Chapter 10 Kate
KATE
By the time Eric, Marcus, and I unloaded the body and took it in through the back, I was exhausted. But when we joined the kids in the common room, it was clear that they were still on a high from their adventure—and still dazzled by the Hollywood-style reunion between my daughter and Jared.
Jared.
Eric was right—he really was good for her. So was it horrible of me to wish that she’d fallen for someone else who was good for her? Someone who could move through life with her?
Except that was a stupid reason to wish Jared were a different guy. I adored Jared. Truly. Except for that one little black mark, he was perfect for my kid.
Not only that, but there were no guarantees in life or in love. Anyone could die tomorrow, especially with this life. And if Allie had found her Eric, then I should be jumping up and down and celebrating.
Her Eric.
For a moment, the world stopped turning, and my body went stone cold. Eric. Not my husband Stuart... I’d thought of Eric. More, I’d thought of Eric as my version of what a husband should be. Only not just a husband, but as a lover, a partner, a best friend.
I closed my eyes, and those damn tears came back. I loved Stuart. I truly did. But he didn’t check all those boxes. Especially not now. Maybe not even before.
Oh, dear God. I was officially the worst wife in the history of marriage.
With deliberate purpose, I forced my thoughts away from Jared and Stuart and Eric and on to a completely different male—Timmy.
I caught Allie’s eye and pointed upstairs as I mouthed her brother’s name. Then I slipped out of the sitting room, ignoring everyone else—especially Eric—as I hurried away, keeping my face down, since I was certain that it was painted in broad strokes of guilt and mortification.
I found Timmy asleep in the nursery and decided to leave him there since he was terrible at falling back asleep once he woke up.
So I kissed him lightly, then hurried the short distance to the room I technically shared with Stuart, but where he never slept, having claimed another bedroom as his combination office and study.
Most nights, I was fine with that. Tonight, I felt like a horrible harpy whose bad attitude and lingering lust for my first husband had leaked out and tainted the universe.
Fortunately, I was distracted from my shame spiral by the crayon masterpieces on my pillow.
Eleven pieces of white drawing paper covered with red rectangles, each with two gold dots, one above the other.
The note Fran had left with them said that Timmy was still fascinated with drawing doors—which I’d figured out on my own—and that even Elena had jumped on the Door Train and drawn a few.
I laughed, then swallowed, then blinked back tears again because the thoughts of Timmy had dragged me right back to thoughts of Stuart.
But he hadn’t died. Stuart Connor is very much alive. But he’s no longer the man I married. It’s as if he’s living in a tower built of prophecy and visions, and as each day passes, we drift further apart.
I don’t know what to do about it.
I’m starting to wonder if I should even try.
Once upon a time, I could talk to Stuart about anything.
He’d been my anchor when we’d first met after Eric died.
We’d dated, fallen in love, then slid into a normal family existence with Stuart cast in the role of attentive husband, diligent provider, and loving father to his stepdaughter.
And, a few months later, to a little boy of his own.
He’d been my husband then, in all possible ways. More, he’d been my friend.
Then demons had come back into my life, and I’d kept silent about my past. And the moment he’d learned that I’d been keeping secrets, it was as if the lock that had been holding our world together had burst, and everything fell apart.
We’d put it back together, sure. But instead of that sturdy metal lock, now it was held together by ribbons and paste.
And the bonds are getting weaker all the time.
I don’t regret where I am now, I truly don’t. But I have a lot of regrets about how I got here, and most of those regrets lead back to Stuart and the secrets I’d kept.
And now, because of that chain reaction I’d started, this wonderful man was no longer himself, and trying to talk to him felt like shouting across a canyon. The words went out, but nothing came back.
And if I was being really honest—brutally, painfully honest—I’d never been able to talk to him the way I could talk to Eric. Eric had always understood me—even without words. He knew the dark parts and loved me anyway.
But Eric had been dead. At least until he wasn’t.
Suddenly, I had two husbands.
And the freakish truth is that I miss both of them, and I do want Stuart back.
But today, when I’d thought about my husband, it was Eric’s face I saw. Not Stuart’s.
And what the hell was I supposed to do about that?
Nothing.
The word filled my head, and it was right. I needed to focus on training the kids and figuring out what Stuart’s prophecy means.
The ruby bleeds? I mean, come on. Prophecies always want you to do something, so why make them so damn cryptic?
“Kate.”
I jumped a mile, then whipped around and threw a box of Kleenex at Eric. “What the hell? You scared me to death.”
“Kleenex? This is your new approach to self-defense?”
I crossed my arms, telling myself that my pulse had kicked up because he’d startled me. Not for any other unrelated and unwanted reason. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and crossed to me.
“Dammit, Eric. You can’t just barge in.”
But that’s as far as I got, because suddenly his hands were cupping my face, and his mouth was on mine and, damn me, I was melting.
The kiss was everything I remembered. Everything I’d been trying to forget. Heat and hunger and the soul-deep recognition of someone who knew exactly how to take me apart.
I wanted to melt into it. God, I wanted to. My body was already responding, leaning into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—
I pulled back.
“Eric. No.”
He didn’t let go immediately. His forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard, the space between us charged with everything we weren’t saying.
“I want to,” I whispered, because maybe I owed him that. “You know I do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “I suppose not.”
I expected anger. Frustration, at least. But he just nodded slowly, like he’d known this was coming.
“I get it,” he said. “I don’t like it, but I do get it.” His lips curved into a small, rueful smile. “Just don’t expect me to give up.”
“Eric, don’t.”
“I know you, Kate. Better than anyone.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face, the gesture achingly tender. “You made vows, and you’ll keep them even when they’re killing you. I get that. I respect it, even.”
The smile faded and he stepped closer. “But sooner or later, you’re going to have to choose. And when you do, I’ll be here.”
He kissed my forehead—soft, almost chaste—and turned to leave.
I forced myself not to stop him. Dug my nails into my palms and kept my mouth shut and watched him walk toward the door.
He paused.
My heart stuttered. Here it was. He was going to try again, push harder, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to say no twice.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at my dressing table. At the drawing taped to the mirror. “What is that?”
“Timmy drew it. A door. I like how he put the extra doorknob down low. I guess that’s so little boys can get in, too.”
He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the drawing.
“Uh, Eric? What’s so fascinating about Timmy’s door?”
“What? Oh. It just reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what. Quite the little artist you’ve got there.”
I laughed. “According to Fran, that’s all he draws these days. Zillions of them. It’s like he’s Monet and doors are his water lilies.”
“Weird but cute,” he finally said, and I couldn’t disagree.
“Sweet dreams, Katie-kins.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the wine and the silence and the feeling that I’d just missed something important.
I looked at the drawing again. Red rectangles. Gold dots. Doors.
Just a child’s drawing. Just Timmy being Timmy.
So why couldn’t I shake the chill that had settled in my chest?