Holiday Confessions Page 12

  “I miss you,” he said. “Sleeping alone has no appeal anymore.”

  “I miss you, too,” she said. “Daddy’s being discharged this afternoon, so once he’s back in his apartment with Alison to take care of him, I’ll head home.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” he said. And he would. He’d spent two hours at the jeweler’s down the street from the office today, selecting a ring. He’d taken his office assistant with him and he hoped he’d chosen a ring that Lynne would treasure. He’d get some flowers on the way home, and tonight they could make their engagement official.

  After a few more minutes they hung up and he turned his attention back to the brief on which he was working. He’d been immersed in it for thirty minutes when he noted Brink returning from the court appearance he’d had in the morning.

  He’d already tuned the distraction out and gotten back to work when his office door burst open.

  “I finally figured it out,” Brink crowed. “You sly dog.”

  “Good morning to you, too. Figured what out?”

  “You know. Lynne.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He finally stopped the screen reader and gave Brink his attention. “Figured what out?”

  “You know…Lynne. Who she really is.”

  “Oh, you did, huh?” His tone was dry. “Wanna share this revelation? I’m sure it’ll be good for a laugh.”

  There was an odd pause, making him wish he could still read his buddy’s expression. “You’re joking. Right? She’s A’Lynne. From Sports Illustrated.”

  “Allan who?”

  “No, not Allan. Ah-LIN, and not a guy. A supermodel—only one name. She was on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit edition a couple of years ago. You knew,” Brink asserted. “You’re just jerking my chain.”

  “No,” he said carefully, “I am not kidding. You really believe this model Lynne resembles is her?”

  Brendan heard the thud of a magazine on his desk. “I keep all the old SI swimsuit editions. It’s the same woman. I even asked Dad and he agreed.”

  He was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “You’re crazy. What makes you think it’s her?”

  “I almost missed it. She looks different now. She used to have this wild, curly red hair. It was kind of her trademark. And she was tanned and of course, wearing a boatload of makeup. But I am telling you, Brendan, it’s definitely the same face. Bone structure, the shape of her eyes and lips…And the body matches. Tall and slender, although she looks a lot skinnier in the magazine. Think about it,” Brink urged. “The name’s similar, just Lynne with an extra A-apostrophe. Are you telling me you don’t know this?”

  “She’s never mentioned it, if it’s even true.” He feigned unconcern, though his heart was racing. “I’ll run it by her tonight. I imagine it’ll give her a good chuckle. But, thanks. It’s pretty flattering, I guess, that you mistook my girlfriend—my fiancée now—for a supermodel.”

  There was silence in the wake of his words. Finally Brink said, “Okay. Must be my mistake. She’ll think it’s an amazing coincidence.” He sounded relieved when his assistant called from behind him that he had a phone call. “I’ll talk to you later, man.”

  She had missed Brendan more than she’d ever thought possible. As she unlocked her door and let herself in that evening, she could hardly wait to drop her bags and rush across the hall into his arms.

  But she didn’t get the chance. As she came out of her bedroom, the front door opened and Brendan strode in.

  “Hello!” she said. “I was just coming to you.” She crossed the room and wound her arms around his neck to kiss him—

  And he stepped away.

  Too shocked to react, she just stood there.

  Brendan tossed a magazine on the table beside the door. “Explain this.”

  Automatically she glanced down at the magazine. And froze.

  There she was, clad in sand, a deep tan and an extremely skimpy azure bikini, on the cover of Sports Illustrated. It was one of the most coveted assignments in the world—and she could still remember how unhappy she’d been at that time. Separated from her family, distressed by the shallow pleasures so many of her friends chose to pursue, deeply depressed by the ending of her relationship with Jeremy, with whom she’d really thought she’d found love…She didn’t even know what to say. “Where did you get this?”

  “It must have been amusing for you,” Brendan said furiously, “hanging with someone who would never be able to figure out who you were.”

  “It wasn’t amusing! It was…wonderful.” She was bewildered by the depths of his anger. “I know I should have told you before, but—”

  “Gee, you think?” His heavy sarcasm cut across her explanation. “Brink thinks I’m an idiot. And I guess I am. I expected honesty from the woman I cared for—”

  “I never lied to you!”

  “Omission is a form of lying,” he retorted. “You deceived me. Deliberately.”

  “It wasn’t deliberate.” But she had known it was wrong to keep the information from him. Guilt bit deep, and defiance colored her response. “When we met, I owed you nothing other than my name. And Lynne Devane is my real name.” She was fighting tears of distress and of rising anger at his accusations. “And then as we started getting to know each other, I just…I enjoyed knowing you liked me for me, not because it was cool to be with someone famous.”

  “That sounds nice,” he said, “but it still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. I asked you to marry me! Didn’t it occur to you that perhaps I ought to know what I was really getting?”

