Sophie's Secret. Tara Taylor Quinn
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about being in Sophie’s place without her. He couldn’t bring himself to look through drawers and cupboards that she hadn’t specifically invited him into.
He’d had the key to her place for over a year—to let himself out those days he had to leave before dawn to get to court in Phoenix, and hadn’t wanted her to have to drag herself out of bed to lock the dead bolt after him. But he’d never been in her small home without her before.
She’d invited him to use the place like his own. To stay there, if he wanted to get out of the city, when she was out of town.
He hadn’t.
After another peek at his watch, he checked the foilwrapped potatoes he’d put in the oven almost an hour before. They were softening nicely.
A glance in the refrigerator assured him that the steaks had stayed right where he’d left them, soaking in his own special marinade recipe in the Ziploc bag on the second shelf. And the salad still looked crisp.
Six-twenty. The table might not look like much—certainly nothing resembling the lavish, something-from-a-magazine settings Sophie had made for them over the past couple of years—but the flowers were noticeable. He’d personally chosen every single bloom—going heavy on the red roses. Chosen the delicately colored, handwoven basket they were in, as well.
And waited at a specialty importer in Phoenix, one of few florists open on Sunday, while they were arranged.
He might be a man—a lawyer and not talented in the ways of his artistically creative lover—but he could still manage to pull together something special.
For Sophie.
Something in the woman made him capable of moving mountains.
For her.
Six-thirty.
Her flight had been scheduled to land in Phoenix at five. If luggage had arrived in a timely fashion, she could be driving up any minute.
And somehow he had to pull this off. This dinner. This life. He wasn’t ready. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. But time wasn’t waiting for him. He might not have what it took to be there for Sophie in the long run, might not have the confidence to squire a young beauty around town and not get jealous when other men paid attention to her. He might not be man enough to keep her interest, her faithfulness, in the years to come, but if he didn’t try, he wasn’t going to have Sophie.
Patting his jacket, feeling for the thickness of the card he’d slipped into the inside pocket, Duane paced for the umpteenth time from the dining area into the living room and back. Straightened the knot in his tie. Now wasn’t the time to ponder things that were out of his control. Things that were probably not worth pondering.
Now was not the time to get himself worked up over what could go wrong.
Now was the time to think about what was.
Sophie Curtis was a nationally acclaimed theatrical producer who’d put herself through college, owned her home and had true friends who stood by her.
She was also the only woman who’d ever been able, or cared enough, to scale his walls and find his heart.
Six-forty. One more glance out the window on his way through the living room.
“This is ridiculous.” His voice, sounding so loud in the silence, startled him.
And reminded him that he needed some tunes. Mood music. Turning on the stereo occupied about ten seconds. He went for the light-rock station that he and Sophie preferred.
Though he’d tried a time or two, he’d not been able to entice her over to his jazz station. She and Jean Luc Ponty had yet to bond.
And if they never did, that was fine. Lots of couples—longtime married, happy couples—had different tastes in music.
Duane slid a hand into his pants pocket, seeking and finding its sole occupant—the ring he’d purchased a week ago, and picked up that afternoon. Turned out jewelers in Phoenix were open even on Sundays. The velvet-lined case, a dead giveaway, was out in his car.
He wanted to surprise her.
Life presented a lot of unanswered questions, but, finding himself at a crossroads that was going to make decisions for him if he waited too long, Duane had done some heavy thinking.
And come up with one sure thing.
He wasn’t ready to tell Sophie Curtis goodbye.
Six forty-five. Noticing the path he was wearing in her freshly vacuumed cream-colored carpet, he sank into the leather chair in front of the fireplace. When she was home, they sat on the love seat.
Unless they were lying in front of the television. Then they used the sofa.
Raising his ankle to his knee, Duane studied the shine on his wingtip shoe. As far as he could tell the day had produced only one smudge.
He tried to care, but couldn’t work up the focus. Where was Sophie?
Would she be as glad to see him as he would be to see her?
Had she missed him as much?
Would she accept the ring?
And was that someone at the front door? Was she looking for her key? Had she lost it in the bottom of her bag? Why hadn’t he heard her car? And why hadn’t she pulled into the garage and come in through the kitchen like she usually did?
Like he’d planned?
He’d wanted her to see the flowers first.
With nerves tensing his stomach, Duane strode to the front door, a smile of welcome on his lips—in his heart—and a full-carat solitaire diamond burning against his leg.
“Welcome ho—” His voice broke off as he saw the inexpensively dressed, fiftysomething man standing there with a warm smile spread across his face.
“Oh, sorry.” The man straightened, and Duane noticed the brown paper bag he’d just left next to the decorative stone beside Sophie’s front door. The stranger seemed surprised to see Duane there.
The feeling was mutual.
“I, um, left some welcome-home cookies. Chocolate chip.”
Sophie’s favorite. And how did this man know that?
For that matter, how did he know Sophie at all?
Intending to grill the stranger as though he were on trial, Duane affected the proper, intimidating pose, and intended to deliver his first put-the-witness-firmly-in-his-place question.
“You from around here?” he asked when his brain let him down.
“For now.”
What in the hell did that mean? He waited for the older man to expound. And wasn’t sure what to do when, instead, the man turned and walked to an older blue pickup parked opposite the house, climbed in, gunned the engine and drove off.
Without another glance at Duane.
As though Duane didn’t matter at all.
SHE’D MEANT TO DRIVE slowly, to use the hour between Phoenix and Shelter Valley as a calming time, a reconnection with personal peace and the self she’d come to know and love over the past eight years.
Instead of keeping her mind on the things she’d intended, all she could think about was getting home by seven. To be there when Duane arrived.
To feel his arms around her.
It had been a long two weeks.
Too long.
She’d missed him horribly.
And knew their days were numbered.
They couldn’t keep pretending that what they had was working.
Dressed in one of her nicer pairs of jeans, black suede boots and a black sweater