Her eyes, in all their emerald sharpness, reflected that terror, bringing Sloane down to kneel before her and stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry, Justine. I didn’t know—”
“There’s more!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry at having been forced into the declaration. “You wanted to hear? Well, there’s more. You see, not only did I hear my parents’ arguments, but I heard the gossip of the neighbors. My mother was a selfish witch, they said, who only wanted to cover her own mistake—the mistake being marrying my father in the first place. I was the major pawn; she also wanted to recover the money her family had invested in his business. Make him suffer. After all, they said,hewas out having a good time. The ‘Red Rover,’ they called him on occasion. Fast and wild with the women, they said. A rogue … a dandy … you name it. I heard it all, but somewhere, deep inside, I knew that he loved me.”
Suddenly, she was crying again. Soft sobs escaped her lips as she buried her face against her knees. Sloane’s hand massaged her neck, his fingers working on the tautness there.
“I’m sure he did, Justine,” he crooned gently. “What finally happened? I want to hear it all.”
“My mother was given custody, at which point she handed me over to whoever was willing to keep an eye on me for a year or two. Aunts, cousins—I finally spent most of my teenage years with a great-aunt. Then, I came east to college and … you know the rest.”
Haying bared herself of the sordid story, she felt relieved. Her body yielded as Sloane drew her closer against him, and she succumbed to his comforting warmth. “Did you see your father much?”
“Never.Shesaw to that! Even though she didn’t care to spend much time with me herself, she was determined that he should never see me. When I was a child, I was too young to know any better. I didn’t fight the edict. As I grew older, I always wondered about him but … I was … I still am … frightened. There’s always that chance that he didn’t really want me either—that I remindedhimofher—thathewanted me simply because she saidshedid!” She shook her head against his chest. “It’s all very ugly.”
“So you’ve made it your life’s work to help people—children—who are put in similar positions?”
His perceptivity stunned her. She hadn’t quite expected him to make the connection as quickly as he had. “Yes. I have.”
“And in the process,” his voice hardened noticeably, “you see only the negative in marriage. You’ve surrounded yourself with failures. You refuse to look at the others—the successes.”
“No, it’s not that at all—”
“Isn’t it?” he growled dangerously, holding her back and spearing her with his daggered look. “It’s self-reinforcing—your work. What we have here is a self-fulfilling prophesy once removed. You see failure after failure and are now totally convinced that that’s all there is.” Justine could only stare in shock at Sloane’s rising anger. They had come full circle; was it possible he could not understand what she was trying to say? His next words were in apparent proof of this. “Youareafraid, Justine. I’ve heard your story and, as painful as it must have been, the living of it is only an excuse. The fact that you remained a virgin for twenty-nine years then gave that virginity to me should tell you something….” He stood tall now, drawn high in conviction. “But you’re afraid to take the greater chance. Evidently you don’t love me enough!” With a final glower of dismissal, he stalked from the room, his bare feet echoing on the flooring in ever-fading pads.
At that instant something within Justine shriveled and died. It was as though she were a balloon, inflated, inflated, inflated, with each breath a bit of the fullness Sloane brought to her life—then suddenly, the air sputtered madly out, leaving her hopelessly empty, totally drained. Happiness burst before Sloane’s dark accusation. She didn’t love him enough? Was that why the pain inside grew ever larger, to replace that awesome void?
A month passed with no word from Sloane. It was, for Justine, a month as tedious as any she had ever spent. For her life was strangely dichotomized, with gross distinctions between the lawyer Justine and the woman Justine, and an ongoing war, albeit cold, between the two. There was the Justine O’Neill who entered, with determination, the domain of Ivy, Gates and Logan every morning, who conducted her meetings with clients and attorneys in her usually efficient and humanistic way, who operated in the courtroom with the same aplomb for which she had become known. Then, however, there was the Justine O’Neill who returned home alone at night tired, discouraged, lonely, restless, and seemingly unable to rally her private wits about her.
Over and over she relived the weekend in Westport, its love, its passion, and, finally, its grief. Sloane would simply not compromise, it appeared, if the month’s silence was any indication of his intent. Either she would marry him … or their relationship was at an end. Such seemed the ultimatum he had wordlessly given her. Though her heart ached inconsolably, she was unable to give in. There had been too much anguish in her past; she saw too much of it in her present. She wanted freedom from that particular torment. Unfortunately, in choosing that freedom she had unknowingly opted for a different brand of torment, one that came from deep within and robbed her of the ability to smile.
“You’re looking very sober lately, Justine.” John stood at the door of her office late one afternoon, when most of the firm had left for the night. “Overworked?”
“No more so than usual.” Her hand continued to move across the page, her pen making notes for a speech she was scheduled to deliver the following morning.
“Then you aren’t getting enough sleep. You look tired.” Having invited himself in, he now sat leisurely in the chair before her desk.
“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” She glanced up quickly, her sarcasm coated with fatigue. “I love it when you say such nice things.”
“I wasn’t trying to be ‘nice.’ You do look tired. Man troubles?”
“No.”
“Too fast.” He caught her. “That came out a bit too fast. Is it Sloane?”
“I haven’t seen Sloane in weeks.” Her pen bore the brunt of the teeth she sank into its tip.
John’s blue eyes harrowed in hint of amusement. “So that’s the trouble.”
“John,” she sighed wearily, putting the pen down with a snap, “I’m really not in the mood for discussing this. It’s been a very bad day. Please—” Her throat felt suddenly strained, and, for a horrifying moment, she thought she would cry. Tears had been all too common in her private hours; up until now she had mercifully managed to keep them private. With every bit of her willpower, she swallowed convulsively, ordering herself to maintain composure. It worked, though her struggle did not go unnoticed by her colleague.
“He may just be playing it cool, you know. Men do that sometimes. And the fox—the fox is an expert at avoiding the trap.”
Justine’s sharp laugh was a surprise to even her. Though it was devoid of humor, it was the first such sound she’d made in days.Avoiding the trap,she mused—hewasthe trap!
Misinterpreting her response as a sign of encouragement, a hint of her opening up on the matter, John continued. “The fox has unique methods of breaking the line of scent, of misleading and confounding all those after him.” She lifted a shaped eyebrow in curiosity, unconsciously egging him on. “Sure. He stops in his tracks, turns around, retraces them for a while, turns front again and moves ahead just a fraction of that distance—then suddenly bounds sideways, off the track, preferably into a stream or onto the top of a fence, and runs off.”
“Fascinating,” she grumbled facetiously, wondering just how she had managed to find this wildlife expert—or he, her.
“He even manages to hop onto the back of a sheep once in a while, to hook a free ride, track free, then jump off when the coast is clear. Very clever, if I don’t say so myself.” He smiled, so caught up with his discourse that her frown was ignored.
