Beside a Dreamswept Sea (15 page)

“The kids adored her. So did I.” Bryce let his gaze drift up to the ceiling. Shadows danced on it.

Could he really mean that? He sounded as if he did, but how could he? She’d given him so little. But evidently she’d given him just what he’d wanted or needed.

“Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s dead. I think it’s just a long assignment and one day she’ll just come home.”

An insight flashed through Cally’s mind. “But then you remember Suzie’s dreams and you can’t quite convince yourself that’s true.”

Cally glanced over at Bryce. He looked stricken. Under the afghan, she scooted around to face him, bunching the knitted fabric between them. Unsteady herself, she touched the back of his hand. It meant nothing. Not really. Only one human being understanding another’s pain and reaching out to touch him because of it. “I’m sorry, Bryce.”

Sadness cloaked him like a shroud, and she hated it. Hated seeing the pain etch his face, fill his eyes. She gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze, then pressed his hand against her cheek and, because there were no words that could comfort, she just held it there.

Bryce swallowed hard, and his heart thundered against her arm. Tears shimmered in her eyes, distorting her vision. Tears for him and for herself, because she knew how much loving had cost them both, and she resented knowing.

“Me, too, Cally.” His voice gruff and raw, he closed his arms around her. “Me, too.”

Not wanting to, feeling too vulnerable, knowing he felt the same way, she couldn’t seem to help herself any more than he could help himself, and she hugged him tightly, rested her cheek against his shoulder. It felt solid, strong, able to hold up under life’s trials. It felt good. “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Love. It’s supposed to be so joyful and yet it causes so much pain.” She nuzzled at his neck with the tip of her nose, inhaling his cologne, the more pleasant scent of his skin. Men were such jerks. Why did they have to smell so good? “Does it ever work out for anyone—where they’re happy, I mean?”

His cheek against her crown, he grunted. “Bad question to ask a divorce attorney.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I guess it is.” The warmth of his arms was a haven she had no right to, no desire for, and she’d best remember that and avoid this hormone trap. She pulled back, then settled against her pillow. “I guess it’s a fact. Like death and taxes.”

“You’re doing it again,” he said. “Talking in riddles.”

“Love.” She picked up the brush from between their thighs then set it aside, next to his neatly folded tie. “It just doesn’t work out.”

“Once in a while it does.” He bent his good knee, draped a hand over it, then stared at the thin band of white skin where he’d worn Meriam’s ring.

“With who?” She guffawed, shivering at the hall’s suddenly cooling again. What was wrong with the heat around here? And he’d been widowed two years. Why was the skin on his finger still white? Stupid question. He still loved her. And only recently had he taken off her ring. “I loved a man to distraction and ended up alone. You loved a woman to distraction and ended up alone. Marriage sure didn’t work for either of us.”

“I was happy. Content, too. Meriam didn’t want to die. She just . . . died.”

Cally frowned. Meriam had taken exactly what she wanted but, from the sounds of it, she’d not given back to the children, to Bryce, or to their relationship. Surely he saw that. And seeing it, how could he have been content?

He wasn’t. He just hasn’t realized it yet. Give him time, Cally. He will. Then you’ll both understand.

The man’s voice sounded clear, but Cally hadn’t heard it—at least not with her ears. She’d heard it . . . internally.

Cold fear streaked up her spine. Her heart rate soared as if propelled by rocket fuel, and she instinctively scooted closer to Bryce.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cally croaked out. Good grief, what was happening here? Now she was hearing voices?

“I know when something is wrong, Cally, and something is wrong. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s upset you?” Bryce scowled, clearly more at himself than at her. “Is it me talking about Meriam?”

“Of course not. I asked you to talk about her.” Cally looked down the hall, then up it. Shadowy, yet light enough to see that it was empty. But of course it would be, wouldn’t it? She’d heard the voice internally. What in the name of heaven did that mean?

“What is it, then?”

