Tara Quinn - At Close Range

“Cheers,” she said, offering her glass for the traditional clink—a throwback to their college days when they’d all thought it bad luck to drink without toasting first.

The theory, as far as she could remember was along the lines of “you can’t toast without someone there and if there’s someone there, you won’t ever drink alone.”

Drinking alone had been their definition of a drinking problem.

Brian’s glass still hadn’t touched hers.

Hannah could feel him watching her. And the look in his eyes, when she finally met it, told her he wasn’t letting her get away with running. Or hiding. Or shutting him out.

“Here’s to friends,” he said, his voice warm as he held out his glass. “And knowing that they’re always there. No matter what.”

She held her glass stiffly. There was safety in aloneness. And danger in believing in foolishness. You didn’t need a toast to enjoy a shot of scotch. You didn’t need a toast to keep safe.

Or a friend, either.

“Here’s to friends,” she said, dropping her gaze as she sipped.

Hannah’s cell phone rang just as Brian was hanging up from ordering dinner. He reached for his wallet, getting the money to pay the delivery person, as he listened to her answer it, sounding more like herself than he’d heard that day.

“William. How are you?”

Her judge friend, Brian surmised. William Horne. He’d met the man more than once over the years.

“No. I’m fine. Just tired.”

Brian froze with the money still in his hand, his eyes following Hannah as she moved to the sliding glass door to stare out into the backyard. She was just tired?

He wondered how many times he’d heard the same type of response when Hannah couldn’t admit she needed something.

“Yes.”

And then again, after a brief pause, “Yes.

“Judge Randolph? No, I didn’t see her.

“That’s right, I did decide to allow the witness.

Another, longer pause.

“Because it was the right thing to do.

“I know.”

She nodded, apparently forgetting that William couldn’t see her, then repeated, “I know.”

And Brian felt a surge of impatience. The last thing Hannah needed just now was a lecture. Not that William had any way of knowing that.

“I came home to find Callie run over by a car.”

Brian couldn’t hear William’s exact answer, but it was loud enough for him to know there was one.

“No.” Hannah’s voice broke. “She died.” Her shoulders looked so fragile. Brian had to resist the urge to wrap an arm around them, to let her rest against him until she had the strength to stand alone.

“No, really, I’m fine,” she said after another few words from William. “She was alive when I found her and I called Brian. He’s still here.

“Yeah. We just ordered dinner.”

Another several seconds passed as William spoke, though Brian could no longer hear him.

“I agree.” Hannah briefly glanced up at Brian. “I know. I will.” Not used to feeling so uncomfortable, Brian wondered if he should leave the room.

William spoke some more.

“The deputy didn’t think so, either, and he went over the place thoroughly.”

There followed a pause, long enough for Brian to grab their drinks from the living room and give Hannah hers. And then, with a bit more reassurance and a couple of “I wills” she rang off.

“William said to tell you hi.”

Nodding, Brian tried to assess her expression. Which was never easy with Hannah. When he’d had money and she’d been a starving student, he’d played poker with her. And lost too often.

“He also said to tell you not to worry about the Sun News article.”

“I’m not.” Mostly.

One arm wrapped around her middle, she sipped her scotch. “He doesn’t think Callie’s death has anything to do with the trial.”

Brian had hoped that was what her comment about Deputy Charles meant. “He would know, don’t you think?” he asked.

Judge Horne had been on the bench twice as long as Hannah and had handled more capital cases than anyone in the state. More Ivory Nation cases, too.

“Yeah.” She didn’t look any less worried.

Brian probably would have pushed her a little further but the doorbell rang.

Dinner had arrived.

The Chinese food was gone. The first shot of scotch was long gone, too—having been followed by another and then, at some point, straight 7-Up. Too many hours were gone.

Brian was not. Nor did he appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I’m all right,” she said, rolling her head along the back of the couch, to peer down to the opposite end where he was lounging. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

Don’t go, the little girl in her pleaded silently. I’m afraid to be alone.

“I’ve never, not once, seen you act like a baby. Or treated you as one.”

“You suck at prevarication, Hampton.”

“Well then,” he said, staring her straight in the eye. “How’s this? I’m not babysitting. I’m here because there’s no place else I’d rather be.”

“I’m guessing Cynthia wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”

“Cynthia will understand. She knows how long we’ve been friends. She knows I love you like a sister. And…” he added, after a pause “…I don’t think she’d throw a fit even if she didn’t know. I almost wish she would.”

“Why?”

“Because while we enjoy being together, I still don’t quite feel as if we’re really in love. It’s like she doesn’t entirely trust me to love her. Or rather, doesn’t trust herself to be loved. She has no expectations. Counts on nothing. Including the fact that I’m going to come home to her every night.”

Hannah didn’t like the sound of that.

She’d been watching out for Brian—and he for her—more than half her life. She’d known him longer than anyone else. He was family.

That gave her the right to care, didn’t it? Regardless of this new dimension in his life—a woman waiting for him at home. A woman who had first call on his loyalty.

His heart.

“You don’t think Cynthia loves you?” she asked after a long pause.

Brian had suffered enough. Cara’s death had held him captive for more than ten years. Hannah wasn’t going to sit by and watch someone act carelessly with emotions that were only now coming out of storage.

“I think she does,” Brian said.

“But you don’t know it.”

“Right.”

“Does she say she does?”

“Yeah.”

The scotch had relaxed her, possibly too much. Still watching him, Hannah wasn’t sure what was happening—why these intimate feelings were coming out.

“Does she treat you well?”

“Yeah. It just always feels like she’s holding back.”

He’d loosened his tie—a Disney original dotted with Mickey Mouse figures—and unbuttoned the collar of his matching yellow shirt.

Mickey gave her courage. “Maybe she’s not the one holding back,” she said. “Maybe she’s reacting,” she added when he said nothing.

“To what?” he asked, but she thought he knew.

“To you. Maybe you’re the one who can’t give freely and that makes it less safe for her to do so.”

“I’m ready,” Brian said, a frown creasing his forehead. “I know I am.”

“I’m sure you are,” Hannah told him. “But being ready doesn’t mean you’re not out of practice. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brian. You don’t have to be perfect at everything you do.”

“So you think she’s holding back because I am?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility. But hey, consider the source. I’m a careful observer, but it’s not like I have any real experience at this.”

“You had the best experience,” Brian said quietly.