“
Wanawake?
” he said.
Vida's face broke into stunned delight. “Yes, it is a woman.
Jinsi gani?
”
Grove grinned. “Um . . .
labda . . . labda yumkini?
”
Vida chortled. “We will have to work on your Swahili. It is Miss County.”
Grove rose, put the crutches under his arms, and shuffled over to a little oval mirror above a porcelain washbasin. Every labored breath brought a dull ache from his punctured lung and broken ribs. He wore a fresh undershirt and jeans, but he didn't like his reflection: his face looked terrible. Like a brown rag that had been wrung dry. The bandage around his neck was stained a ghastly yellow.
You really look like hell, old hoss.
He sighed and slowly made his way out the door.
Maura was waiting on the porch, staring out at the old gnarled chestnuts that stood sentry on the edge of Geisel's property. The rain had lifted. The sun had broken through the gray clouds here and there, and the air smelled of pine and wet earth. But the distant horizon still hung black and laden with portentsâas though the evil had diffused into the atmosphere only to start its long reconstitution.
Maura whirled around when she heard Grove's crutches creaking behind her.
“Um . . .” Grove started to say and suddenly fell silent when their eyes met.
“Yeah . . . so.” Maura stopped short as well, looking as though she had a speech planned but couldn't put it together. She took a step closer.
“I'm okay,” he said. “And so are you, it looks like.”
Then the crutches fell to the floorâ
âand they hugged.
It was a full-on homecoming embrace. And they said nothing. They simply hugged each other for agonizing moments. And Grove breathed her in as she held him upright. He could smell for the first time in what seemed like years. She had a distinctive scentâwintergreen, smoke, some kind of powder that Grove couldn't identify. He breathed it in and held her in the calm of that clapboard porch.
At length, Maura pulled away and retrieved the crutches, positioning them back under Grove's arms. Then they sat down next to each other. On two wooden Adirondack chairs canted toward the swaying shagbark trees. Maura was the first to break the silence. “Ulysses, I don't know what to say.”
Grove looked at her, saw that her eyes were moist. “You don't have to say anything.”
“I'm glad you're okay.”
“The feeling's mutual.”
“Ulysses . . .” She paused again.
“What is it?”
She looked at him. “When you said you didn't think it was a good idea for us to . . .” Another pause.
“Look, Maura, I was . . . confused. I was messed up.”
“No, you see, the thing is . . . you were right.”
Grove studied her wan face. “Mauraâ”
“No, I mean it.” She licked her lips, measuring her words. “Your world is not . . . it's not my world.”
A long pause.
Regret stabbed at Grove's heart. He could hear birds somewhere a million miles away. He started to say something else, but instead simply put a hand on her arm and patted her tenderly.
There would be time for more words, perhaps time for starting over. But right now it felt much better just to sit. Which they did.
They just sat there and didn't say a word and watched the ebb and flow of the breeze, wondering how long this respite from the darkness and turmoil would last.
Because it never does.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2005 by Jay Bonansinga
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Tattoo illustrations by Christina Weisbard
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3318-8