What love and trust had once set free.
Poetry. Kendra sat abruptly on the edge of the desk. Trick, a poet? She never would have thought it; in fact, had someone suggested such, she would have laughed herself silly.
She didn’t know her husband at all.
He’d been hurt by someone, terribly. Her heart clenched as she suddenly understood his words:I don’t believe in love at all. Maybe I did once…but not anymore. Love’s only an illusion.
Who had done what to him to make him feel this way? Was he never happy? The paper seemed brittle when she set it down—as brittle as the words upon it. But the words on the sheet underneath did nothing to soothe her sympathetic ache.
Twixt fathers and tyrants a difference is known:
Fathers seek their sons’ good, tyrants their own.
With a sinking heart, she riffled through the pages, pausing to read here and there. The touching verses hinted at events in Trick’s life that had shaped him into the man she saw today. Pain, anger, disillusionment…ah, there it was. Love, happiness. His hand was lighter here; the words fairly leapt off the page in their exuberance.
Sweet day, happy, calm and bright
Love has brought me to this light
The sun that sits in yonder sky
Today can shine not more than I
And if tomorrow it should rain
Her smile will make sun shine again
She bit her lip. Was this written of the same love that had later turned to betrayal? Could this carefree Trick live somewhere beneath the cynical man who shared her home? If trust had been shattered by one woman, could another restore it?
Hoofbeats. Oh, God, he was on his way back. She stuffed the poems beneath the other papers and locked the drawer, then jumped to the chair to replace the key. She was just pushing the chair back to the desk when the door flew open and Trick sauntered inside with the bundle of hats under one arm, the pipes under the other.
He dropped it all in a corner. “Ready to go?”
His crooked grin made her heart leap; he was so unsuspecting. She flushed, unbearably guilty just looking at him after reading his private compositions.
“I suppose,” she said. “Though I was hoping we could talk.”
“Now? About what?”
“Life. Yours.” She met his gaze, willing him to share some of his past. “And mine, of course. All the years that led to now. The people who loved us—”
“None.”
“—and hurt us.”
He only shrugged. “None worth talking about.”
“And what we like…for instance, do you like to write? I keep a journal, and sometimes I’ve written poems.”
“Poems?” His gaze flickered down to the drawer. “No, I don’t like to write.” He leaned past her to blow out the candle. “Come along, will you?” he said, going to the door. “I’ve much to do.”
Crushed that he refused to even consider confiding in her, Kendra pushed by him and outside. Before she could mount Pandora, he caught her by the arm.
“I know you mean well,” he said softly.
Silent, she searched his eyes, gray in the darkness.
They went darker still. “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy,” he said.
