On Friday of that week, Tim called her at work. "I have tickets for
Grand Hotel
Saturday night at Jones Hall. Would you like to go with me?"
The musical had won five Tony awards and Claire had never seen it. She should be excited about the prospect of the evening, but it was hard to be enthusiastic about anything. She accepted the invitation, though.
Her aunt was delighted when Claire told her about her plans. "I'm glad. You need to get out more," Lily said. "It's not healthy to sit home and brood."
"I'm not divorced yet, you know. Technically, I shouldn't be going out with other men."
"You're just going out with a friend," her aunt countered. "There's nothing wrong in that." She gave Claire a shrewd look. "This man
is
just a friend, isn't he?"
"Yes, of course."
So Claire went. She even enjoyed herself, only thinking about Nick once, when during a poignant scene, it was obvious the baron and the ballerina were star-crossed lovers. When the baron died, Claire knew exactly how his lover felt. Nick was dead to her, too, and it hurt. Deeply. She wondered if she'd ever again be able to see a sad movie or read a sad book without feeling this clutching pain, this raw desolation?
Afterwards Tim took her for a late supper at Charley's 517, and Claire was glad it was a restaurant she and Nick had never gone to together. By the time Tim took her home, it was very late, and Claire was tired. Maybe she'd even sleep that night, she thought.
Tim walked her to the door, and they stood outside for a few moments, talking. The light from the street lamp cast shadows over his earnest face, and Claire realized it was good to have a friend like Tim. But she wondered how their friendship would affect his friendship with Nick. She didn't want to cause any problems between them.
Finally, she said, "Well, I'd better be going in. Thanks for a lovely evening, Tim. It was nice of you to take pity on me."
"I asked you because I'd rather be with you than anyone I can think of," Tim said. "Not because I was sorry for you."
Oh, dear,
Claire thought.
I hope he doesn't mean what I think he means.
Tim bent to kiss her, and Claire stiffened, even as she told herself to tread lightly. Tim was so nice; she didn't want to hurt him any more than was necessary. His lips touched hers briefly, softly, and Claire felt sad because she knew she would never feel passion for this man. She gently pulled back.
"Claire—" His voice sounded rough.
"I'd better go in," she said, touching his cheek. "Thanks again, Tim."
"Wait. Please, Claire ..." He reached for her hands. "I ... I had a wonderful time tonight."
I can't deal with this.
"I hope we can do this often." He squeezed her hands, then released them, and she shoved them in her pockets. "How about this coming Friday?"
"Tim," Claire said firmly, "I can't."
"Well, that's okay. If you're busy Friday, what about Saturday, or even Sunday?" His voice was eager.
"Tim. Listen to me. You must listen to me."
He sighed.
"I don't want to lead you on, Tim. I value you as a friend, but I don't think it's a good idea for us to see too much of one another."
He was silent for a long time. Then, with resignation, he said, "It's Nick, isn't it?"
She owed Tim honesty. "Yes," she said quietly. "It's Nick." Her heart constricted in her chest as she said the words. "It will always be Nick. I'm sorry."
"You love him."
"Yes."
"Then why are you going through with this divorce? He told me it was your idea."
Claire took a deep breath. "Tim, I felt I had to tell you the truth about my feelings because I like you and respect you. But my reasons for leaving Nick are my own, and they're personal. I can't share them with you."
She could hear the weariness in his voice as he said, "Fair enough." He laughed, the sound hollow and self-deprecating. "I appreciate the fact that you didn't lie to me." Claire smiled and reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. "I'll never lie to you."
"Nick's a fool."
"Our problems are not his fault, Tim."
"If you say so," he said, but he sounded skeptical. "How about us? Even if we don't date, can we still be friends?"
"Of course."
"And you'll go out with me occasionally?"
"If I can."
But later, as Claire prepared for bed, she knew it probably wasn't going to be possible to continue seeing Tim—under any circumstances—for if she did, he might hold on to the hope that she would change her mind. And she never would.
