Authors: R.M. Alexander
Chapter Twenty Four
Dishes sat piled in the sink, stove top filthy with dried, burnt black food, the trash nearly overflowing. Shannon swallowed hard, hands tightening into fists. Pulling out her hair at the roots occurred to her, the image of running through the house like a crazed woman screaming at the top of her lungs flashing in red lights before her eyes. She backed against the counter, arms crossed, and stared at the sink, memories rattling back before the accident. No, Greg wasn’t like this then. He was considerate, clean. Maybe this was remnants from the amnesia. She tilted her head, mind racing through the research done over the years, and shook her head. Nothing in all of the research stated he’d turn into an inconsiderate slob. Wasn’t he supposed to have his memory back now? A moan passed through her lips as she turned away from the mess. Not one more disaster, one more filthy scene. Remaining in the marriage didn’t lock her into servitude.
A paper on the countertop caught her eye, and she reached out for it, staring at the words with wide eyes. It was Greg’s script-like writing, and stated Ms. Stockard sent her flowers, but the stems were bro
ken and buds couldn’t be saved.
Shannon’s brows knitted together as she tapped the paper against her fingers, and tucked it into a pocket. She paused, mind racing. Thoughts tumbled at her from every direction, and her feet made their way to the trash can without conscience direction from her mind. A finger lifted the lid to reveal the dozen azaleas crumbled on top of a soup of wasted food. The blooms looked as though they had been crushed, the stems broken at the base of each destroyed bloom. Her mouth dropped open, head shifting to look at the empty entrance to the dining room. Floral delivery companies didn’t deliver flowers in that condition.
The lid slipped from her fingertips, emotions numbing. Fire and ice, ice and fire. The fiery within her washed away by the chill. Greg destroyed her flowers, and something about the note hinted of familiarity.
She shook her head. No, that was impossible. He wouldn’t do something like that, and how would he
be familiar with the Stockards?
“Get a grip, Shannon. You’re overreacting, and you need to give this a chance.” She sighed. “It’s jus
t the hurt talking. Be strong.”
With lead feet, she struggled to head upstairs, to where she was sure Greg waited, along with another night of fighting off advances. Her stomach flinched, and she wondered, as she climbed the steps, how long lying next to her husband wou
ld feel like a prison sentence.
*
The drive down I-84 was quiet and dark, and at two in the morning, few cars kept Triston company as he headed west. Middletown faded into the night in the rearview mirror, and the twelve hours before him seemed like an eternity.
Two fingers rubbed hard against a brow. He should have waited until morning, the yellow strips in the road were hypnotizing him to sleep. Gritting his teeth, Triston rolled down the window, allowing crisp air to waft into the car and brush against his face. He glanced to the rearview mirror. There was no sense in going any further tonight, he’d fall asleep and get himself killed, or kill someone else. Cutting through a u-turn ramp, Triston headed back to Middletown. He’d stay the night, and continue home in the morning. He wasn’t at the Grande, that was the important thing. Shannon could return to her life, make sense out of the marriage without him breathing down her neck. Without him imagining that jerk being allowed to kiss and hold her at night, doing all the things Triston fantasized. The visions ripped his heart every time. How could he be a support system when love clouded rational j
udgment?
Triston blinked hard and caught sight of a highway road sign. Ten miles to town. There had to be vacancy somewhere. Crash for the night, get a cup of coffee in the morning and hit the road. It was the first decision he’d made in the past week and a h
alf that made any sense at all.
A half hour later, he stood in the studio room of a typical hotel. Two double beds, tacky colors, flat screen TV, sink and bath. His lips curled upwards. The Grande Marquis spoiled the experience for any hotel after it. Shannon had succeeded
in building the perfect escape.
He plopped the suitcase on the mattress, and eased onto the edge of the bed, tossing the key next to him. Eight hours until check-out. He closed his burning eyes, it should be more than enough time to catch up on some sleep. Even if he got four to five hours, he’d be happily back on the road. Triston stood, rubbed the back of his neck and headed for the bathroom to freshen his face. As he glanced at the reflection, Shannon came to mind again. He growled at the lingering desire.
Get over it buddy
.
He traipsed back to the bed, retrieved a pair of lounge pants from the suitcase and laid them out. Stripping down, he pulled the pants on, loosely tied the string and climbed under the blankets. As thoughts trailed to Greg, and the first time Triston met him in the lobby, every nerve stood on pulsating end. He played the scene over, unsettled with the inclination something felt horribly out of place. Rolling over, his head resting on a curled arm, wrist against his forehead, he stared into the darkness. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe …
Triston sat up, teeth clenched and eyes roaming the darkness as thoughts penetrated his mind, morphing into cold realization. He jumped from the bed.
“Of course. The slimy rat ...”
Pushing the lounge pants off and tossing them back into the suitcase, he hurriedly dressed in jeans and t-shirt, zipped the suitcase, grabbed the keys and left the room. Tired or not, he had to a little over an hour’s drive ahead of him.
As he made the turn onto the highway, he wondered, would Shannon listen?
*
Morning broke through the darkness, and Shannon sat at the kitchen table, a cup of orange juice gripped firmly in hand. She successfully subdued Greg’s advances, but even being only the second night, the tension he exuded lying next to her, brooding, was suffocating. Dark circles under her eyes, a headache strumming at her temples, she had decided not to go in for the day. It was the first time since Greg’s accident she had taken a day off. The unease of being away from the hotel left her shifting positions for what
seemed like the hundredth time.
