From This Day Forward. Irene Hannon
an empty dining room; an underfurnished living room featuring a lone couch in front of the fireplace with a table, lamp and straight chair beside it; his uncluttered office. He identified a closed door as his bedroom when they passed, but didn’t pause until they reached the last room at the end of the hall. Stepping aside, he ushered her in. “I hope this will be okay.”
Based on the sparse furnishings in the rest of the house, Cara wasn’t expecting much. Certainly nothing like the exquisite room waiting for her when she stepped over the threshold.
The walls were washed in her favorite shade of aquamarine, the smell of fresh paint still in the air. A queen-size brass bed sported an ivory dust ruffle and a comforter in a Monet-like print in shades of blue, green and lavender. A matching valance hung over the large window. There was an overstuffed chair, a reading lamp, a small TV and an antique walnut dresser with a large oval mirror above it. A cut-crystal vase of old-fashioned pink roses graced the nightstand, their fragrance wafting through the room.
“There’s a private bath, too.” Sam followed her in and swung open a door to reveal a spacious, modern bath replete with granite countertops and fluffy towels.
Stunned, Cara could only gape at the lovely suite she knew he’d prepared just for her.
“If there’s anything else you need, I hope you’ll feel free to let me know.”
After living with Sam for ten years, Cara was familiar with every nuance of his voice. She heard the uncertainty now, sensed his tension and trepidation. This couldn’t be easy for him, either, she realized, whatever his motives might be. There was too much history between them to allow a comfortable co-existence. At the very least her presence would disrupt his life, alter his routine. Yet he’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.
She looked around again, troubled by something about the arrangement. Then it hit her. Considering the attached bath, this had to be the master suite.
Frowning, she turned to him. “Was this your room?”
A dismissive shrug preceded his words. “It was more space than I needed.”
“I can’t take your room.”
“It’s done, Cara. These aren’t my colors. I’m more an earth-tones kind of guy.” A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Just enjoy it.”
At his unexpected generosity, her throat tightened with an emotion so long absent from her life that it took her a moment to identify it.
Tenderness.
And that wasn’t good. Sam could be charming; he’d demonstrated that early in their relationship. But she knew about his other qualities, too. The self-absorbed preoccupation that had changed into bitterness after his life was turned upside down, and an anger so cold and hard, so close to violence, that it had frightened her and made living with him stressful and difficult. It would be wise to remember those aspects of his personality if she found her attitude toward him beginning to soften.
“I appreciate all you did. I didn’t expect you to go to any trouble on my behalf.” Her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears. But if Sam noticed her sudden aloofness, he let it pass.
“It was no trouble. I’ll get your bags.”
Before she had a chance to regroup, he was back, her carry-on and larger suitcase in tow. “Shall I leave these by the closet?” he asked.
“Yes. Thanks.”
Setting them down, he turned to her. “When I did rounds at the medical center in Rolla earlier I picked up some Chinese food for tonight. I hope that’s okay. Oak Hill has many attributes, but fine dining isn’t among them. There’s a Middle Eastern restaurant, but the food’s a bit spicy for my taste. And of course, there’s Gus’s. Okay for a turkey sandwich now and then, but I wouldn’t recommend it for much more. He only knows one way to cook—deep fried.” Once more, the whisper of a smile teased his lips.
“Chinese sounds good. Thank you. But I can take care of my own meals after today.”
“However you want to arrange things is fine with me, Cara.”
His gentle response to her defensive comment made her feel like an ingrate. She tried again. “It’s just that I don’t want to upset your routine any more than necessary. It might be easier if we each do our own thing.”
“Sure.” He headed back to the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’d like dinner. I’m in no hurry if you want to take a shower or a quick nap first.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and closed the door behind him.
For several minutes, Cara stood unmoving, overwhelmed by Sam’s efforts to welcome her—and more than a little nervous about his motives. He’d gone way above and beyond simple hospitality. You didn’t vacate, redecorate and furnish a master suite for a mere guest. When she’d agreed to come, all she’d been looking for was a simple room in a safe place where she could begin to put the nightmare of the murder behind her. She didn’t need—or want—any complications. And she’d been clear about that with Sam. He knew where she stood. If he was expecting anything more, that was his problem.
Suddenly weary, Cara slipped off her shoes and sat on the bed, tempted by Sam’s suggestion of a quick nap. It was amazing how the mere presence of another human being could provide the elusive peace of mind that had kept her awake through the long, dark, endless nights since the attack. If Sam offered her nothing else during this visit, that would be enough.
Scooting onto the bed, she stretched out and closed her eyes. She’d give herself twenty minutes, she decided. Then she’d be ready for dinner.
Sam stood outside Cara’s door, debating his next move. Three hours had passed. Dusk had descended, and the rumbles in his stomach were growing more persistent. While the hectic schedule in his old life had often dictated late dinners, since moving to Oak Hill he’d become accustomed to a six o’clock evening meal. He’d missed that by two and a half hours.
But he was far more worried about Cara than his protesting stomach. He’d stopped outside her door a couple of times, but he’d never heard a sound. No running water, no drawers being opened and closed, no muted background noise to suggest she’d turned on the TV.
Acutely aware that she wanted her space, he was loath to invade it already. But he was beginning to think that she might be ill. Earlier, he’d attributed her paleness to fatigue and stress from the trip. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Yet if she was sick, if she needed anything, he suspected that asking him for help would be the last option she’d pursue. She’d push him away, much as he’d pushed her away when he’d most needed help.
Torn, Sam wavered, realizing even as he vacillated how much he’d changed in the past couple of years. He’d once been decisive. Confident he had all the answers. In control. That sense of self-importance—of omnipotence, almost—had been honed by his professional success, he now realized. And it had spilled over into his personal life—to the detriment of his marriage. If nothing else, the violence that had been directed against him had destroyed that arrogance. The reining in of his ego might be the one good thing that had resulted from the nightmare, he reflected.
Making a decision at last, Sam reached up. But as he stood poised to knock, he paused to stare at the scars on the back of his hand. From just above his wrist to the tips of his fingers, there wasn’t a square inch untouched by the network of shiny white lines. Even now, almost two years after the attack, his hand remained slightly misshapen, the function improved but still impaired. Though he maintained the physical therapy regime prescribed by his doctors, and continued to note small improvements, his fingers would never regain the dexterity required to perform surgery. Bill West had achieved his goal.
A flash of terror from that dark night, along with a recollection of acute pain, swept over Sam. While he hadn’t been able to control the nightmares that had plagued him in the beginning, it had been months since he’d let himself think about the incident that had robbed him of his career.