Second Honeymoon. Sandra Field
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against it, visibly needing its support. “Why are you so angry?”
She had kissed Quentin, and laughed with him in the intimate darkness in front of her cabin. But Troy she had pushed away. “Oh, I’m not angry,” Troy said sarcastically. “I just love seeing you with another manpromising to make him muffins, for Pete’s sake—when for the last four months you haven’t even done me the courtesy of a phone call to let me know where you are.”
“We’re separated,” she said mutinously, pushing her hands in the pockets of her blue shorts.
He looked at her in silence. Her face was almost as well known to him as his own. Her cheeks were flushed, her features given character by the imperious bump in her nose and by her brows, dark as the wings of a bird. Her eyes were, like his own, gray, although in certain lights they swam mysteriously into depths of blue. “Separation must agree with you,” he said deliberately. “You look better than you have since Michael died.”
“Don’t!” she said in a choked voice.
Troy fought for control, bunching his knuckles against the table. But for far too long his feelings had been cooped up inside him, and the sight of her—so beautiful, so sorely missed, so unattainable—was more than he could stand.
“Don’t, what? Don’t mention Michael’s name?” he flared. “Pretend he never existed? We both know better than that, Lucy. We know his death was the reason you moved out on me.” Not for the life of him could he have disguised the anguish in his voice as he added, “You don’t even have a photo of him here…Do you hate him so much for dying?”
“I loved him too much to ever hate him for anything,” she whispered. “I’m trying to forget what happened——”
“Forget Michael?”
“I’m trying to accept his death, to move on—that’s why I keep my photos of him out of sight.”
“Move on with Quentin? Is that the plan? How clever of you to have taken off your wedding-ring before you got here.”
“Troy, you can’t push your way in here and start throwing accusations at me. Nothing gives you that right!”
“I do happen to be your husband,” he said, with deadly calm. “Or are you trying to forget that, too?”
“How can I? You won’t let me!”
He took a deep breath. “You asked why I came here. I came to offer you a choice. Either we live together as husband and wife or I want a divorce.”
Her eyes widened and her whole body tensed, like a sparrow who, safe in its hedgerow, had suddenly sighted a hawk perched on a nearby branch. She stared at him blankly while the slow seconds ticked by, and for the life of him Troy couldn’t have guessed what she was thinking. Then she said, her voice not quite steady, “That sounds more like an ultimatum than a choice.”
“You can call it what you like. I’ve gone on long enough being neither one thing nor the other—I’m not married because you refuse to live with me, but I’m not divorced either, so I’m not free to pursue any other options.”
“Other women, you mean,” she flashed.
“I didn’t say that, Lucy.” Belatedly Troy struggled to find the right words. “I want intimacy and companionship and a family—all the things you and I shared that felt so right. The things that made me so happy. I still want them with you, of course I do. But——”
“I can’t, Troy! Not again, never again…It hurts too much.”
It was a cry from the heart. “You can’t hide forever,” he said fiercely. “You never were afraid of living, Lucy. When I met you, you had enormous courage.”
“That was then. This is now. I’ve changed; you’ve got to accept that.”
“I won’t allow you to turn into someone less than who you are!”
“Maybe you have no control over it,” she retorted. “I’m not one of your patients—I’m not a nurse you can order around.”
“Dammit, I’m not like that! I love you—that’s why I’m here.”
“Love should set you free,” she said incoherently. “You brandish love in front of me like a set of chains.”
With deadly emphasis Troy said, “So the answer’s divorce.”
“Stop putting words into my mouth! I’ve seen you once in the last year, yet you waltz in here, as though you own the place, and expect me to make a huge decision with all kinds of ramifications in the space of five minutes, just because it’s convenient for you—you really do have a nerve, Troy.”
“So how long will it take you to make up your mind?”
“How can I possibly know that?” she snapped.
“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” he said furiously. “Keep me dangling like some kind of tame rabbit and in the meantime live exactly as you please. It won’t wash, Lucy. I’m sick to death of it.”
“I’m not making a decision at eleven o’clock at night that’s going to affect my whole life,” she seethed. “Go home, Troy. On the first plane. I’ll write to you; I promise.”
Knowing he was shooting himself in the foot, yet hearing the words spill from his mouth, Troy sneered, “And does that promise mean any more to you than the blueberry muffins you promised Quentin?”
“You really are intolerable,” Lucy cried. “Get out of here. I’ve had more than enough and right now divorce seems like a very viable option.” She whirled and flung the door open. “I’ve said I’ll write to you, and I will.”
He let go of the table, flexing his fingers, and crossed the painted wooden floorboards. “You can’t fool me—you don’t like the word divorce any more than I do. You might want to think about that tomorrow while you’re mixing that batch of muffins.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You might also want to think of what best honors our son’s memory. Running away from reality like a child afraid of the dark—or embracing everything that life brings with it, both good and bad, happy and tragic.” Lightly he ran one finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Goodnight.”
He walked out on to the porch and closed the door in Lucy’s face. Her jaw had dropped at his last speech—almost the only one he’d made that he’d rehearsed beforehand—and she’d been, temporarily anyway, speechless. He had needed that small victory, because his whole body felt sore, as though an unseen opponent had pummeled him mercilessly against a concrete wall.
She hadn’t agreed to a divorce. But she had accused him of holding her captive with a love that was like chains.
An image he hated with all his soul.
WHEN the bell chimed for breakfast the next morning, Troy had just finished shaving. He gazed at himself in the mirror, dabbing at the small cut on his chin. He looked exactly like a man who’d had about three hours’ sleep. Although three was probably an exaggeration.
His eyes, deepset at the best of times, were now bruised by the remnants of a night trapped between nightmares and the raging hunger of his sexuality. To know that Lucy was so near and yet so far had been torture. Worse, perhaps, had been the extinguishing of any hope that he no longer cared for her. He loved her—heart, soul and body. He’d probably, he thought gloomily, running a comb through his hair, love her forever.
For all the good it would do him.
His mother had once compared the color of his eyes to the rock from the quarry near where he’d grown up. Maybe chains were that same unrevealing, stony gray. If he stayed here, would he be treating