I waited in the doorway, stuck to the spot, watching her fiddle with her things in that hideous, banged-up micro SUV of hers. A pang of guilt struck me on top of the mess of shame I was already carrying. Now that I noticed how bad the rain was coming down, it was a wonder she’d made it up these roads at all.
She slipped out of her tiny clunker of an SUV and made a run for it, towards me. My stress-addled mind eased.
Could it be that she recognizes me?
I couldn’t make out her facial expression in all that rain. She’d parked too far away from the house, nowhere near the awning, and the rain soaked her immediately, her short dress clinging to her curves, water running down her legs in long streaming rivulets. Her jacket was a flimsy-looking thing that did nothing to protect her from the torrent pouring down.
She hesitated, and I couldn’t figure out why. Either she didn’t recognize me or she knew exactly who I was and she wasn’t happy about it. Which one was it?
Then the rain kicked up, andreallydrove down, so she trotted over a few steps. By the time she was close enough that I could read her facial expression, I could tell she was in trouble. Her heel slid in the gravel, and her ankle twisted hard. I didn’t know if I’d imagined a faintcrack. I ran out to her, desperate to keep her from landing in the slurry of mud and forest debris rushing past my cabin door.
I made it to her in time, barely, and she collapsed into my arms. A soft grunt escaped her.
“Easy there.” I steadied her against my body, instinctively, to keep her from falling.
But she pushed back from me, with force.
Also instinctively.
And she righted herself on her own.
No, she didn’t remember the last time she was in my arms. I could see that now. I tried to shake it off, but it bothered me. I’d braced myself for this moment. I’d imagined this encounter a thousand times or more, going any which way.
You don’t start life in juvenile detention, graduate to the U.S. Army’s random directionless, endless wars, and then self-promote to local sheriff without a certain amount of pessimism running through your veins.
Still, the searing disappointment inside me suggested otherwise. I’d wanted her so bad, I’d fooled myself into thinking she’d want me too.
The past few months had been a whirlwind. Maybe it was the early retirement. Or maybe it was my $2.65 billion dollar jackpot hit, playing the lottery on a whim.
I’d tried to stay humble, to remember my limits, but it had been an uphill battle against magical thinking, and I’d gone into this particular rendezvous with my ego inflated.
Now I could tell by the hateful gleam in both her eyes, not only was she about to deflate that ego for me, but she’d more than likely stomp on it too, sprained ankle or not.
I caught a glimpse of pain on her face. She shifted the weight to her other foot and pretended she wasn’t hurt.
“We’d better get you inside,” I said. I had to shout, the rain had gotten so loud banging down against the cabin’s roof. My sweater was soaked through already, but it was wool, so I was still pretty toasty. Her outfit, on the other hand, was a fast ticket to hypothermia. These mountain rains still hadn’t gotten the memo that it was summer in East Greenwich. And it was an especially cold downpour tonight. I sidled up next to her and stuck out my arm for her to lean on.
She didn’t move. “Where’s the gala?” She glared at me, unblinking, her hair hanging in drenched curls around her face.
“Come on inside first.”
She clutched her purse tight to her body and stuck out her chin. “Lead the way,” she said.
She wouldn’t take my arm, so I had to listen to her staggering steps trailing me, limping godawfully the whole way in, and with those torturous shoes on, until I started to feel nauseous imagining how much pain she must be in. When we got inside the door, and I closed it behind her, she stood right next to it. Too close. I imagined she’d yank it open and run back outside at any moment.
In her line of work, she’d probably had to do that before.
It didn’t take long before she started shivering, all over.
“You’re cold,” I said. “Can I get you a towel, or a blanket? Or we could hang your clothes by the fire,” I offered. “I mean, I’ll get you something dry, um, to wear in the meantime.”
“I can sit by the fire for a moment before we hit the road.” Her voice was hard. She clomped over to the sofa.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“No,” she lied.
“Oh. Good.” She wasn’t going to let me rescue her this time. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security by her cooperation last time. Turned out that was all the smoke inhalation in play. When she wasn’t oxygen deprived, she was all claws. “Well, can I make you a tea, or a coffee? Something to warm you up?”
