I.? That you’d like to let the past stand as it is? That’s an option, you know.” It wasn’t an option. Not anymore. It was too late. “This has gone too far. If I turn back now I’ll always doubt them.”
“If they hurt your mother, they should be held accountable.”
Part of her agreed with that. The other part felt it would be another catastrophe, another loss. “I know.”
“You can handle whatever happens.”
Right or wrong, his words were reassuring. With a crooked grin that seemed to echo his confidence in her, he led her into his room. She thought maybe he’d waited for her to come out of the bathroom because he wanted to make love, but she didn’t have it in her, and he seemed to understand. He peeled off his jeans and tossed them on a chair, but he didn’t remove his T-shirt and boxers or try to convince her to disrobe. He simply pulled her into bed with him and held her until she felt so warm and secure the tension drained away.
She could get used to sleeping with him, she thought. Even with the disaster her life seemed to be at the moment, resting her head on his shoulder made her happy. But that was exactly what scared her.
Sleep weighed down her eyelids, but she forced them open so she could see his profile in the dark. “Isaac?”
“Hmm?” He sounded half-asleep himself.
“It could’ve been Les Weaver who trashed my house.”
He shifted, ran a hand through her hair. “What makes you think that?”
“The call he made to me. He might’ve been the one who called you, too.”
His arm curled, bringing her even closer. “Thinking it was Les is easier than thinking it was your sister.”
“That’s not the only reason. My sister would never hurt me like that.”
He changed the subject, which led her to believe he didn’t agree. “I’ll call Myles first thing in the morning. I’m not sure he’ll be happy to hear from me, but I want to see if he ever came up with those phone records.”
Myles hadn’t treated Isaac all that well at her house today. They’d exchanged a few terse words, but for the most part Myles had addressed her as if Isaac wasn’t there. “My friends are just trying to look out for me. You understand that, don’t you?” she murmured.
“I understand.”
Sliding her hand up under his shirt, she lightly fingered his stitches to reassure herself that his wound was healing. Then she placed her palm on his pectoral muscle, taking solace in the steady thump of his heart. She hadn’t wanted to be with him when she got here tonight, hadn’t known how to react to all the changes, but she felt calmer now, and grateful for his support.
“Isaac?”
“What?”
“You feel good,” she said.
“Even though I’m not David?”
“Even though you’re not David.”
His lips brushed her temple. “You’re safe here, Claire. Get some sleep.”
21
It was midmorning by the time Isaac woke, easily ten or eleven o’clock. Even then it wasn’t the brightness of the sun or the late hour that brought him to consciousness; it was Claire. She was stirring—no, more than stirring. She’d taken off her clothes and was trying to remove his.