“I can’t. I won’t, Sloane.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she inhaled deeply, “I don’t believe in marriage.”
“Ah,” he sighed and looked at the ceiling for a minute. “I remember you told me that once before. I let it pass then, but I will not now. What is so terrible about marriage?”
“It brings nothing but misery.”
“That’s not true—”
“Itis,Sloane!” she interrupted forcefully. “I see it constantly in my work. Marriage seems to turn people hard and vindictive! It’s marriage that—”
It was Sloane’s turn to interrupt. “Not marriage, Justine. Love. Love … and the lack of it. If a marriage is built on love—as ours would be—the chances of success are high.”
She shook her head sadly. “You don’t understand.
“I understand that you’re afraid. You’re afraid to make a commitment to another person.”
“That’s ridiculous! I make commitments to people every day! When I take on a case, I make a commitment to that particular client.”
The bridge of his nose drew taut with tension as he struggled for control. “There are many different kinds of commitment. I’m talking about the family kind … a husband … children—”
“No!” she shrieked unthinkingly, then quickly quieted. “I don’t want to get married.”
Sloane’s patience seemed fast dwindling, as his rising voice implied. “Then whatdoyou want? You say you love me, and you know that I love you. Where do we go from here, if not into marriage?”
Perspiration beaded thinly above her upper lip, born of nerves rather than the small room’s slowly dissipating heat. This was the question she had refused to face as yet. Sloane was forcing the issue. “I don’t know,” she finally murmured in defeat.
“Well, that’s just fine!” He raised his hands, then let them fall limp by his sides. “Would you suggest we just say ‘good-bye’ and go our separate ways—after this, this weekend?”
“No.” The moist green pools of her eyes pleaded with him for some miraculous solution to the quandary.
“Then, what?” he prodded relentlessly, deep grooves carved by his mouth. “Should we just continue to have … an affair? Would you like to be my mistress … no further strings attached? Is that what would please you?”
“I—I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Perhaps we should simply pass on the streets, in the corridors of your precious firm, and be good friends.” His eyes suddenly took on a deeper tinge in passion’s wake. “That would never work, Justine. I cannot see you”—he stepped closer—“without wanting to touch you”—he did—“to hold you”—he did—“to make love to you—”
She tore herself from his arms and fled to the bedroom, scooping up her clothes as she went. Sloane was close on her heels. “Running away from it won’t do any good!” he roared. But, if he was nearing the end of his taut cord of control, Justine was no less so. Her body shook with tremors of emotion as she started to dress. His bellow shook her even more. “Iloveyou, you fool! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It’s not enough!” she yelled, an equal partner now in the shouting match. “The odds are still against us!”
Suddenly, he grew more calm. “But aren’t they worth risking? Isn’t the end result worth taking the chance?” It was his quiet pleading that finally broke her.
“I can’t,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes and tightening her throat. As her cheeks grew wet, she turned away from him, hugging her stomach protectively. In the silence that followed, she wondered if he had given up. She flinched when he stepped around in front of her, clad only in his jeans, his feet and upper torso bare.
“There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.” He paused, calculating her air of dejection, sensing confirmation of his suspicion in her lack of denial. “What is it, Justine? It has to do with … your family, doesn’t it?”
When she tried to turn from him, he held her, his strong hands gentle but firm on her arms. Head bent, she shook it, refusing to confront that old pain. But Sloane was persistent. “I have a right to know, Justine. I love you. I want you to bemyfamily, to help memake myfamily. You are a seeker of the truth, aren’t you? Then respect my need for it, too. If you’re asking me to settle for something less than what my heart wants, you owe me this much.”
She could fight him no longer. Inching away from him, she moved the short distance to the wall, propped her back against it, and slid down until she sat at its base, knees bent up, arms clamped tightly around them. “My parents fought from the earliest time I could remember,” she began, releasing the hold on her mind, letting it make the agonizing journey back over the years. “My father was a businessman, trying to get started. Money was a constant issue between them. My mother had patience for neither my father nor me.” She looked up sadly at Sloane. “I took after him—the hair coloring and all.” That very coloring, vivid now in hair dried freely and with benefit of neither comb nor brush, gave her a frail, waiflike air. She felt, indeed, small and vulnerable.
“They separated when I was eight, divorced when I was nine. In the meantime, I was shuttled back and forth between neighbors and relatives, never quite knowing where I would be spending the next week, month, or year. I …” She faltered, recalling those years of insecurity so sharply. “I withdrew into myself … buried myself in fantasy as much as was possible. It was a difficult situation, you see. My father wanted me, but it was my mother who had the money—her family’s money—to raise me in the style she felt I should be raised. My mother didn’t wantme; she simply didn’t want my father to have me! So I was bounced around for a while.”
Breathing deeply, she forced herself to retain some measure of composure. The tears had dried, yet she felt on edge. Sloane had not said a word; his tall form was ramrod straight, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, their balled fists clearly marked. The muscle of his jaw moved once, then again. “Go on.”His traditional command,she mused somberly, recalling other times when he had used it. As in those cases, she acquiesced.
“It finally went to court. I was the star witness. What was it like living at home? they asked me. Were my parents good to me? Could I talk with my mother? With my father? Whom did I feel most comfortable with? Had anyone ever struck me? Didheread me good-night stories? Didshesit down at night and comb my hair?” Closing her eyes, she pictured that nightmare, reliving it and its pain once more. “They kept repeating that everyone should remember that I was only nine years old. What did I know about things? they implied. Well”—she turned her gaze, strong and venom-filled, at Sloane—“I knew plenty! I knew the guilt of having to testify in favor of, then against, a parent. I knew the confusion of being pulled from both ends. I knew the fear of punishment, of reprisal. I was terrified!”