Two fingers reached up and rubbed against the side of her head. Not sleeping was already taking a toll, and she wondered if she should take a break and check into a room at the Grande for the night. Maybe after some sleep, and a moment to think, she’d be able to face the prospect of putting the pieces of th
e marriage back together again.
Footsteps echoed across the floor, but she didn’t turn to
wards them. She didn’t have to.
“Good morning, Greg.”
He didn’t respond for a moment, the clinging of coffee mugs and the sounds of the maker being prepped for his morning beverage of choice the only confirmation of his presence. Shannon turned to look at him. With robe loosely tied at the waist, bare chest showing through the black terrycloth which bared the emblem of initials embroidered on a chest pocket, he looked like the man she’d fallen in love with. But his face looked distant, lost in thought. Decidedly not angry, just not present.
“Good morning, Greg.”
“Morning Shannon. Sleep well?”
She shrugged as she watched him move around the kitchen like a man lost. What was wrong now? “Okay. You?”
“Had some things on my mind.” He moved across the floor and sat across from her, gray eyes steely. “Like why my wife won’t make love to me.”
She took a sip, and placed the glass softly on the table, concentrating on its bright hue. “I told you I would need some time. I thought you could understand that.”
He snorted and turned to look out the bay window. “I was thinking maybe it was more than that.”
She shrugged again and shook her head. “Like what, Greg? What else would it be?”
“Another man.”
A sarcastic laugh tickled her lips. “That’s priceless.”
“I guess it is, coming from me, huh?” His brows shot up as he stood and walked back to the coffee maker. “I want to make it better, Shannon.”
She swallowed hard, focusing attention outside. She should have gone to work. “Then give it time. When it’s right, it’ll happen, I guess.”
She heard the hot liquid pour into a coffee cup and Greg take a noisy sip. His silence burnt her curiosity and she turned to find him leaning against the counter, staring at her with coldness numbing his features. “What?”
“Will you ever forgive me?”
“It’s not the forgiveness. It’s the getting past the things that were done. It’s the forgetting.”
Looking down into the blackness of his coffee, he stood petrified for a moment befor
e nodding and leaving the room.
Shannon dropped her eyes, and turned back to the window. The forgetting was so much harder than the forgiving.
Laundry, cleaning and straightening, settling in. There was no relaxing, and Shannon was grateful. It kept her from having to spend time with Greg, gave her a chance to breath. The thought of returning to the hotel played with her mind, but she dug her heels in. Running away wasn’t going to fix anything, certainly not her marriage, shredded as it was.
“But then, neither is avoiding him,” she whispered as she folded the last of the laundry and carried it across the hall to the bedroom. Glancing at the clock and then out the window at the fading brightness of day, she lifted curled fingers to her mouth with consideration. The day was just about over, dinnertime settling in, and neither she nor Greg had suggested anything. Chinese takeout. She’d go pick it up, giving her chance to get some fresh air, and no one would have to cook. She nodded to herself and left the room, trotting down
the stairs to find her husband.
Shannon pulled back into the driveway with a brown bag filled with crab rangoons, shrimp fried rice, and chicken and broccoli. Nerves twitched as the realization set in she was about to have the first dinner with Greg in nearly two years. What would they talk about?
What
could
they talk about?
She pulled into the garage and pressed the button to close the heavy door behind the SUV. Squeezing the steering wheel, she drew in a couple of deep breaths, and reache
d over to grab the bag of food.
Inside, the kitchen lights were off,
the dining room vacant. “Greg?”
With no answer, she laid the purse and keys on the counter next to the food, and ventured further into the house. Lights from the den shone out into the foyer, and she drew in a whistling breath through parted teeth as she ran her hands down the material of her dress. Head high, a smile plastered across brave lips, she headed toward the casual haven in the front of the house.
The ceramic flooring of the foyer gave way to the hardwood hallway. She passed the enormous vases with fake arrangements of purples, burgundies and blues, assortments of flowers she couldn’t name. A Monet hung from the wall above a black side table where framed pictures of years passed set. She paused, staring at the painting, realizing she’d never been sure of the name.
Sunrise something
, she thought.
Or maybe something sunrise
. The thought occurred to her she never cared one way or the other. She bought it because Greg wanted her to, and for no other reason.
Ahead of her, the den opened wide and inviting beyond an archway stenciled with twisting vines. As she drew closer, the ivory leather sofa and loveseat came into view, nestled atop a massive area rug she’d purchased in Morocco. The glass coffee table stood flooded with books and remotes, end tables careful carriers of statues she’d found in England. In the far corner, a favorite nook for reading, sat the much loved plush wide chair where she’d curled in more nights than she could remember wit
h a good book and some popcorn.
She passed under the archway to find him sitting in his corner of the room, which was cluttered with papers, files and candy wrappers. It was the one space in the house she never touched, did
n’t bother to attempt to clean.
He sat in the midst of it in a leather office chair, leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees, face lined with worried creases. With collar button open, and tie draped around his neck like a scarf, he looked the part of a worried businessman. But Shannon was sure whatever was on his mind had nothing to do with business. He’d long ago lost his job, and never bo
thered looking for another one.
She studied him for a moment with guarded eyes, and felt everything within her tremble. Maybe it was about Rick, she thought. The Stockards were clear in their interest to go after Greg. Maybe with a clear head, he felt badly about w
hat he’d done. Surely, he must.
She circled to the couch without sitting down. “Dinner’s in the kitchen. Do you want to eat in here, or the dining room, or …” Her voice drifted off. His face looked beaten, drawn. “What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking all day Shannon, trying to decide if I should do this or not, but I think I need to. We need to talk. There’s something I need to tell you if we are going to move forward.”