Breaking the Silence by Diane Chamberlain Page B

jerk himself, but shecould hardly blame him. He must have thought he was trapped up there with a loon.
    After a few minutes, she put the car in gear again and started slowly down the driveway. When she reached the mailbox topped with the wooden hot air balloon, she stopped again. She pulled Emma’s photograph from her shirt pocket, turned it over and jotted her number on the back. Then she got out of the car, walked over to the mailbox and slipped the picture inside.

13
    D YLAN WAS TURNING THE SALMON STEAKS IN THE MARINADE when he heard the front door open. He peered from his kitchen into the living room.
    “Hey!” He smiled at Bethany. “Good to see you, Beth.”
    “Good to see you, too.” Bethany walked into the galley kitchen, her arms wrapped around a paper grocery bag, and gave him a kiss.
    “Can’t hug you,” Dylan said. “Got marinade on my hands.”
    “Well, I brought dessert.” She pulled the cartons of Ben & Jerry’s from the grocery bag, and Dylan smiled. Bethany knew his weakness.
    “I also picked up your mail for you, since you obviously haven’t made it to the end of your driveway today.” She put the stack of envelopes and junk mail on his counter.
    “Thanks.” He washed his hands at the sink, then gave her a proper kiss.
    “So, what’s this?” Bethany picked up the photograph lying on the pile of mail.
    Dylan looked at the picture just long enough to feel the return of his anger from that morning.
    “Where was that?” he asked. “In the mailbox?”
    “Uh-huh. Just lying loose. Who is she?”
    “I don’t have a clue.” He tossed the picture upside down on the stack of mail, noticing that Laura Brandon had written a phone number on the back.
    Bethany looked as though she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press him. He could count on her for that.
    Of the women he’d gone out with over the past few years, Bethany was his favorite. She was beautiful. Besides running her own photography business, she modeled part-time, and he loved finding her face and body in the pages of Washingtonian magazine. Her shiny, short hair was as black as a raven’s wing and she wore a perpetual tan. More important than her looks, though, was the fact that she understood him better than anyone else he’d dated. She understood that he didn’t want to be tied down; he was always honest with her about that. She understood that he needed to see other women, and she dated other men. Still, Dylan feared that Bethany’s carefree facade masked her real yearnings. She was only thirty-one. He knew she wanted marriage and a family, while he wanted neither. She wanted to be loved, while he knew his feelings for her would never move beyond affection. He was brutal in his honesty about that, and while she accepted his words on the surface, he worried that she expected him to change. He’d told her many times that if marriage and commitment were what she was after, she had the wrong guy.
    One concession he’d made to her was that she be his only lover. She could not have a physical relationship with more than one man at a time, she’d said, and she needed to know the same was true for him. It was true, not because of the emotional complications more than one lover could engender, but because of the physical risk. He was enigmatic that way. He wanted to live from day to day, without a care for the future,but damned if he was going to get AIDS or something else in the process. He and Bethany had been tested. They were monogamous—sexually, anyway—and he took comfort in that.
    Bethany made the salad and microwaved the potatoes while he grilled the fish on the deck. They ate at his picnic table under the thick canopy of trees, burning citronella candles to keep the bugs away.
    It had been two weeks since Dylan had seen Bethany, and she looked great. He could barely take his eyes off her while they ate, and when dinner was over, he left the dishes in the sink and ushered her into his bedroom. They made love, but