Home Again

She came toward him slowly, taking his hand, tucking her small, cold one in his. Wordlessly he led her to the front door, then scouted around for a rock. Finding one, he drew back, ready to fling it through the plate glass living room window.

She stopped his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us inside.”

She gave him a strange look. “Try the key. It’s in the loose brick under the top step.”

He cast a look downward, saw the brick sticking out. “It’s not half as fun….”

She didn’t smile. “Use the key.”

He found the key in the crumbling mortar of its hiding place and slipped it into the lock. The door opened with a whining creak. He flashed his flashlight into the gloom and walked into the shadowy foyer, her hand held tightly in his. Slamming the door shut behind them, he led her down the foyer, past the massive kitchen, into the dark room that had once been her father’s office. Even now, all these years later, it still smelled of cigar smoke and power.

He fished a book of matches from his pocket and knelt before the huge white marble fireplace. Plucking firewood from the copper barrel on the hearth, he built a fire. Flames leapt and writhed on the long-dry wood. Heat pumped into the cold room.

And still she stood there, shivering, unmoving.

He went to her and took her hands in his. When their gazes met, he saw her anxiety, and the words he’d practiced stuck in his throat.

“Why are we here? You know how I feel about this place.”

He heard the fear in her voice and he ached for her, just as he had so many times in the past. He didn’t know the particulars of what had happened to her in this house, with that crazy, mean old man as her father, but he knew she’d been hurt. “This is where it happened, and it seemed right that this is where it ends … and maybe begins.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looked around the room. It was exactly as he remembered it, except for the fine layer of dust that clung to the furniture now and the faint scent of mildew. Silver sconces, black with tarnish, still held thick white candles. Two huge burgundy leather chairs sat huddled in the corner, backed up to heavily paneled walls. Long, dirty windows parenthesized the fireplace, their panes half-covered by dusty drapes. The same bear rug covered most of the thick plank flooring. “This is where I sold my soul for ten thousand dollars.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. But there was too much between them, too much at risk, to pretend he hadn’t done what he’d done to her. If they were going to have any chance for a future, he had to atone for the past.

“I know we don’t have to talk about it, but I need to apologize for what I did. I know an apology doesn’t mean much—just a few words that are overused—but I’m sorry, Mad.” His throat tightened. “If I’d known—”

She went so still, she seemed to have stopped breathing. A thin vein pulsed wildly at the base of her throat. She looked like a frightened deer, ready to bolt. “Known what?”

“I was seventeen years old. What did I know about life? You were the first girl I fell in love with, and you made it seem so damned easy—sort of like finding a killer toy in the Cracker Jack box.” He touched her cheek, felt its velvety softness, and he smiled. “I didn’t know I’d never feel that way again, or that you’d haunt me. I didn’t know I’d spend the rest of my life dreaming about a girl I’d walked away from.”

Her eyes met his, the look in them frank and unflinching—a long way from the teenage girl he’d fallen in love with. “I always understood what you did, you know. I even forgave you a little bit—or I thought I had until you showed up again. My father was a powerful man, hard to deny.” She gave a throaty laugh. “I know that better than anyone.”

She was offering an easy way out, and he wanted to take it. Before the surgery, he would have, but he couldn’t do it this time. It was too important that he be honest—for both of their sakes. “It wasn’t your father. I could have stood up to that asshole; it was me. I was afraid to swear I’d love you for the rest of my life.” He shook his head. “Pregnant or not, you were for keeps, I knew that, and I knew if you vowed to love me forever, you’d keep your word. You would love me….”

There were tears in her eyes. “Yes.”

“It scared me, Mad. I couldn’t handle your love—not at seventeen, hell, not even last year. I knew I’d start being the jerk, screwing around on you, drinking too much—all the things I always did.” He moved closer and gently took her face in his hands. “I’m not that scared kid anymore. I know what I want now.”

“Don’t say anything else, Angel, please….”

He knew what she was doing. She was afraid he’d say he loved her and then break her heart again. He wished he could blame her, but she had every reason to protect her heart from him. All he could do was try and keep on trying until one day she believed in him again.

He thought of all the things he could say to her right now, all the words he could use to tell her he loved her, but in the end, they were only words, and she’d heard them from him before. Instead, he leaned toward her, took her fragile, beautiful face in his hands, and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, the way he hadn’t even imagined back when they were kids. He hadn’t known anything about love. He didn’t know then how it twisted your insides and made you feel like you were made of glass. How sometimes—like now—you felt so brittle that a good wind could shatter your soul.

“Say something,” he said softly.

She closed her fist around the earrings, then let them drop soundlessly to the floor. “I don’t want to talk. I want…”

“What?” he asked. “What do you want? Just tell me and I’ll move heaven and earth to get it for you.”

“You,” she whispered. A slow, seductive smile spread across her face. She kicked one shoe off—it clanged against the spittoon in the corner. The other one hit the claw-foot desk leg. “I want you, Angel DeMarco.”

His breath broke into wheezing little gasps. Had his heart been connected to his central nervous system, it would have been thumping out of control; instead, it kept up its steady, unflappable rhythm. He swallowed, noticing that his throat was dry.