“When I was in fourth grade my foster mother refused to sign my permission slip so I could go on a field trip because it was my punishment for spilling paint in the kitchen. When I was in fifth grade my next foster mother couldn’t afford the twenty dollars for me to ride the bus into downtown Boston with the other kids in my class for a field trip, so I spent the entire day doing an extra-credit project on Paul Revere and his magical midnight ride in the cafeteria with the elementary school counselor who was concerned I was suppressing my emotions. Which I undoubtedly was, considering in first grade my real mother came on my field trip to Gloucester to see the fishermen, but she got wasted in a bar at lunch instead of spending time with the kids like she was supposed to, and then ended up getting caught doing one of the fishermen we were supposed to be meeting later on. So yeah, field trips seem to be a bit dicey for me.”
The car was silent. But for me, in my head, all I could hear were those words pouring out and exploding over our heads and painting the interior of this sleek German driving machine with other terrible words, unsaid but surely thought—
Baggage.
Issues.
Scars.
Worthless.
Don’t scratch this surface because, sweet Christ, what would you find underneath?
No Ashley here. No picture-perfect childhood surrounded by a loving, caring family, there to shelter and guide and hide the monsters away and prepare you for a life of love and laughter and perfection when you finally meet that perfect man, the man you’ve known since you were a child and you grew into adulthood with, grown-ups living in your perfect castle on your very own mountain, where there are no harsh words or uncaring arms, just love, love, love.
I’d never been more painfully aware of just how different I was from Archie than in those silent moments in the car.
I was shaking.
He pulled the car over.
He pulled me out of my seat and across the console and onto his lap after he unbuckled my seat belt.
I was shaking.
He pulled back the edges of his coat, the one I was still wearing, wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned forward, holding me against his chest like a baby, resting his chin on top of my head.
I was still shaking. But I was breathing. And I was breathing in that good Archie air, the wood and the mapley pancake scent and underneath it all was just that warmth, below that strict tailored East Coast suit was just the warmest of men.
We didn’t go back to the hotel that night. We drove straight to his house, walked straight to the fireplace, took everything off that was between us, and when he entered me by the firelight, I gasped and he groaned and he filled my body, my mind, and my heart.
He didn’t ask me to explain that night. But as I lay in the comfort of his arms, wrapped up in him in every way possible, I knew it was coming.
And I didn’t know what I was going to say.
Chapter 19
We slept on the living-room floor all night long. Neither of us mentioned the fact that we both seemed to be avoiding his bedroom, the bedroom he’d once shared with his wife, and maybe that was a good thing. Naked, Archie had gathered up pillows and blankets and quilts, and naked, I’d helped him arrange everything into a wonderful little nest before the fire. He didn’t ask anything and I didn’t offer anything, but I opened my eyes the next morning to find him watching me.
“I kind of blew up last night,” I said.
He reached out to brush a piece of hair away from my face, tracing his fingertips along my cheekbone tenderly. “You kind of did.”
I stretched, wondering if I could bide my time long enough to get a cup of coffee. Reading my thoughts, he smiled. “How about I make some coffee, you make some toast, and then we talk a bit?”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I frowned. I knew we needed to talk, but I still had a job to do. “How late is it?” I asked, scrambling up, taking one of the blankets with me.
White. Everything was white. “Oh my.” I sighed, staring out the big picture window. The world was covered in snow. Puffy and fluffy, it clung to every treetop and limb, edging the water and blanketing the lawn. At least a foot of snow had come down while we’d been sleeping. “Was this in the forecast?”
“Nope, surprise snowstorm,” he said, coming to stand next to me by the window, wrapped in his own blanket. “We usually get at least one late snow each year, but it’s been a while since it was this much with almost no notice.”
“And the roads won’t be plowed, I’m guessing?”
“They will. We have our own plows at the hotel, and I imagine they’ve started to clear the main road already. But they won’t come down to this part until all the guest roads are clear. So for a while . . .”
“We’re stuck here,” I finished for him, looking out again at the snow cover. Snowed in. And we were both still naked. Which would normally be the stuff dreams are made of, but I’d picked the wrong night to unload my stupid baggage. So now a snow day would be turned into a feelings day.
Fuck me. If this was going to happen, I was going to need protein. “You have any eggs to go with that toast and coffee?”
Ten minutes later we were sitting at his breakfast bar with scrambled eggs, toast and jam, and blessed coffee. Archie had given me an ancient Bailey Falls High School sweatshirt to wear, bearing the water polo championship logo. The sleeves were rolled up about five times, so I wasn’t completely swimming in it. See what I did there?
“These are good,” he said as he forked up a mouthful of eggs.
“Thanks, I added a little of the cheese I found in your fridge.”
“I have cheese in my fridge?”
“Like three different kinds, who put it there?”
He smiled. “My housekeeper, Greta. She’s worked for the family for years, she insists on doing my grocery shopping each week even though I rarely cook. A full fridge equals a full life in her mind.”
“Did your wife cook?”
He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. After a second or two, he lifted the bite to his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and looked at me carefully. “Are you trying to talk about anything other than what happened in the car last night?”
I chewed. I swallowed. “Yes.”
“And why is that?”
I chewed. I swallowed. “I’m not really comfortable talking about my past. Any of it.”
“Everyone has a past, Clara.”
“But not everyone needs to revisit it. It’s the past, as in, its time has literally passed. Why drag it up?”
He covered my hand with his own. “Whether it’s dragged up or talked about on a daily basis, the past seems to always have a way of showing up, getting in your face until you let it have its say. Then, yeah, sometimes you can move on. But it’s never really passed.”
I slipped my hand out from under his, picked up my now-empty plate and carried it over to the sink. “How long do you think it’ll take until the road is plowed?”
“Wow, not even thirty seconds. Impressive.”
“What?”
He carried his plate over to the sink as well. “And here I thought we were going to get somewhere today.”
I pushed back from the sink, face burning, hands on hips. “And what exactly did you think we’d get to? We’re snowed in, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, let’s push Clara until she caves? That’s not really fair, is it?”