Chapter Two #2
A memory intruded on my thoughts while I lay silent next to him, so close but so far away.
It was when I went to his room in the hospital after he’d been cut and I’d been stabbed by Billy Joe.
I needed to talk to him about Duel and why I had given him up.
I remembered how sweet and comforting he’d been.
How he had supported me, the heart of him so clear and steadfast. That one wrenching image reverberated, haunting me, and I had a hard time getting to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, Boone was already gone again.
He must have gotten up early. I would have to find the courage to talk to him when he got home, because I couldn’t go on like this.
Alone in the bleak emptiness our bed had become, I felt the tears well and trail down the sides of my face, into my hair.
I couldn’t bear the thought of our rock-solid relationship, our wonderful marriage, being fractured so quickly and relentlessly.
We had to talk. Get this out in the open and hash it out. This rigid, separate silence was killing us both.
When my momma picked up Duel, I asked her if she could keep him overnight, using the excuse of having a ton of work to do. She agreed. I worked all day on our collection, but got very little accomplished.
Finally Boone came home.
I came out of my small office. Boone looked sweaty and tired. My heart rate accelerated to double time. I just went to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, afraid he would reject me, but determined to begin making amends.
I breathed a sigh of relief when his arms finally came around me. “Boone, I’m sorry. Please, can we talk about this? I can’t bear this separation from you.”
He drew me over to the couch and had me sit. He settled on the coffee table across from me, lines of tension carved around his sensual mouth, his expression intent and introspective. The ache in my throat tightened even more. I waited a moment for it to ease.
My voice was still thick with emotion. “I love you, Boone,” I said unevenly. “That will never change. I want to have a family with you. More children. I think we should—”
“I’m not sure that talking about this is going to help. I think you need to understand that I will not put you or any unborn child of mine in any kind of danger.” His voice was quiet and very strained. “I couldn’t stand the stress of that, or if something happened to you…”
“Nothing is going to happen to me. I delivered Duel just fine.”
Boone exhaled heavily and took my hands, squeezing them. “But you didn’t deliver him easily. You said it was touch and go.” His dark eyes were so intently focused on me, filled with fear and worry. “That terrifies me, Verity.”
“You’re worrying about a process that’s perfectly natural. We should stop creating drama about it and just move forward with planning. I could—”
“No! You’re not getting it. I’m not having any more children with you if there’s even a minute chance that you could have any complications. Duel needs his mother, and I need you.”
I reached out to touch him, to beg if need be. “I’m not barren, Boone! I’m not!”
He jerked his arm away; his face scored with barely-concealed anger. “You are as far as I’m concerned,” he said coldly.
My knees turned to water, and I leaned back against the cushions, my insides trembling as I met his hostile eyes. “You can’t be serious. I just want to talk—”
“No more talking,” he growled. “It’s never going to happen.”
My mind refused to function, and I stared up at him, groping for something to say that would cut through his fury and fear.
But nothing came, no answers, no explanations—nothing but a sickening, progressive pain that started low in my gut and drove me like a steamroller.
The pain set off my fear of failing him, my stomach churning with a mix of guilt, alarm, and helplessness.
I reached toward him, desperation making my voice harsh.
“You can’t make this decision without me. That’s not fair.”
He jerked away, his eyes blazing now as he shot me a look of finality before turning away. “I’m making the decision because you’re too emotional about it.”
I shot to my feet. “Don’t you do that! Don’t you dare make me out to be hysterical.”
“I’m not discussing this anymore, Verity.” He turned and strode toward the door.
“Boone!”
He ignored me, the loud bang of the door to the garage echoing through the brittle silence as he slammed out of the house, and I sat back down on the sofa, a sick feeling swamping me.
Drawing up my legs, I locked my arms around my knees and pressed my forehead against them.
God, what had I done? What kind of damage had I caused?
I had only wanted to protect him, but I hurt him instead.
I got the feeling that there was something else eating at Boone, something that was connected to this, but separate. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but there was no mistaking the fear and disappointment in him.
How could I get my overprotective husband to listen to me?
