The First Wife. Tara Quinn Taylor
wrong. Since their sole purpose is victim support, I figured they’d know if I needed help. I told them everything. They said that there was no evidence of abuse.”
“Even with what the police and doctor had said? Even with your doubts?”
“They said that my doubts were indicative of a problem in my marriage, but that as far as obtaining a protection order was concerned, I didn’t have enough evidence.”
Jane was fiddling with the lid of the strawberry container. Opening and closing it. Watching the movement. Not at all the head-up-and-shoulders-straight woman he knew.
“Maybe they were wrong.”
“I don’t think so, Brad. I think my doubts were a result of professionals who had to do their jobs or risk potential lawsuits. While I was at Victim Witness another woman came in. She was bruised and swollen and she’d been sitting in the outer office, waiting for the counselor to be done with me. She could hardly speak. She was crying, but one eye was so swollen the tears couldn’t escape.
“She had two little kids with her, younger than four. They huddled against her and even as scared as she was, she protected them fiercely.
“Seeing them was a life-changing moment for me. That was what abuse looked like. I couldn’t get that family out of my mind and from then on I quit feeling sorry for myself. I made the decision that I was going to spend my life helping women not to live like that. I started volunteering as a receptionist at that office the very next week.”
Jane had never told him how she got her start with the women they helped. He’d never asked, assuming that she’d somehow fallen into it through her work—as he had.
“James and I had some bad fights after that,” she added, her voice soft and distant. “And not once did I get hurt. Nor was I ever physically afraid of him. Like I said. The incidents were accidents.”
Brad didn’t believe her. But he didn’t have any real reason not to, so kept his thoughts to himself. Maybe he’d seen too much of the other side. Maybe knowing that, statistically, one in two women suffered some form of spousal abuse had clouded his judgment. Maybe his perspective was too jaded.
And maybe not.
“Besides, one thing I know is that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself and those around me.”
Jane’s description fit the woman he knew.
“I’ve always had preservation instincts,” she continued, her voice going stronger. And when she smiled, Brad smiled with her. “I remember when I was a kid and I couldn’t wait for my dad’s visits. He’d only be with us a few days or weeks at a time, and those were the highlight of the year. For both my mom and me. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He used to tickle me to the point that it hurt. I hated that. And the more I struggled, the more he tickled. It was a game to him but it wasn’t one I enjoyed playing. But I wasn’t strong enough to get away.”
Brad didn’t like the game at all. The older man had been way out of line, holding his own daughter captive.
“It didn’t take me long to figure out how to save myself, though,” Jane continued, not sounding the least bit put out or scarred by the incidents.
“How?”
“I’d scream at a really high pitch. My mom couldn’t stand the noise and would tell my dad to stop in that voice that meant he’d better do it now.”
“And did he?”
“Of course. Every time.”
And so she’d solved her problem. A little girl figuring a way to get the best of a grown man. That was his Jane—if one way didn’t work, she’d find another. Maybe he’d been worrying about nothing. Though that wasn’t like him.
They were silent for a long time, each lost in his and her own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence, one they shared a lot when they were together like this. And then Jane said, “I am afraid of something, though.” The tentative tone in her voice got his full attention.
“What’s that?”
“The picture you painted of me—alone—I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”
“That you keep yourself detached from all of us?” Not from him—except physically.
“I…” Jane’s eyes revealed uncharacteristic hesitancy when she raised her head and met his gaze. “Can I tell you something?”
“You know you can.”
“It’s personal and embarrassing and…”
“Then this is probably the day for it.”
She hesitated a moment longer and then said, “What James did—the mental cruelty, the infidelity—it killed my ability to…you know…want…things.”
She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying. Not Jane. She was femininity personified. Gorgeous. A head turner. And…
“Are you saying you don’t want…things?”
They were up on a private wooded hill, away from the rules of life. The rules of Brad and Jane. What they said here would be forgotten once they descended to real life.
And he’d all but bullied her to confide in him.
She shook her head. “I haven’t had so much as a tingle…down there…since my divorce.”
Brad was shocked. He knew she hadn’t dated, but…
Thinking of Jane sexually was taboo. So he hadn’t. But in the back of his mind, he’d assumed she…something. He’d never thought beyond that.
And didn’t have any solid thoughts now, either. Their hill had turned into quicksand. An electrified quicksand for him.
“Have you talked to anyone about it? Professionally?”
“Yeah. But it didn’t do any good. It just happens that way sometimes. More often with women, I’m told.”
“It’s probably just because you haven’t been on a date in so long,” he blurted, thinking of all the women he’d been with since he’d met her.
Brad liked sex. A lot. And he made no apology for that. The idea of being unable to experience those sensations…
“It’s not like I don’t get invitations,” Jane said dryly. “I don’t date because I’m not the least bit interested in the men who ask me out.”
“You should meet more men, different men.” His mind tried to fight its way out of the thickness encasing him. “I’ve got a couple of friends from law school. I could…”
He shouldn’t have been relieved when Jane shook her head, preventing him from having to finish the offer. But he was.
“I know fine men, Brad. Successful, fun, funny men. Smart, introspective men. Older men. Younger men. Good-looking. Great-looking. Okay-looking…”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe you’re wired the other way,” he suggested, hardly recognizing the tinny sound to his voice. Yeah, let her be gay. That would make him a hell of a lot more comfortable.
It would safeguard their friendship forever. Unless they both fell in love with the same woman.
“I’m not a lesbian.” Funny how four words could weigh a man down and lift him up all at the same time. “I think, with as much time as I spend around women, I’d know if they pushed my buttons. They don’t.”
Brad’s throat was too dry to speak. So he sat there, hands resting nonchalantly on his knees, wondering what the hell was the matter with him. He talked to a lot of women about sex—those he was having