  He was shouting by the time he finished, and she shrank back, folding her arms and hugging herself, holding herself together as the dreams she’d built since she’d met him began to drift away like wisps of smoke. “You think you know it all, Mr. Perfect,” she said, a sob catching her voice. “But let me tell you what the life of a top model is like. You can’t leave your room without people chasing you around asking questions and taking pictures. You never know if the people you meet are genuine or if they only want to get close to you because they think some glamour might rub off on them. Your manager fusses about every bite you put in your mouth and you have to fight to keep from doing what three-quarters of your co-workers do, which is eat like fools and then purge, or else starve themselves because they’re convinced they’re fat. You’re offered drugs and asked on dates by creeps who assume that because you’re an international celebrity you’ll have sex with them. And sometimes one of them is nice to you, and sweet, and gentle and you really think maybe this one is different—” she had to swallow another sob “—and then you find out he’s not different at all, that he just wants you because you increase his own status.” She poked him in the chest with a finger. “Don’t you ever dare to judge my reasons for trying to keep a low profile.”

  She slid past him, careful not to touch him, and reached for the doorknob. Then she turned back to him and said, “I thought you were different. I thought you loved me for who I was, not what I was.”

  “I did!”

  “You go right ahead and tell yourself that. You’re as bad as Jeremy in a different way. He wanted me for what I was. You don’t want me for the same reason. Now get out.”

  “Lynne—”

  “Get out!”

  She couldn’t stop crying. All night, she sobbed, on and off, until at daybreak she finally quit trying to sleep and got up. She paced around her apartment, Feather following anxiously behind.

  At seven-thirty, reality struck her with the force of a blow. It was over. There was no going back from the angry words she and Brendan had exchanged last night. What was she going to do? How could she stand to live across the hall from him, see him casually again and again? How could she bear knowing what he thought of her?

  The answer to the final question was clear: she couldn’t bear it. At least, not if she had to be confronted with his scorn. That, she could do something about.

  She rushed bac
k to her room and hauled out a bigger suitcase than the bag she’d taken when her father was ill, haphazardly tossing in a variety of clothing items that would get her through a week or so. She would contact the Realtor from whom she’d rented the place and see about a sublet. She could stay with CeCe for a few more days while she figured out what on earth she was going to do next. Clearly she couldn’t stay in Gettysburg.

  She should have been warned when she learned that his engagement hadn’t been broken off for the reasons she’d assumed. Instead of being dumped, Brendan was actually the dumper—and for a stupid presumption that he wasn’t good enough for a sighted wife. He said he’d gotten over it and she’d believed him.

  But he’d made another stupid presumption about her “motives” for getting involved with him, a presumption that showed her his uncertainties still existed. Like the fact that he couldn’t see had actually had a single thing to do with her reasons for not telling him about her past career. If he’d been sighted and hadn’t figured it out, she would have done exactly the same thing. Maybe it was deception but it hadn’t been malicious.

  She loved him, dammit! Rage and despair lent impetus to her actions, and the suitcase was filled in mere moments. Slamming the lid shut, she grabbed the toiletries case that she hadn’t even unpacked yet. She was halfway to the door before she realized she couldn’t just leave Feather behind.

  And she couldn’t take her along, she realized with a heavy heart. Feather wasn’t hers.

  Sad and angry, she sank down onto the edge of the couch and bent to wrap her arms around the old dog. Fondling her ears, she said, “I’m sorry, girl. You know I’ll always love you. But I have to go.”

  She rubbed the silky edge of Feather’s ears, tears streaming down her face. The only thing she could do was leave the door unlocked and call Brendan to come over and get her after she was gone.

  He heard her apartment door close and her footsteps recede down the hall, but he was too angry to talk to her again for a while.

  And hurt. He could admit that. She hadn’t trusted him. He’d been willing, even eager, to give her his heart, and she hadn’t felt the same way. If she had, she would have confided in him weeks ago.

  How many weeks ago? You haven’t even known her eight weeks yet.

  And in that short period of time, he’d fallen deeply in love. For someone who’d lived the life he now realized she had been immersed in, she was remarkably unassuming. Her tastes were simple, her desires few. She was even tempered rather than arrogant, loving and tenderhearted rather than expecting adulation.

  Good God. He’d had a supermodel taking care of his dog. It was hard to even comprehend. Although he’d made his peace with his loss of sight years ago, every once in a while he bitterly regretted not being able to see. This was one of those times. Perhaps if he could see Lynne, compare her to that magazine—

  Why? So you’d have proof that she was someone different?

  Different on the surface, perhaps, but the very fact that she’d walked away from that lifestyle and chosen this—chosen him—spoke volumes about her character.

  The telephone rang. He leaped for it, willing it to be her. “Hello?”

  “Brendan. You need to go across the hall and get Feather. I left my door unlocked. Her toys and lead and bowl are in a bag on the counter.”

  “Lynne, you don’t have to give her back—”

  “I’m not going to be living there anymore. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to take care of her for you.” She rushed on before he could react. “I’ve enjoyed her. Thank you for that. Goodbye.”

  And in another instant there was a dial tone in his ear. She’d left! She’d left for good. Moved out. Well, obviously she hadn’t moved out yet, but she intended to.

  He sank onto the couch with his head in his hands, anger suddenly forgotten as the finality in her stricken tone sank in.

  Dear God, what had he done?

