shopping bags in each hand.
“What have you got?” He bent to
relieve her of the burden.
“I picked up a few groceries.” The
color deepened in her cheeks, and she avoided looking at him. “I thought,
perhaps I could cook tonight. I got a bottle of wine, too.”
“Grace.” He lowered the bags to the
floor and propped his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry if I led you to believe
that things between us could be…romantic in nature.”
Her eyes kept stubbornly to the
hardwood floor.
Rory sighed and clasped his fingers
more firmly to her slim shoulders. “I’m going to be gone for two years. You’ve
got a life to get on with.”
“I know.” She shot him a glance from
beneath her brows. “I’m not going to turn into a bunny-boiler . I just
thought it would be nice to have a quiet evening at home. It’s not going to be
exactly peaceful when you get to Iraq, is it?” Her chin jutted out in a stubborn
tilt. “I borrowed Debbie’s camera. I want to take photographs, to remember what
you look like. It would be awkward if I didn’t recognize you when I petition for
divorce.”
Rory dropped his hands from her
shoulders. Frustration churned inside him. Why couldn’t Grace be a whiny little
thing, making demands, bugging him, so he could begin to resent her? Why did she
have to stand there, looking lonely and brave at the same time?
He studied her face as she
contemplated him with a hopeful expression in her big eyes, which were
definitely blue. Blue as the wings of the tiny butterflies that he used to chase
over the lawns of the Newport estate when he was a boy.
The rush of childhood memories sent a
ripple of pain through him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone rough. “I’m meeting a
buddy tonight. I’ll be out late.”
“That’s all right.” Grace tried to
smile, but Rory could hear the hurt in her voice.
He brushed aside the niggling guilt
and escaped into his room, where he spent another three hours on email preparing
for his departure. Despite his attempts to focus on the computer screen, his
ears tuned into every sound that filtered in through the closed door.
Cupboards banged in the kitchen.
Footsteps traversed the hall. The lock on the bathroom door closed with a muted
click. A few moments later, water began to cascade in the shower.
Rory closed his eyes. An image of
Grace standing beneath the stream rose in his mind—her body gleaming, her head
tilted up and her back arched, arms raised to sweep the wet hair from her face.
His body tightened, fighting the resolution he had made to keep away from her.
He tried to carry on working, but his
mind refused to concentrate. Tormented by his indecision, Rory threw on his coat
and stormed out.
Up and down the streets he roamed,
all the way along Broadway past Central Park, then across to the east and down
south again. The night gathered around him. The crowds thinned, and windows
turned from warm yellow squares into black, unseeing eyes. On and on he walked,
until his feet ached and the breath labored in his lungs, but he couldn’t banish
Grace from his thoughts.
His gloveless hands grew numb, like
the feelings imprisoned inside him. Why had she got to him? What made his prim
and solemn wife so dangerous, when for ten years he had kept his emotions under
lock and key?
He knew .
When he boxed in college, once—in a
bout against an unremarkable opponent—he had lowered his guard, and the
challenger had slammed a right hook straight into his jaw. Just in the same way,
he had lowered his guard with Grace. He had toyed with her, teased her, and out
of nowhere, she had slammed a right hook straight into his heart.
You should watch over Rory after he
goes away, Grace had asked
in her prayers. How long since anyone cared about him? When had someone last
told him it mattered if he lived or died? Rory crossed his arms over his chest
and huddled for warmth as tears of regret painted icy lines down
“What have you got?” He bent to
relieve her of the burden.
“I picked up a few groceries.” The
color deepened in her cheeks, and she avoided looking at him. “I thought,
perhaps I could cook tonight. I got a bottle of wine, too.”
“Grace.” He lowered the bags to the
floor and propped his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry if I led you to believe
that things between us could be…romantic in nature.”
Her eyes kept stubbornly to the
hardwood floor.
Rory sighed and clasped his fingers
more firmly to her slim shoulders. “I’m going to be gone for two years. You’ve
got a life to get on with.”
“I know.” She shot him a glance from
beneath her brows. “I’m not going to turn into a bunny-boiler . I just
thought it would be nice to have a quiet evening at home. It’s not going to be
exactly peaceful when you get to Iraq, is it?” Her chin jutted out in a stubborn
tilt. “I borrowed Debbie’s camera. I want to take photographs, to remember what
you look like. It would be awkward if I didn’t recognize you when I petition for
divorce.”
Rory dropped his hands from her
shoulders. Frustration churned inside him. Why couldn’t Grace be a whiny little
thing, making demands, bugging him, so he could begin to resent her? Why did she
have to stand there, looking lonely and brave at the same time?
He studied her face as she
contemplated him with a hopeful expression in her big eyes, which were
definitely blue. Blue as the wings of the tiny butterflies that he used to chase
over the lawns of the Newport estate when he was a boy.
The rush of childhood memories sent a
ripple of pain through him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone rough. “I’m meeting a
buddy tonight. I’ll be out late.”
“That’s all right.” Grace tried to
smile, but Rory could hear the hurt in her voice.
He brushed aside the niggling guilt
and escaped into his room, where he spent another three hours on email preparing
for his departure. Despite his attempts to focus on the computer screen, his
ears tuned into every sound that filtered in through the closed door.
Cupboards banged in the kitchen.
Footsteps traversed the hall. The lock on the bathroom door closed with a muted
click. A few moments later, water began to cascade in the shower.
Rory closed his eyes. An image of
Grace standing beneath the stream rose in his mind—her body gleaming, her head
tilted up and her back arched, arms raised to sweep the wet hair from her face.
His body tightened, fighting the resolution he had made to keep away from her.
He tried to carry on working, but his
mind refused to concentrate. Tormented by his indecision, Rory threw on his coat
and stormed out.
Up and down the streets he roamed,
all the way along Broadway past Central Park, then across to the east and down
south again. The night gathered around him. The crowds thinned, and windows
turned from warm yellow squares into black, unseeing eyes. On and on he walked,
until his feet ached and the breath labored in his lungs, but he couldn’t banish
Grace from his thoughts.
His gloveless hands grew numb, like
the feelings imprisoned inside him. Why had she got to him? What made his prim
and solemn wife so dangerous, when for ten years he had kept his emotions under
lock and key?
He knew .
When he boxed in college, once—in a
bout against an unremarkable opponent—he had lowered his guard, and the
challenger had slammed a right hook straight into his jaw. Just in the same way,
he had lowered his guard with Grace. He had toyed with her, teased her, and out
of nowhere, she had slammed a right hook straight into his heart.
You should watch over Rory after he
goes away, Grace had asked
in her prayers. How long since anyone cared about him? When had someone last
told him it mattered if he lived or died? Rory crossed his arms over his chest
and huddled for warmth as tears of regret painted icy lines down
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