Turn Back the Dawn (21 page)

On Thursday, Kate rented a car and drove up to her mother's in the morning, dread extending to her fingertips from the pit of her stomach. She was not ready for the unspoken questions, the raised brow over arriving alone, the veiled comments about the pleasures of marriage. And she knew that after the meal, when she and her mother would be washing dishes together in the kitchen, the un-

spoken questions would finally be asked. Kate would try to answer calmly, explaining that yes, she still wanted to get married if she found the right man; no, obviously she hadn't; and no, she wasn't still seeing the man she had mentioned. It was not going to be the best of days.

And the day turned out exactly as Kate had expected: her mother's new husband was much like the second— paunchy, gruff, uncommunicative; her mother was in a state of hectic, forced happiness that nearly brought tears to Kate's eyes; and Kate lied just to be kind, telling her mother when they were alone together that she liked her new husband.

When Kate arrived back at her apartment, she was in a black mood—depressed by the visit to her mother's, weighted down from too much eating and drinking. Yet she felt she would never fall asleep: too many thoughts were jangling through her head, too many memories of Ben kept coming through. She remembered how he had once said he would spend Thanksgiving alone, before he had decided to go to California, and how her heart had pulled at the thought. Now he was three thousand miles away—perhaps with Celia and the kids, perhaps alone, perhaps with someone new. And there
would
be someone new, she was certain. A perfect love, if he could ever find one.

She padded to the kitchen and took out an opened bottle of wine that had been chilling in the refrigerator, and brought the bottle and a glass out to the living room. Maybe it would relax her—that and a little music—and she turned on a quiet classical music station and settled onto the couch.

Yes, she could just imagine Ben in California: telling some new woman about his first marriage, about how he was so "ready" to try again. But he wasn't ready; he distanced himself as surely as someone like Kurt; the only difference was in the intensity and method. And the fact that he didn't see the problem himself. For every time he found fault with Kate, he distanced her; every time he tried to make her into someone she was not, he drove her away; and every time he told her she wasn't ready for love, he destroyed the love they had.

But he didn't see that; no, he didn't see that at all. Out there in California, he was probably—if he was thinking of her at all—remembering her with regret, wishing she had been "different" so things could have worked out between them. And he was fooling himself.

And suddenly, consumed with anger, Kate didn't want to see him again, didn't want to look into those beautiful golden eyes and see only neutrality reflected back. She had seen love in those eyes; she didn't want to see that that love had gone. And she didn't want to hear that wonderful voice devoid of affection, telling her in a monotone some fact about the campaign she didn't even want to hear.

Kate wanted it over, clean and simple. And more than anything, she wanted him to see what had gone wrong, to see things were
not
what he had thought. And she wanted him to take some of the responsibility for their failure.

Kate opened the drawer of the end table next to the couch and took out her stationery. She'd write to him; she'd write everything she felt, everything she wanted to say to him, and it would be over for good.

She drank more wine, started the letter six times, angrily turned off the radio so she could concentrate. And finally the words began to flow:

Dear Ben:

I know that letters like this are usually regretted, never forgotten, never welcome. I know I could call; I know you expect to talk to me, to see me when you get back—which is why I'm writing this letter.

Ben, I don't want to see you when you come back. That's very painful for me to write. Part of me doesn't even mean it. But I'm writing it because it's what I want and what I know is right.

I don't think you know what happened between us. When we last spoke and you said we'd talk when you got back, I think you thought all the problems would have somehow disappeared by then. But they're not going to, Ben. And I don't want to pick up where we left off, hard as that is for me to face.

When you said I was always drawn to men who run off, you were right; I've always known that, and I've told you that. What you didn't see is that you were another of those men, in your own way. I didn't see it at first. All your talk of being 'ready,' of looking for a woman to share your life with, was very seductive, and I thought you were different, that you were that rare man who really does mean those things.

You told me you didn't think I was ready for love, that I wasn't ready to trust. I don't think
you
're ready for love. You've driven me away at every opportunity, drawing me back with words of love and promises of sincerity. But each time you've distanced me again.

I have to protect myself. You were different in that I stood up to you in ways I had never stood up to any man before. I'm learning—finally—to speak out for

myself. And if I went back to you, I'd lose myself all over again.

We came close. What we had was the best thing Tve ever had. But it can never be again—you'll always be looking for your perfect woman, Ben, and I'm not going to change.

I don't want to see you when you get back. I know I could if I had to, so if it's impossible for you to hand the account over to Christina Casey, I'll understand. But please try.

I love you.

Kate

She didn't reread the letter. Deep inside she felt that what she had written was right, that she'd never be able to write it again in a million years if she had to. And if it was right, it had to be mailed before she changed her mind.

It was the only way: it would be cleaner this way, like a deep wound made with the sharpest of knives.

And she sealed it, stamped it, padded out to the hallway, and dropped it down the chute.

When she finally went to bed, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, completely exhausted.

When Kate awakened the next morning, her first thought was of the letter: the memory of writing it had lodged in her brain like a stone, and it brought with it pain but no regret, a kind of sickening dread along with a certainty it had been the right thing to do. And it
had
made her feel better: she had performed a final act, and the world—and her life—could now go on.

That small part of the world that I and S occupied was in chaos that morning when Kate arrived Just as the doors were opening. She had never seen such a crowd at the store. And while today—the day after Thanksgiving—was traditionally the biggest shopping day of the year, the crowd was impressive even so.

As Kate made her way inside, she spotted Andrew Smithfield, of the I and S board, coming in the door next to hers. "Good morning," she called out.