***
Later that night, in the solitary darkness of my room, I thought about our terrible fight. The worst of our marriage. It was Boone’s fear—and, judging by his reaction, it was profound—that was making him react this way, but it also felt like the foundations of my marriage were cracking.
Shifting my pillow, I rolled to my side, the numbers displayed on the digital clock on my bedside table mocking me: 1:17 a.m. I had called my momma and asked her to keep Duel the next day. I didn’t think I could be effective in either of my roles tomorrow.
I tried to call Boone several times, but he hadn’t answered.
I closed my eyes, aware of the empty stretch of bed behind me, aware of the empty feeling around my heart.
I didn’t want to think about the damage I had done by concealing the delivery problems with Duel, not thinking the information was important to reveal, especially since I may not be able to have children.
Opening my eyes, I glanced at the clock again: 2:25 a.m.
Boone wasn’t coming home.
The emptiness expanded until it seemed like I was floating, untethered and lost. I was shocked that my tried and true husband, who had stood by me through every kind of crisis, and good times, was suddenly absent when we needed each other most.
When I woke up, the morning was dull and grim. Driven by a fearful kind of desperation, I yanked on my robe, my heart pounding when I tried to reach his cell. Still no answer. I called his office, and his receptionist said he wasn’t in, but she’d give him the message.
When I went into the bathroom, my fear escalated when I saw his razor on the sink, smelled his aftershave, and the body wash that was a combination of fruit and sandalwood, rich and earthy.
Every sound I made seemed hollow, puncturing the brittle stillness, a stillness that silently underscored Boone’s absence.
That awful, hollow feeling never left me for an instant. I tried to wade through my morning chores, but the slightest sound from outside would distract me, and my heart would stall, then lurch into my throat. And I’d freeze, praying that it was Boone.
I was sitting in my office working on a garment I truly loved, a bohemian-inspired blouse, when I finally heard the sound of a vehicle outside, the crunch of gravel on the driveway.
My gut knotted with a frantic rush of adrenaline, and I ran to the window, lashed with stupid hope that it was Boone… but it wasn’t.
My vision blurred while I watched River Pearl’s Mercedes come to a stop, and she and Aubree got out of the car. In my misery, I had forgotten they were going to stop by. Putting on a brave face, I opened the door for them when they knocked.
“Hey, sugar,” River Pearl said, breezing in with a plastic container in hand.
Aubree, who had managed to make time for the drive down from New Orleans, smiled at me, her green eyes searching my face, as if I had it written there that Boone and I were having problems. But she was married to one of the trips, and they shared an amazingly sensitive radar and knew when one of them was out of sorts.
Our fight yesterday must have blown up the Richter scale. Maybe Booker said something to her.
“Brax gave me these chocolate chip cookies for y’all.”
I took them. Hmmm, comfort food. There was no hiding from the all-seeing tripdar. I got a plate down and had already brewed a pot of coffee.
We sat down on the couch and River launched right in. “So, I’m sure you know what I’m going to ask.”
“Santa and elf outfits. You want me to make them.”
“Yes, can you?”
“Yes, of course, I can. The problem will be our Outlaws duking it out for St. Nick.”
“Braxton keeps walking around the house ho, ho, hoing and saying he knows how jiggly a bowl full of jelly is. He’s a chef.”
“So that makes him the logical choice,” Aubree said, reaching for a cookie. “Ha! Booker says he knows all there is to know about Santa, and that makes him the best choice.”
“Yeesh,” I said, relaxing into the humor of the situation, even with the heavy weight of Boone’s absence. “Let’s just hope there won’t be any boxing gloves and moonshine involved in this debate.”
“Oh, God, bite your tongue,” River said, also reaching for a cookie. She looked so good, almost as if she was lit from within. “I also wanted to ask you to show at the gallery.”
“What? I’m not an artist,” I said automatically, floored by her request.
“Are you kidding me?” She rose and went into my workroom and came out with several sketches, and the garment I was working to complete. She held them up. “Hellooo? Art. Living art, that is my theme. Please tell me you’ll let me showcase you. This gown is gorgeous. New Year’s Eve?”
“Yes, something I’ve been playing with for next year.”
“This is playing?” Aubree said. “Can I get one of these?”
I laughed. “Okay, you can show me, River.”