Brave Enough (20 page)

Tag

“You need sleep, son,” Mom says, rubbing my back as she passes. I'm slumped in a kitchen chair with my throbbing head in my hands.

“No shit,” I mutter.

“Language.” Her soothing circles become a stinging slap before she walks away. “Have you talked to her?”

“Not since I put Michael on his ass. She probably hates me.”

“Whether or not you've earned it, I can't see Weatherly hating you. I knew when I saw you two together that she loved you. And real love,
true love
doesn't die that easily. Even when we want it to.”

“I just don't know what else to do, Mom. I've told her how I feel. I've apologized every way I can think to apologize. I've begged. I've pleaded. I don't know what else I can do to convince her that I love her. That I need her.”

“She doesn't trust you, you know.”

I resist the urge to repeat my previous “No shit.” “I realize that. But I can't very well earn back her trust if she won't see me, if I can't be around her.”

“No, but you can show her that she's worth more than anything to you.”

“I have. Or at least I've tried.”

I sit up and lean back, letting my head drop onto my tense shoulders. After a few seconds of silence, I see Mom's face pop into my field of view as she bends over me, a stern expression in place.

“Try harder.”

“How?”

Her smile is confident and amused. “It'll come to you.”

Weatherly

I'm waiting with my bags by the door for the courier to arrive. He's bringing me some paperwork to sign. Tag accepted the offer, but evidently he has a caveat of his own, one that requires my attention before I leave. It's my last piece of business in Atlanta. From here, I'm going to Missouri. Someplace distant. Someplace different. Someplace I can hide until I heal.
If
I heal.

At the ring of the bell, I open the door, smiling politely at the older gentleman. With his ruddy complexion and slicked back hair, he looks like he should be delivering body parts to those who made the mistake of offending the mafia. I wonder if he'll have a thick Northern accent when he speaks. He says nothing, though, simply hands me a packet, which I take. “Thank you. I won't be a minute.”

“Take your time, ma'am,” he says in a decidedly Southern way, tipping his head and smiling. The gesture transforms him from a
burgeoning criminal into a pleasant, competent courier. It's amazing how that works.

I take the packet to the table and open it, spreading out the papers and looking for the brightly colored tag that indicates where my signature is needed. When I find it, I read the caveat and stop, my pulse picking up speed to a near gallop. Tag's one request is that I bring the papers to him to sign. Personally. At Chiara. Today.

Shit.

I was really hoping to get out of here without seeing him again. It sets me back almost to square one when I see him, when he says things that I long to hear him say. But at least this will be the last time. After today, I can move forward consistently, heal a little more each day. I hope. I'm hoping that out of sight really
is
out of mind. And heart.

I sigh. I suppose leaving tomorrow won't be that big a deal. I wanted to drive to Missouri. Take my time. Think. Just be . . . away. I was planning to stay in a hotel until the movers could pack and move my things to my new place. One day's delay won't change any of that. The
type
of delay, however, might change what I think about on the trip tomorrow.

Actually, it won't. I have no doubt that I'd have thought of Tag ninety percent of the time anyway. Now I'll just have fresh images, fresh words to dwell on.

Fun, fun.

I straighten the papers and stuff them back in the envelope. I take a twenty out of my wallet and head back to the door. When I swing it open, the man is still standing there on the stoop; he moved away from the door just enough that he could stand in the
bright morning sunshine. His head snaps around when he hears the door and he smiles reflexively.

I hand him the money. “Thank you for bringing these. It seems I'll be delivering them myself, so I won't have further need of your services.”

He nods and discreetly accepts the money as he takes my hand in both of his. “Thank you, ma'am. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

I watch him walk off, feeling suddenly anxious about what the rest of my day might hold. I haven't heard from Tag since the offer was made two days ago. In a way, I expected that I might. But then again, I knew I wouldn't. This is what he wanted all along. What's left to say?

That's why I'm nervous about meeting him at Chiara. But I will. I have to get this sewn up before I leave. That's why I pull myself to my full height and square my shoulders. I have to do this and I have to do it now.

The over-two-hour drive only makes matters worse. By the time I get to the winding road that starts up the mountain toward the vineyard, my palms are sweating and I'm nauseous. The
idea
of leaving Tag behind, of making our “end” final, wasn't nearly as upsetting when I was safe at home. At a distance. It seemed like a nebulous thing. But now, knowing that I'll be laying eyes on him for the last time in just a few minutes . . . it's almost more than my poor heart and nerves can handle. This is not the eventuality that I hoped we'd have. I never saw this coming.