He sounded wary and uncertain, and hating it that she’d made him feel either, much less both, she stroked his hand. “Nothing. Really.” How could she explain hearing a man talking inside her head? She didn’t understand it herself. She wasn’t psychotic. Weren’t they the only ones who heard voices inside their heads? No, she wasn’t one of them. Oh hell, maybe she was one of them, because as much as she’d like to deny it, she couldn’t; she
had
heard the man.

Criminy. You’re not psychotic, Cally. No, please. Don’t scream. And don’t be afraid. I swear I’m here to help you.

She shivered again, harder
. I didn’t ask for your help. Who are you? What are you? Never mind. I don’t want to know—and I don’t want any help. Just—just go away.

She waited a long minute, then another. But heard no more. The hall seemed to warm up suddenly. Or was it just her? Lord knew she had a ton of adrenaline shoving through her veins. The fight-or-flight urge held her in a death grip. Had the man gone, then? Had he really been here? What was he?

“Cally?”

Worry. Doubt. Fear. Hearing all that and more in Bryce’s voice, she looked at him, confused, not sure what to think, and shaking to her toes, afraid to think at all. “Hmm?”

“You’re not psychotic.” He laced his hand with hers, his solemn gaze steady, his fingers stiff.

She tensed and barely stifled a gasp, certain she’d misunderstood him. “What?”

“You’re not psychotic.”

Oh, God.
The truth thrummed through her veins. “You heard him, too?”

“Only that he was here to help you.”

Her heart pounded hard, knocking against her ribs, threatening to beat out of her chest. “Who do you think he is? How did he do that? Talk to me internally? And how did you hear it?”

“I’m not sure.” Bryce dropped his voice to a whisper. “But T.J., a friend of mine in New Orleans, mentioned a—” No, Bryce couldn’t tell her that. She’d think he was nuts. He couldn’t believe he was even considering it true. But he was. And, well, what else could it be? T.J. had sworn he hadn’t been goofing around, but Bryce hadn’t believed him—then. Now, he didn’t know what to believe. Could there be another explanation? One easier to accept?

“A
what?”
Cally pushed, squeezing his hand in a death grip.

He couldn’t hold her gaze, and let his drop to the pulse throbbing at her throat. “I’d rather not say.”

“I’m sure you would. But I want to know.”

“Do you?” Bryce looked her straight in the eye. “Are you sure?”

Uncertainty crept through her. Was she? It had to be something weird. Something abnormal. Did she want to know? Gooseflesh prickled her arms. Cally rubbed at it, though her palms were damp. “Not really.”

“Until you do, why don’t we forget this?”

“Good idea.” She set her jaw. “Cowardly, but I’ll curse myself later for it. Right now, shameful as it is, I need comforting. With everything else, I just don’t need to deal with something weird, too. I just . . . don’t.”

He stroked her jaw, sent her a look laced with compassion. She thought she might just love him for that.

His stomach in knots, his armpits damp with sweat, Bryce talked on, softly, about the kids, about mundane things that had she not been upset likely would have bored Cally glassy-eyed. A good fifteen minutes crept by before she seemed to calm down. “Better?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I’m far from okay with this, but I’m definitely better.”

“Good.” He gave her fingertips a reassuring squeeze, for some reason feeling uncharacteristically happy because she’d told him her feelings. She hadn’t hedged or denied or withheld from him, and that openness couldn’t have been easy for her. Trusting a man even that much had to be sheer hell. Yet she’d done it, and she’d trusted not just any man, but him. Satisfaction warmed his chest and tightened his throat. He pecked a tender kiss of gratitude to her temple. “Can you answer a question for me?”

“I’ve been answering questions for you most of the last three days,” Cally groused. “Damn. When you look at me like that, how can I refuse? How can any woman?”

He smiled. He didn’t want to, but couldn’t help himself. Maybe he was improving on the impression front after all. “Will you answer one more?”

Cally sighed. Boyish charm. The man had truckloads of it. Sophisticated and refined, but it was there nonetheless, and oh, so powerful. “Maybe. If you ask me nicely.”

“Excuse me?”

