“Let’s eat and sleep and then discuss it.”
Claire steadied her stance. “We can eat. We can sleep. But it’s my decision and I’m not putting you or Amber is harm’s way for my vendetta.”
Harry carried the dish of tilapia to the table and walked back to the stove for the sauce. Drizzling the white cream over the rewarmed filets, he said, “It is your decision. But I’m the head of security at SiJo Gaming. I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself. And as for Amber, we’ll arrange additional security.” He smiled a feigned smile. “Now eat. Someone made us a wonderful meal.”
Claire obediently picked up her fork. With her hand lingering above the plate he’d dished for her, she considered his words. Finally, she nodded.
Taking his seat across from Claire, Harry added, “And as of tomorrow, you’ll also have around the clock security. No more surprise visits.”
Her chewing stopped mid-mastication. Swallowing became difficult as her mouth dried. She didn’t like his authoritative tone; she’d lived through that once and didn’t plan on doing it again, no matter how pure his intentions. After a much needed drink of water, she said, “I don’t think that’s necessary. Tony won’t hurt me. He wants me back in Iowa, besides; I have Phil Roach watching me.”
Harry started to speak when Claire interrupted, “What are we going to do, ask Phil and the security detail to share a car? I mean with the occasional paparazzi, a private detective and a security guard, I might as well lead a parade.”
Ignoring her attempt at humor, Harry asked, “What do you mean he wants you back in Iowa?”
Claire looked back to Harry. The intense stare from earlier glowed. It surprised her, how the normally soft shade could stay the same, yet appear so different. She answered, “When he was here, he told me the reason he came to California was to take me back to Iowa.”
“Did you respond?” During the last two months, Harry witnessed Claire’s transition from a quiet guarded woman, into one who spoke more freely. Nonetheless, he wasn’t sure she possessed that ability while with Mr. Rawlings. That was part of the reason he’d waited for her after their dinner. He wanted to be sure the stronger Claire still existed. Last night, he wasn’t sure.
“Of course I responded. I said no.”
“And he was fine with that, and left?”
“He left. He isn’t still here.” Claire looked down at her plate as she stabbed another leaf from her salad. “He didn’t argue, but...”
“But what?”
“He said he wasn’t giving up his quest.” She ate some more salad and added, “I’ll consider the security.”
Harry nodded, and Claire began to relax. The food provided the much needed subsistence to her weakened body and mind. Without saying it aloud, they’d agreed to table the Tony, security, and housing discussion until later. Soon they fell into a benign chat about superficial monumental events. Apparently the Giants were tied one to one in a three game series with Boston. The next game was tomorrow; Harry wasn’t sure the Giants’ pitcher would be ready...
They fooled themselves, if they thought their conversation could be avoided the entire evening. After dinner, they moved to the living room. It was hard for Claire to fathom earlier the same day she’d sat in the same room with Tony. Now instead of sitting one on the sofa and the other on the chair, Claire sat nestled into the crook of Harry’s arm. Somehow the embrace didn’t feel sexual, only protective.
With her head against his shoulder, she pulled from his strength and thought about his patience. In the last hour she’d dropped a few bomb shells, and she had more to drop. Yet, unlike her ex-husband, Harry didn’t demand answers. Instead, he provided space and support. She said she would tell him more; he waited, allowing her the luxury of choosing her time and words.
With a deep inhale followed by an audible exhale, Claire began. “What do you want to know?” The warmth of his embrace on her shoulder and side, as they both stared into the Palo Alto night, fueled her courage. Before the night was done, she’d share the secrets of her life with Anthony Rawlings. She didn’t know what it would mean for their relationship, or if this was what he’d wanted to talk about. However, she couldn’t imagine being with a man who didn’t know her past, to understand her present.
When her history became difficult to articulate, he’d rub her shoulder and remain silent. There were times as she spoke about her kidnapping, agreement of duties, glitches, or her accident, she felt his body tense. Never once did he question her choices. It was if he knew she’d questioned herself too many times to count. She’d asked herself: Why did you agree to marry him? Did you really fall in love? Did you think he loved you? Why did you keep up appearances? Asking questions was much easier than answering them.