* * *
Nick went skiing for the remainder of the week after the meeting with Claire. But even Sun Valley and perfect skiing conditions didn't take his mind off Claire for more than a couple of hours at a time. Everything seemed to remind him of her. The sunlight dancing across the evergreens reminded him of her eyes and her bright hair. The flickering firelight in the lodge re-minded him of their honeymoon suite at the St. Maurice. A young couple, arms around each other, reminded him of those lazy afternoons in Monterey.
When he returned to Houston, he felt rested and less tense, however he was a long way from forgetting about his soon-to-be-ex-wife. But he was determined to wipe Claire out of his mind. All he needed was time, he promised himself as he tackled the stack of correspondence waiting for him on Monday morning.
At ten o'clock he attended the weekly managers' meeting, and afterwards, Tim approached him and said, "How about lunch?"
"Sure." Relations between them had been strained ever since Tim had told him he didn't want to represent him in the divorce, but Nick was trying to be fair. He and Tim went too far back to let Claire come between them.
Over red beans and rice at Treebeards, Tim said, "I saw Claire Saturday night."
Nick was glad of his ability to keep his expression impassive. All he said was, "Oh?"
"Yes. I took her to see
Grand Hotel."
Was Tim deliberately baiting him? It wouldn't work. Nick was more experienced in the nuances of playing against an adversary's weaknesses. He knew that in a face-off, he would win out over Tim any day of the week. "Was the show any good?"
Tim laid his fork down. "Christ, Nick, you're a cool one, aren't you? Doesn't it bother you at all that I took your wife out?"
"My estranged wife, soon to be my ex-wife." Nick gave Tim a cynical smile.
Tim's eyes narrowed. "I repeat, doesn't it bother you at all?"
"No. It's a free country."
"I asked her out for Friday night. Maybe I'll even ask her to marry me when your divorce is final. Does
that
bother you?"
Nick froze, and an icy coldness crept through him. "I hope the two of you will be very happy," he said tightly. "I'll be sure and send a wedding present."
"She refused to go out with me again."
She refused to go out with him again.
"Why?" His voice sounded odd, and he hoped Tim didn't notice. "If you don't know why, I can't explain it to you." For the rest of the day, Nick couldn't forget the look in Tim's eyes when he'd said
if you don't know why, I can't explain it to you.
He thought about the look in Claire's eyes when she tore up his check. He thought about the way she acted when she told him she wanted a divorce. He thought about the kind of person Claire was—the kind of person he'd
thought
she was. He thought about the way she'd cared for her mother. He thought about the pleasure, the happiness, the concern he'd seen in her eyes—over and over again. He thought about everything. Over and over again.
At four o'clock, he pressed the intercom. "Wanda? Would you get Bill Angelo on the line for me?"
* * *
The following Friday, Claire rubbed her temples wearily. She'd worked all day on the copy for an advertisement her agency was doing for a local substance abuse hospital, and it still wasn't right. Her concentration was shot.
I've got to get a grip on myself. Other people survive divorce. I will, too.
At four fifty-five she began to clean off her desk, and at five she picked up her briefcase and suit jacket and waved good-bye to her co-workers.
"Got a big weekend planned, Claire?" asked Margie, a pretty brunette artist.
"Not really."
As she rode the elevator down to the parking lot level, Claire thought about how different her life was lately. With her mother gone, she no longer had the nursing home to visit. And with Nick gone, there was no one to demand anything of her. She was perfectly free.
Why was freedom so lonely?
The drive home took her forty-five minutes in the Friday afternoon traffic. Soon she wouldn't have such a long drive. At the end of the month she planned to move into her own apartment. As she drove up the street toward her aunt's house, she was preoccupied and didn't notice the Lotus until she was practically parallel with the house.
Claire's heart slammed into her chest.
He was leaning against the Lotus, watching her approach. With shaking hands, she pulled into the driveway and slowly emerged from the car into the late afternoon sunshine. The air was chilly, but she barely noticed. Her entire being was centered on the man walking toward her. Her mind registered the details of his appearance while her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and a queer kind of happiness.