  He left nine messages on her mobile phone in the first two days, but she never called him back. He was frantic, wondering if her father’s health had taken a turn for the worse or if the only reason she was staying away was because she was so hurt.

  Tuesday dragged by, then Wednesday and Thursday. By Friday he was wondering if she ever planned to return. The weekend passed in a dull haze of sadness. And anger—anger at himself. He knew better than to let a knee-jerk reaction dictate his behavior. He’d been trained to stop and think things through.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  I thought you loved me for who I was, not what I was.

  Funny how much sense that made now that he was past the initial hurt and anger he’d felt. There had to be a way to talk to her. To make her understand that he was sorry for the things he’d said. But…for an attorney who’d passed the bar exam with one of the highest scores in the state, he felt pretty clueless, because he hadn’t come up with one viable idea for getting Lynne to speak to him again.

  Monday evening he trudged up the stairs. He’d been home at lunch to let Feather out, but Lynne still hadn’t come home. He would know the minute she arrived. All he had to do was keep an eye on his dog.

  He’d never seen Feather so subdued. She’d been depressed and annoyed when he’d retired her and she’d had to deal with a new dog in the house, but now she was so different he was starting to worry in earnest. She didn’t even get to her feet when he arrived home anymore. Yesterday he’d made an appointment with the vet because she’d eaten so little in the past few days he was worried about her weight.

  He unlocked his door and entered his apartment. “Feather,” he called. “Hey, girl. Where are you?” No sound betrayed her presence. “Feather?” He called her name four times before he heard a deep doggy sigh and the sound of her feet shuffling across the floor toward him. His heart broke a little more as her unhappiness hit him almost as a physical blow. She was a golden retriever, a breed that practically was listed in the dictionary beside the word bounce. But she hadn’t shown any sign of vibrancy in days.

  “I’m sorry, old girl.” He knelt as she approached, and when her head came to rest against his chest, he massaged her silky ears. He hadn’t cried since he was a child but he caught himself swallowing a lump lodged in his throat at the palpable misery his beloved old friend exuded. “I want her back, too,” he whispered.

  Suddenly, with energy Feather hadn’t shown in days, the dog reared back and tore away from him. He heard her nails frantically clacking across the floor to the door, and then she began to bark. Cedar followed her, less excited but interested in whatever had gotten her so worked up.

  Hope rose faster than he could get to the door. Feather acted this way when Brink was around, but just maybe…He rushed after her, misjudged the distance to the door and nearly slammed into it face-first. He caught himself with a hand against the wood mere moments before his nose would have met it. There was a tremendous bang as the door trembled in its frame.

  Hell! For a moment he wasn’t sure whether to pray it was Brink so that Lynne didn’t figure out what an ass he’d just made of himself, or whether Lynne would be kinder than Brink, who would tease him unmercifully for days.

  “Brendan? Are you all right?”

  It was Lynne’s voice! His knees suddenly trembled as if they were about to give way, and a sweeping relief carried him along as he yanked open the door and rushed into the hallway right behind Feather. Cedar, agitated at the near accident, hovered close beside him.

  “Hey.” He tried for casual, but was afraid he failed miserably. “I’m fine. I’m glad you’re back.”

  There was a taut silence. “I’m not staying,” she said, and her voice was subdued. “I just came to get a few important things that I don’t want to risk getting lost or damaged when the movers come.” He heard her kneel, and as Feather quieted he knew she must be cuddling the dog.

  “The movers?”

  “They’ll be here Friday.”

  “Friday.” He felt as if the words were bouncing off the surface o
f his brain, incomprehensible. “This Friday?”

  “Yes.” He could barely hear her.

  “But…you can’t move,” he said.

  Another silence. He waited, hoping for a response, any response. But she made none.

  “Please come in and see Feather.” He didn’t care that he probably sounded desperate. “She isn’t eating well. She misses you.”

  Lynne knelt on the floor, rubbing Feather’s silky ears, resting her forehead against the old dog’s. “You be a good girl,” she told her in a low voice. “No more of this picky-eater stuff. And be nice to Cedar.” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat as she rose. “No, thank you,” she said. “I need to get started.” This would probably be the last time she would ever see Brendan, and she drank in his familiar features, wishing there was a way to go back two months and start over.

  “Lynne,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

  His head lowered and she couldn’t quite read his expression. She blinked, unsure she’d really heard him right. Sorry for what?

  “I know it probably doesn’t change anything now, but I want you to know that I really am sorry. I had no right to judge you without asking you why you felt it necessary to be anonymous.”

  She swallowed, her throat so choked that she could barely speak. “Maybe not. But I was wrong to deceive you in the first place so I apologize, too.” She couldn’t take another minute of polite, earnest regret, so she turned toward her door. “Goodbye, Brendan.”

  “Where are you going?” He was standing between her and her apartment door and he didn’t budge.

  “I already told you I was moving. The landlord is subletting my apartment here for the remainder of my lease.” She tried to smile. “I asked him to be sure it was someone who loved dogs.”

  He stepped forward, and she moved to the side so that he could pass her. Instead, with the uncanny intuition she’d observed before, he reached right for her, his hands sliding down her arms to link her fingers with his. “Don’t go.”