I barely feel the warm wind whipping through my hair as I start down Chiara's long, beautiful drive. I'm hardly aware of the lightly scented air or the familiar rows of grapevines that are
flying by. I have only one thought, and I'm less than five minutes from him now.

I slow nearly to a stop when the house comes into view. There are four shiny black cars in the circular drive. My heart sinks. I had thought Tag would try once more to tell me that he loves me, that he made mistakes where we are concerned, but I suppose he really
is
getting the only thing he wanted now. Those cars look like they belong to businessmen, men like my father and Michael and their lawyers. All the ingredients to settle up a matter such as this, when all Tag had to do was sign the papers.

Dread floods the back of my throat like bile, and I swallow hard. Whatever lies ahead, this will all be over soon and I'll be on my way to a new state, a new home and a new life. One day, all this will be a vague, unpleasant memory.

That's what I tell myself as I pull to a stop, as I shift into park, as I get out of my car and again as I mount the steps. I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle, ready to face the inevitable, but it swings open before I can, startling me.

Tag is standing just on the other side of the opening, his gray eyes unreadable. My heart lurches in my chest when his lips curve into a polite smile.
Polite.
He's not even going to pretend that there was more to us than this.

“Come in,” he says, holding the door as though this isn't still my home.

An unbearable sadness drips through my veins like slow-moving cold water. I return his polite smile and step inside, my stomach turning over miserably when he holds out an arm directing me toward the dining room. I'm not surprised to see a few
people, businessmen, who I don't know. I am, however, surprised to see my father here. His expression is carefully blank when his eyes meet mine.

I frown at him as if to ask why he's here. He merely shakes his head in one small, short gesture. I'm even more apprehensive now. This was supposed to be an easy transaction. Not . . .
this
.

I feel Tag's hand at my lower back and I jerk involuntarily. Not because he scared me or because I'm repulsed by this touch. Quite the opposite, in fact. It feels like electricity. Like heaven. Like home. Like no touch for the rest of my life will ever compare to it.

If I were a lesser woman, I might dissolve into a puddle of tears, but instead, I square my shoulders and meet every curious eye in the room, nodding to each of the gentlemen as I go.

“Gentlemen, this is Weatherly O'Neal Barton. Weatherly, this is Tom Geffen, my lawyer. To his left is Gerald, the head of the Randolph Consolidated legal department. Beside him is Fritz Montgomery, the largest shareholder at Randolph Consolidated besides myself, as well as a board member.”

“Gentlemen, it's a pleasure,” I say demurely, my insides a jittering mass of jelly contained only by the clenched muscles of my abdomen. I can do this part. I was
bred
for this part—to face men like this.

“I'll leave you to finish up. There's something I need to discuss with Weatherly.”

With the pressure of his hand guiding me, Tag urges me on through the dining room and into the kitchen, toward the back door. He opens it for me as well. I walk through without question. Although I'm curious as to what he has to say and why he needs
privacy to say it, I'm happy that
our
business doesn't involve all those men. Somehow that was very upsetting. Very impersonal, as though we hadn't spent countless hours wrapped in each other's sweaty, naked arms. At least this way, that is somewhat preserved. Even though it's a painfully poignant reminder of what I lost. What I actually never had.

Tag leads me wordlessly through the grass, along the path that fronts the oldest field of grapevines. He continues on and we walk for several minutes, always in complete silence. Then my stomach starts to tighten in a different way. I realize that he's heading toward the unfinished cabin, the one that's little more than four walls and a roof. The one that we spent so many wonderful hours inside, making love and talking.

My throat burns and tears sting my eyes. I didn't expect him to bring me here. I wasn't prepared. I wasn't prepared for any of this.

It takes us about ten minutes to reach the cabin. When we do, I'm surprised to see that there are windows installed and a door in place. I want to ask questions, but I don't. He's obviously been busy, having people finish what he had married into.

I gulp when he stops at the bottom of the steps and turns toward me. He says nothing, just stares down into my face, his gray eyes shining like silver smoke in the dazzling sun, shining with what I now recognize as love. Bright, beautiful love. Gently, he takes my hand and leads me up to the door. He twists the knob and pushes it open, gesturing for me to precede him, so I do.

