Rorie supposed this comment was Dan’s less-than-subtle attempt to find out if Clay was married. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Clay’s engaged to a neighbor—Kate Logan.”
“I see.” Apparently he did, because he set aside his coffee cup, and got up to stand behind Rorie. Hands resting on her shoulders, he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her cheek. “Rorie and I have been talking about getting married ourselves, haven’t we, darling?”
Fifteen
No emotion revealed itself on Clay’s face, but Rorie could sense the tight rein he kept on himself. Dan’s words had dismayed him.
“Is that true, Rorie?” he said after a moment.
Dan’s fingers tightened almost painfully on her shoulders. “Just tonight we were talking about getting married. Tell him, darling.”
Her eyes refused to leave Clay’s. She had been talking to Dan about marriage, although she had no intention of accepting his offer. Dan knew where he stood, knew she was in love with another man. But nothing would be accomplished by telling Clay that she’d always love him, especially since he was marrying Kate in a few weeks. “Yes, Dan has proposed.”
“I’m crazy about Rorie and have been for months,” Dan announced, squarely facing his competition. He spoke for a few more minutes, outlining his goals. Within another ten years, he planned to be financially secure and hoped to retire.
“Dan’s got a bright future,” Rorie echoed.
“I see.” Clay replaced his coffee cup on the tray, then glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. “I suppose I should head back to the Cow Palace.”
“How...how are you doing in the show?” Rorie asked, distraught, not wanting him to leave. Kate would have him the rest of their lives; surely a few more minutes with him wouldn’t matter. “Kate wrote that you were going after several championships.”
“I’m doing exactly as I expected.” The words were clipped, as though he was impatient to get away.
Rorie knew she couldn’t keep him any longer. Clay’s face was stern with purpose—and resignation. “I’ll see you out,” she told him.
“I’ll come with you,” Dan said.
She whirled around and glared at him. “No, you won’t.”
“Good to see you again, Rorie,” Clay said, standing just inside her apartment, his hand on the door. His mouth was hard and flat and he held himself rigid, eyes avoiding hers. He stepped forward and shook Dan’s hand.
“It was a pleasure,” Dan said in a tone that conveyed exactly the opposite.
“Same here.” Clay dropped his hand.
“I’m glad you came by,” Rorie told him quietly. “It was...nice seeing you.” The words sounded inane, meaningless.
He nodded brusquely, opened the door and walked into the hallway.
“Clay,” she said, following him out, her heart hammering so loudly it seemed to echo off the walls.
He stopped and slowly turned around.
Now that she had his attention, Rorie didn’t know what to say. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way Dan was acting.”
He shook off her apology. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her fingers tightened on the doorknob, and she wondered if this was really the end. “Will I see you again?” she asked despite herself.
“I don’t think so,” he answered hoarsely. He looked past her as though he could see through the apartment door and into her living room where Dan was waiting. “Do you honestly love this guy?”
“He’s...he’s been a good friend.”
Clay took two steps toward her, then stopped. As if it was against his better judgment, he raised his hand and lightly drew his finger down the side of her face. Rorie closed her eyes at the wealth of sensation the simple action provoked.
“Be happy, Rorie. That’s all I want for you.”
*
The rain hit during the last week of September, and the dreary dark afternoons suited Rorie’s mood. Normally autumn was a productive time for her, but she remained tormented with what she felt sure was a terminal case of writer’s block. She sat at her desk, her computer humming merrily as she read over the accumulation of an entire weekend’s work.
One measly sentence.
There’d been a time when she could write four or five pages a night after coming home from the library. Perhaps the problem was the story she’d chosen. She wanted to write about a filly named Nightsong, but every time she started, her memories of the real Nightsong invaded her thoughts, crippling her imagination.
Here it was Monday night and she sat staring at the screen, convinced nothing she wrote had any merit. The only reason she kept trying was that Dan had pressured her into it. He seemed to believe her world would right itself once Rorie was back to creating her warm, lighthearted children’s stories.
The phone rang and, grateful for a reprieve, Rorie hurried into the kitchen to answer it.
“Is this Miss Rorie Campbell of San Francisco, California?”
“Yes, it is.” Her heart tripped with anxiety. In a matter of two seconds, every horrible scenario of what could have happened to her parents or her brother darted through Rorie’s mind.