He looked confused, and she suspected it likely that he was confused. But the listing of things she liked about him was growing steadily, and it would be better for them both if he understood something very basic about her now. The sooner the better. “I don’t need sweet lies and romantic gestures from any man. In fact, I don’t want them.” She straightened her shoulders and pulled at the handle of her brush. “But when a man—any man—asks me for something, I do want courtesy and to be treated with respect. I will have that, Bryce. So if you want something, anything at all from me, then you have to ask me nicely.”

“I’ll do my best.” He raised the edge of the afghan then tucked it down at her side. “Would you mind telling me why you avoid mirrors?”

That she hadn’t expected. Her face went hot and her palms damp. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Bryce dropped his voice to just above a whisper and looked at her from under his lashes, lowered to half-mast. “But I’d like to know, Cally.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t bring herself to answer. He looked at her like a woman wants a man to look at her. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t. Oh, she wasn’t deluding herself. He was still in love with his dead wife. Or—Cally remembered the man’s whisper—Bryce thought he was. But even if it was just a man/woman thing without the emotional entanglement—which she certainly didn’t want any part of anyway—she liked those looks. They made her feel less ugly. Less marred. Less like a failure. When a body’s self-esteem is down in a ditch it’s hard to find courage. And when a woman’s starting over at thirty-two with everything she never wanted, her self-esteem has to hike up to be down in a ditch.

“Cally?” Bryce cupped her chin with his fingertips then lifted, urging her to look at him. “I noticed. So have the kids.”

He knew. Her mouth went dry as dust. Damn it, he knew. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing to redeem herself in his eyes.

His fingertips tightened on her chin. “I know you do it. What I don’t understand is,
why?”

“Do you want the truth?” Her insides quivering like molded gelatin, she tossed his words back at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?” So he too could ridicule her?

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We have a lot in common. I think you got a raw deal with Gregory and I hate what he’s done to you. I like you, Cally. Aren’t those reasons enough?”

He liked her?
Liked her?
“You don’t even know me.”

“Oh, but I do.” His expression softened and his gaze warmed, setting his irises afire with sparkles of silver flecks. “I know a lot about you, Cally.”

“You don’t.”

“Sweetheart, I do.” Bryce gentled his tone. “I know you didn’t know so much as Jeremy’s name yet you jumped to his defense. I know you didn’t get upset at Suzie’s remark about your maybe being her new mom. And”—he braced himself to feel the brunt of her anger—“I know you visit a stranger’s grave in Biloxi every Sunday and bring her a yellow carnation because you don’t want her to ever feel forgotten.”

Cally gasped. “How did you know that?”

“About Mary Beth Ladner?”

“Yes!” That was private. Something she’d only shared with her family. Her parents, and . . . “Gregory.” She clenched her hand into a fist against her thigh. “That sorry son of—”

“An animal cracker,” Bryce interrupted.

“I can’t believe he told you about Mary Beth.” Cally’s eyes glittered with anger.

“Honey, calm down.” Bryce cupped her arms firmly, then loosened his fingers, easing his hold. “I love that about you. About Mary Beth, I mean.”

She went perfectly still. Her expression went lax and the rage drained right out of, her. He loved it? How could he love anything about her?

“Don’t you see how special you are?”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it’d be funny. She didn’t see. Not at all. But then Cally was a giver, not a taker. She likely never would see how special this would be perceived to be by others. “Honey, it’s a rare thing for a woman—hell, for anyone—to give and keep on giving when they get nothing in return. How long have you been going to Mary Beth Ladner’s grave? Since you were a kid, right?”

“You’re wrong.”

“You haven’t been going there since you were a kid?”

“Not about that.” Cally slumped back against the cool wall, too weary to fight. The first rays of dawn crept through the window and slid over the floor. “About Mary Beth. She gives back. She always has. Maybe not directly, but indirectly.”

“The woman is dead. You never met her. How can she give back?”

“I’m tired, Bryce.” She swiped a trembling hand over her face. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”