Danielle Steel: Lightning

“You just did,” she said firmly. More firmly than she felt. There was something about hearing from him again that softened a place in her heart that still loved him, but she was too afraid to ever let it happen.

“You know what I mean,” he persisted. “Let's have dinner.”

“I don't want to.”

“Please …” He sounded so appealing, she wanted to scream.

“Stop it!”

“Alex, please.” He was pleading with her and driving her crazy, and she steadfastly refused to see him, and a few minutes later she hung up on him, and Brock got out of the shower. He had no idea that anyone had called her.

She still felt awkward about it the next day when Sam called her again at the office. She didn't want to speak to him, but after eighteen years, she felt she owed him something. “What do you want from me?” she said finally in exasperation.

“One evening, that's all, and after that, I won't bother you again,” he bargained, and she sighed.

“Why? What difference does it make now?”

“It would mean a lot to me,” he said quietly, and in the end, she agreed to meet him. Just once. She didn't tell Brock about it, and she felt terrible lying to him. But she did it on a night when she knew Brock was busy with clients, and she left Annabelle with Carmen.

“Did you have to sneak out?” Sam teased when they met.

“Don't flatter yourself,” she snapped at him with a look of disapproval. She felt wrong doing this, and he could see that.

“Sorry.”

They went to a little restaurant in the East Eighties, and ordered pasta and wine, and for a little while it was like turning the clock back. It reminded her of the old days when they had been dating, and had first fallen in love, but now everything was different for both of them. This was the end, not the beginning. And they knew it. He was calmer than he'd been the past few times she'd seen him, and painfully aware that he was going to prison.

They walked back downtown slowly afterwards, remembering things, talking about people, and places where they'd been. They dredged up memories neither of them had thought of for years. It was a lot like looking at old albums. And then, as they walked along, they stopped at a corner for a red light and he pulled her closer to him and kissed her. It was cold, and as he held her, she hated herself for responding.

She didn't say anything, and they walked some more, and then he pulled her gently into a doorway to keep warm, and kissed her again.

“I couldn't have paid you to do this a year ago,” she said sadly and bluntly, and she hit her mark. He felt terrible after she said it.

“I was so stupid, Alex,” he said, kissing her again and then just holding her, and she let him. She remembered how lonely she had been for him, and how badly she had needed him, and how much she loved him. And how badly he had hurt her. She hadn't thought then that she'd ever recover. And yet now things seemed so different. It all seemed so far away, and being with him seemed so much more real and so much more important. She wondered if forgiveness was really more just a question of forgetting.

“I learned a lot of lessons last year,” she said thoughtfully, nestled in his arms.

“Like what?”

“Like not depending on anyone, like not living or surviving for anyone but yourself. In the end, I just survived on pure grit, because I refused to die …it was an important lesson …maybe you're going to need to remember that in prison.”

“I can't even imagine it,” he said quietly, and then he looked down at her and smiled warmly. “Thank you for this, for letting me hold you …and kiss you …you could have hit me over the head with your shoe, or called the cops. I'm glad you didn't.”

“Me too,” she said sadly, and then she stopped resisting the idea of him. “I'm going to miss you.”

“You shouldn't. You'll have Annabelle, and the boy wonder,” he added sarcastically, and she laughed, as they started walking home again.

“He's great to Annabelle,” she said kindly about Brock.

“I'm glad. Is he good to you?”

“Very.”

“Then I'm happy for you.” But he wasn't, and they both knew it. More than anything, even though he had known it couldn't lead anywhere, he had wanted her to know how much he still loved her.

“Take care of yourself,” she said as they turned up Seventy-sixth Street toward the Carlyle. She lived only half a block away, and she was determined to walk home alone, but he wouldn't let her.

“I'll try. I have no idea where they'll send me. Probably Leavenworth,” since there were both state and federal charges. “I hope it's civilized at least.”

“Maybe Phillip will do something miraculous, like get you a deal at the last minute.” But he had held out no hope of that to Sam. He'd have to go to prison, though he hoped not for too long. And after the first few months, or years, maybe he'd get transferred to one of the “country club” prisons.

When they passed the Carlyle, he tried to talk her into coming upstairs with him, but she wouldn't. She knew better than to trust him, or herself. And when they got to her building, she kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for a nice evening. And as she went upstairs, she felt quiet and pensive. There was a lot to think about, a lot of feelings to sift through.

Brock didn't question where she'd been the night before, but there was an odd atmosphere between them all the next morning in the office. It was as though he knew, but refused to ask her. And then finally, at lunch, he couldn't stand it any longer.

“You were out with him last night, weren't you?”

“With whom?” she asked stupidly, feeling her heart pound and hating herself for lying as she ate her sandwich.

“Your husband,” he said coolly. He knew. He had good instincts.

“Sam?” She paused, prepared to lie finally, and then decided not to. She owed Brock more than that and she knew it. But his jealousy scared her. But so did her feelings. The worst thing was that she loved both of them, and she knew it. She owed Sam for years past, and Brock for the past year. But what did she owe herself? That was the question she just couldn't answer. “He wanted to have dinner to talk about Annabelle … I didn't think you'd mind,” she said, lying to him again, but he knew it. She felt so uncomfortable and so confused. She wanted to hate Sam for it, but she didn't.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Brock asked her, looking worried and unhappy.

“Because I was scared,” she said honestly, “that you'd be angry, and I wanted to see him.” It was hard telling him the truth, but she knew she had to.

“Why did you want to see him?”

“Because he's going away for a long time, and I feel sorry for him, and as you put it, he's still my husband.” She looked sad and confused and unhappy. And her eyes told their own story.

“Did he kiss you?” He was no fool. And his jealousy jumped out on his skin like gooseflesh.

“Brock, stop it.” She tried to avoid him but he wouldn't let her.

“You didn't answer my question.” He was pushing at her, pressing her, daring her to answer, and then finally she snapped, mostly out of guilt, but also out of anger.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me.” She almost wondered if he'd followed them, but she didn't think he'd do that.

“All right, I kissed him. So what? That's all that happened.”

“That guy is a real sonofabitch,” he blazed, as he stormed around her office. “He's going to jail, and he wants to get you wound up again. What does he want? For you to wait for him for twenty years? How nice for you. What a great guy he is, or don't you see that? He's completely selfish.”

“Okay, you win, he's selfish. But he's also human, and scared, and in his own way, he loves me.”