The interior of the cabin is finished as well. It's furnished sparingly, the biggest additions being a wall that separates the living
space from the bedroom and a big, four-poster bed that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lower vineyard.

There's a small mahogany table and chairs right inside the kitchenette area. On its top burns a candle that smells like bougainvillea and sunshine. It has a vaguely familiar aroma that eases the tension in my shoulders despite my heightened anxiety. I note the labels on the coffee and bottles of wine that decorate one end of the countertop—Italian. A bittersweet pang registers somewhere in the vicinity of my broken heart.

I move on, determined to keep my composure. I reach out to touch the glassy surface of the tiny bar as I pass. It, too, reminds me of something I found at our little piece of heaven in Italy—the enameled lava stone that covered the kitchen island and every surface in the bathroom.

I pass through the living room, taking in the cozy loveseat that faces the empty fireplace and the rich bearskin that stretches out between them. Then, because it's the last thing to see, I make my way slowly toward the bed.

I frown when I see the duvet up close. It, too, looks remarkably like the one from our villa in Tuscany. I run my hand over it, chills breaking out down my arms at the feel of it. It even
feels
like the one from our honeymoon. Memories, happy memories, roll through my mind. The grief that follows them nearly brings me to my knees. I gasp involuntarily as I struggle to hang on to what little bit of composure I have left.

“Yes,” Tag says quietly from behind my left shoulder.

“What?” I ask, my trembling voice making less noise than the breeze pouring through the open windows.

“Yes, it's from our villa.”

Pressure builds inside me. It starts directly over my heart and radiates outward, like a starburst, consuming my entire chest in a blaze of fire. “Why?” I ask, not trusting myself to say more.

“I wanted to surround myself with every little piece of you that I could find. I ended up here. In
our
cabin, with things from
our
honeymoon. Bits of you,
memories
of you everywhere I look.”

“Why?” I ask again, my chin trembling with unshed tears, my heart trembling with unrealized hope.

“Because you're the only thing that's ever made me truly happy. You're the only woman I'll ever love. And if you still won't have me, I'll take whatever parts of you I can get my hands on, even if it's a comforter that felt the brush of your skin or a chunk of stone that held your hand.”

“You got what you wanted. You don't need me. You don't need
any of this
.”

“You're wrong. I need you more than I need to breathe. More than I need to see or hear or walk. I'd give up everything I am for one more day with you. Just. One. More. Day.”

I feel the tears ease from my lashes and work their way silently down my cheeks. How can I ever believe him? How can I ever believe that it's
only me
that he wants, and not some commodity or possession that he can get through me?

The answer is that I can't. I can't believe him. I will always wonder and there's nothing he can do to change that. His wounds cut too deep.

“It's easy to say that when you have everything.”

“I
did
have everything,” he corrects.

My frown returns. What is he playing at now? “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Those men up there? They're here to finalize a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“The kind that merges your father's company and mine. The kind that gives you everything I have, including Chiara. Because you're my wife. And I don't want it if I can't have you. I don't want any of it.”

I'm afraid to turn toward him. I'm afraid I'll see that this is a joke. I'm afraid I'll see, once again, that he's trying to deceive me.

But Tag won't leave me with my fear. His big hands come to my shoulders and urge me to face him. And what I find when I do is sincerity. And desperation. And something that looks an awful lot like love.

“I made the biggest mistake of my life when I didn't tell you about Chiara, when I didn't tell you who I was. This stuff . . .
all this stuff
came between us. My lies came between us. I knew you'd never believe my words again, so I'm trying to show you in the only way I know how—by giving you a multibillion-dollar offering. By laying everything I have and everything I am at your feet and begging you to forgive me. To come back to me. To love me again.” Tag drops to his knees in front of me and takes my hands in his. “I promise you won't regret it. I'll do anything. Anything, Weatherly. Just ask it. Just say the words and it's done. Whatever it is.”

I'm overwhelmed. I'm almost afraid to believe what's happening, to believe what he's saying. “Tag, I—”

“Please, Weatherly,” he interrupts brokenly, squeezing my hands and bringing them to the center of his chest. His face is
crushed, his eyes dull and pleading. “Please don't say no. I swear to God I don't think I can survive it if you leave me again. I'm nothing without you. This life, this life that I've always loved, is shit without you. If you want to kill me, if you want me
to die
, this is how you do it. You walk out that door. You walk out of my life. But you might as well take mine when you go, because it won't be worth a damn without you in it.”