northward.
“An apartment?”
“A house.”
“All by yourself? I mean,” she hastened to add, “You’re not married or anything, are you?” She’d just assumed him to be single. Now, posing the question, she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or mortified.
The punishing glance he gave her precluded both. “If I were married,” he stated firmly, “I’d never have come on to you the way I did yesterday. As for ‘or anything,’ the answer is no.”
“Strange,” she mused, thinking aloud as, side by side, they followed the curve of the path.
“What is?”
“That you’re not attached. I would have thought—”
“—that a dynamic, witty, handsome devil like me would certainly have been caught by now?”
She saw the dark brow he arched in self-mockery and couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly the way I would have put it, but the end result is the same.”
“The end result. Ahh. I have to confess that I have had my experience with that end result.”
“You’ve been married?”
“That’s right. Like you.”
At first she said nothing in response to his bait. Then, feeling particularly bold, she took it. “I’m not divorced.”
He frowned. “But you live alone. Separated?” When she shook her head, he felt something freeze up inside. The European connection. A right-hand wedding band. “Then your husband is away?”
Carly looked out across the water. Its surface mirrored the few, still clouds, peaceful until the silent rush of a lone racing shell cut an even slash through its plane. “He’s dead.”
Ryan’s pace faltered. A widow ? At her age? Of all the possibilities, it hadn’t entered his mind. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, readjusting his stride. “Was it recent?”
Her eyes were distant. “Four years ago.”
“Four years?” From mind to tongue, the words spilled out. “You were so young.”
“I was twenty-five.”
“What happened? Uh—” he shook his head, appalled at himself “—strike that. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s all right.” For some reason that she didn’t stop to analyze, she wanted him to know. It was the one part of the fabrication that wasn’t fabrication at all. “He was in a hotel.” Her phrases were clipped by her bobbing pace and that something else that seemed to grip her each time she allowed a return of those thoughts. “There was a fire. He was on the fortieth floor. He couldn’t get out.”
She was barely aware of the hand on her arm until it tightened to slow her up. Startled back from images of hell, she came to a stunned stop facing Ryan.
“I’m sorry, Carly. That must have been very painful for you.” It certainly accounted for the anguish he’d seen in her eyes. Even now, they bore a tortured look.
“Painful for me?” she gasped in a whisper. “Painful for him! The smoke…and flame. He tried to reach the stairs, they said. He nearly made it….”
Ryan wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of tears or whether the raggedness of her breathing was due to exertion. But he knew that over the past four years she must have tortured herself many times. It was the torment of the survivor to imagine the terror of life’s last moments. He’d been eyewitness to that torment once before, in the grief of a mother whose young daughter had drowned in an improperly attended municipal pool. Then his case had been for negligence. Now, beyond the law and the courtroom, he had no case save compassion.
Bidden by the overwhelming need to comfort, he put his hands on either side of her neck and gently massaged the tight muscles. She seemed far away still. It frightened him. “It’s all right, Carly,” he began softly. “Things like that just happen sometimes.”
“But to Matthew?” Her husband’s name was supposed to be Malcolm. Lost in the world of memory, she was oblivious to the slip. “He was so kind and good.”
“Tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Kind, unkind, good, bad, we don’t have any control
“An apartment?”
“A house.”
“All by yourself? I mean,” she hastened to add, “You’re not married or anything, are you?” She’d just assumed him to be single. Now, posing the question, she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or mortified.
The punishing glance he gave her precluded both. “If I were married,” he stated firmly, “I’d never have come on to you the way I did yesterday. As for ‘or anything,’ the answer is no.”
“Strange,” she mused, thinking aloud as, side by side, they followed the curve of the path.
“What is?”
“That you’re not attached. I would have thought—”
“—that a dynamic, witty, handsome devil like me would certainly have been caught by now?”
She saw the dark brow he arched in self-mockery and couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly the way I would have put it, but the end result is the same.”
“The end result. Ahh. I have to confess that I have had my experience with that end result.”
“You’ve been married?”
“That’s right. Like you.”
At first she said nothing in response to his bait. Then, feeling particularly bold, she took it. “I’m not divorced.”
He frowned. “But you live alone. Separated?” When she shook her head, he felt something freeze up inside. The European connection. A right-hand wedding band. “Then your husband is away?”
Carly looked out across the water. Its surface mirrored the few, still clouds, peaceful until the silent rush of a lone racing shell cut an even slash through its plane. “He’s dead.”
Ryan’s pace faltered. A widow ? At her age? Of all the possibilities, it hadn’t entered his mind. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, readjusting his stride. “Was it recent?”
Her eyes were distant. “Four years ago.”
“Four years?” From mind to tongue, the words spilled out. “You were so young.”
“I was twenty-five.”
“What happened? Uh—” he shook his head, appalled at himself “—strike that. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s all right.” For some reason that she didn’t stop to analyze, she wanted him to know. It was the one part of the fabrication that wasn’t fabrication at all. “He was in a hotel.” Her phrases were clipped by her bobbing pace and that something else that seemed to grip her each time she allowed a return of those thoughts. “There was a fire. He was on the fortieth floor. He couldn’t get out.”
She was barely aware of the hand on her arm until it tightened to slow her up. Startled back from images of hell, she came to a stunned stop facing Ryan.
“I’m sorry, Carly. That must have been very painful for you.” It certainly accounted for the anguish he’d seen in her eyes. Even now, they bore a tortured look.
“Painful for me?” she gasped in a whisper. “Painful for him! The smoke…and flame. He tried to reach the stairs, they said. He nearly made it….”
Ryan wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of tears or whether the raggedness of her breathing was due to exertion. But he knew that over the past four years she must have tortured herself many times. It was the torment of the survivor to imagine the terror of life’s last moments. He’d been eyewitness to that torment once before, in the grief of a mother whose young daughter had drowned in an improperly attended municipal pool. Then his case had been for negligence. Now, beyond the law and the courtroom, he had no case save compassion.
Bidden by the overwhelming need to comfort, he put his hands on either side of her neck and gently massaged the tight muscles. She seemed far away still. It frightened him. “It’s all right, Carly,” he began softly. “Things like that just happen sometimes.”
“But to Matthew?” Her husband’s name was supposed to be Malcolm. Lost in the world of memory, she was oblivious to the slip. “He was so kind and good.”
“Tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Kind, unkind, good, bad, we don’t have any control
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