Her eyes devoured him. He was dressed casually— in khaki pants, white sweater, and a dark leather jacket. As he came closer, Claire saw that his face was somber, his blue eyes riveted on hers.
"Hello, Claire."
"Hello, Nick."
What's he doing here? What does he want now?
"I had to talk to you."
Claire had recovered some of her aplomb. "Hasn't everything already been said?"
He moved closer—close enough to touch—and now Claire's heart skittered alarmingly. When he reached out and touched her cheek, her entire body reacted as a powerful shudder raced through her.
Oh, God. I can't take this. What kind of game is he playing?
But when she looked into his eyes, she saw no malice, no dislike, no bitterness. Perhaps he saw her confusion, because he smiled.
The smile grabbed her heart and squeezed it.
"Claire, I don't blame you for being suspicious. All I ask is that you hear me out. There are things I have to tell you."
She was afraid. She could so easily lose control, make a total fool of herself.
"Are your aunt and uncle home?"
"Yes."
"Then would you go for a drive with me?"
"Nick—"
"Please, Claire."
Please.
Nick Callahan rarely said
please.
Claire swallowed. "I . . . I'd better tell my aunt. She might see the Mercedes and wonder ..."
"Of course."
A few minutes later, she was back. Mind racing, she allowed him to help her into the Lotus. Before he turned the key in the ignition, he said, "Do you mind if we go to the house? I'm not sure we can talk in the car.
Her brain said
No! Danger!
her heart said, "No. I don't mind."
The twenty-five minute ride seemed interminable. Claire stared out the window. Her thoughts were a jumble. What did he want? What would he say? Why had she come?
She must be crazy.
Finally they reached the house, and Claire's chest hurt just looking at it.
When he led her into the tower, she felt faint. But she offered no resistance when he took her hand and drew her up the twisting spiral staircase.
Everything looked exactly the same. Except for the music box. Claire bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. The music box that Nick had given her for Christmas sat in the middle of the low coffee table in front of the loveseat. The last time Claire had seen it, it was sitting on her dresser in their bedroom.
Nick must have moved it.
Why?
She'd have thought he would have put it away, out of sight. Maybe even smashed it.
The semi-precious stones imbedded in the base of the music box winked in the apricot glow of the rays of the setting sun. Slowly, Claire looked from the box to Nick.
"I called Bill Angelo the other day and told him to stop the divorce proceedings," he said.
Shock thundered through her. "Why?"
"I don't want a divorce."
She wet her lips. The blue of his eyes held her spellbound. "Why not?"
He didn't answer.
"Why not?" she repeated.
"Because I love you."
Joy exploded inside her. He loved her. He loved her. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Nick," she said brokenly.
He reached for her hands. "Come sit down," he said gently. "There are a lot of things I have to tell you."
They sat side by side on the loveseat.
Still holding her hands, he began to talk. "I've done nothing but think all week long. And now I think I understand why you asked for a divorce."
When she would have interrupted him, he said, "No. Wait. Let me finish, okay?"
"Okay." She watched his face, his dear face.
"I think I loved you from the very beginning, but was afraid to admit it."
Happiness, pure and simple, flooded her.
He sighed, rubbed his thumbs over the backs of her hands. "There's so much to tell you, but for you to understand, I have to explain about my family. My father was a laborer. He worked on an assembly line, making fans. He drank too much. So did my mother. Their only entertainment was hanging out at the local beer garden four or five nights a week. They used to drag me and my sister along. One night, when he had gone drinking with his buddies after work, he walked in front of a bus. He was killed instantly."
"Oh, Nick, I'm sorry . . ."
He shrugged. "It was a long time ago."
"How old were you?"
"Nine. My mother tried, I guess, but ... I don't know. It must have all been too much for her. She didn't have any skills. The only work she was qualified to do was cleaning. For a while she worked for a janitorial service. Then one day she just left. When Natalie and I got home from school, she was gone."
Claire thought about Brigitte. Thought about how her story and Nick's story were so similar. She wondered if he knew Brigitte's background.