He smiled. "Beautiful, isn't it? And I'm willing to say I was wrong, Miss Churchill. The campaign is a beaut."

The day was magnificent in terms of sales and morale, and Kate was caught up in her job again for the first time since she and Ben had had the fight.
New York
magazine was going to run an item about I and S in its "Intelligencer" column, and a crew from Eyewitness News was coming to film the Friday-night shopping crush later on, for a story on the start of the Christmas shopping season.

At the end of the day Linda, eyes shining brightly, came in to Kate's office. "Guess what?"

Kate smiled. "What?"

"Kurt Reeves has just been fired. I just heard."

"Well, isn't that interesting," she said musingly. And though she hated being pleased over someone else's misfortune, she couldn't help smiling just a bit. He had made her life difficult in hundreds of ways over the past months. And she had to admit she would be glad to have him gone, or at least as far away as possible. Of course, if she knew Alexandra, chances were Kurt would still be very much around; but at least he couldn't interfere in any official capacity.

Kate had an excellent weekend, thinking about Ben only when she slowed down. She went shopping, actually getting caught up in some of the Christmas spirit that seemed to be everywhere, and she had dinner with Alison, which was always fun.

The letter had helped more than she had anticipated; it was as if, once having set her feelings to paper, Kate was free of them, and she felt much lighter and more clearheaded than she had felt in ages.

When Kate returned to her office Monday morning, Christina Casey called and set up a meeting to discuss an expansion of the campaign. I

As Kate hung up, it was a bittersweet moment. The campaign had been such a success; and Ben had been the catalyst of the campaign. It had all come out better than anyone had dreamed. But the man who had begun it all, changing Kate's life in the process, was forever gone. And just as Kate had begun to allow herself to dream—of fulfillment, true happiness, true satisfaction—the dream had been torn from her grasp.

At the end of the day Kate sat alone in her office, the sky dark behind her, horns honking in the street below. There was a store filled with people right below her, but she felt utterly alone, isolated, a million miles away from the rest of the world.

And she was alone. No one knew or cared where she was at that moment. They were shopping, laughing, talking, planning. ...

"Kate."

She looked up, her heart in a vise.

Ben was standing in the doorway, beautiful hazel eyes

shining into hers. "Kate," he murmured, coming in, reaching out for her with both arms.

She turned away, horrified by the sea of emotions she was nearly drowning in. God! She hadn't known how painful it would be to look into those eyes. She had dreaded seeing neutrality. But what she saw now was love.

"We have to talk," he said.

She turned her eyes upon his. "The reason I wrote to you," she said, trying to control her voice, "was so that this wouldn't happen."

His eyes shone with emotion. "Don't do this," he said quietly.

"Don't do what?" she blazed. "You come in here, Ben, after I write asking you
not
to, and then you tell me not to do this. What happened to your trip?"

"I came back as soon as I got your letter," he said quietly. "Kate. Come. Please. At least sit down with me."

She rose, knowing it was the path of least resistance. As she walked with him the short distance to the couch, he put a hand on her shoulder, and she almost cried over the memory of his touch.

She tried to gather strength. When they had seated themselves, she turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

"Because I love you," he said quietly. "And I'm not giving you up."

She laughed incredulously. "You're not—? What about me? Or shouldn't I trust my feelings? I forgot—I have such poor judgment, according to you,"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, his eyes were shining with emotion. "Dammit, Kate, what happened? I tried to understand; I really tried.

When I left, I thought I was giving myself time to think— and giving you time to think as well. It wasn't the end— not then. What happened? Why the letter?"

"I saw that it was impossible," she said, her voice strong. "You didn't even see what the problem was, Ben. You didn't even see that it was impossible, that it had to be over at some point—"

"But it wasn't over, Kate—it was never over for me."

She looked at him skeptically. "What about when you walked out of my apartment without a word, when you hardly looked at me at the party, when you were as cold as ice over the phone the next day?"

"I didn't know what you wanted," he said quietly. "You were obviously very angry, Kate. You were the one who didn't want to go to California—remember that. I wanted to give you room. And at the time I almost hated you—for ruining what had been the best relationship of my life. I really did want nothing to do with you for a while. But I didn't want that to be forever."

She sighed. "You could have said something," she said. "You could have told me how you felt." She shook her head. "But it doesn't matter anyway. Don't you see? There's no chance for us. You've never even seen that you're constantly driving me away. And I'm tired of that. I don't need it. And I don't want to fall into the trap again." She sighed. "Maybe that's why I fell"—it was too late to stop—"fell in love with you," she said quietly. "Because I knew you didn't really want me. You were like all the others—safe, unattainable, predictable. But I'm different now. I~want a man who really, truly loves me."

"Kate," he said quietly, "you were right. I was afraid and I didn't even know it. But that's over. I love you and want you and need you as deeply as any one human being can." ,

She looked into his clear amber eyes, fighting the emotions at war inside.
Oh, God, she thought. I love him so much, I hadn't known it would be this difficult.

"Kate, do you love me?" he asked quietly.

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she nodded, her voice gone to emotion.

He took her in his arms then, and she fell to him with an ease born of deep hunger, deep need, deep love. The feeling of his warm strong arms around her, his familiar scent as she buried her face into his shoulders, the memories that came rushing back, were all too much for her. How could she ever separate from him? They were one— they had been one in the deepest of ways—and she needed him.

He rested his head against hers, and they held each other. "Kate," he whispered. "I'm so glad."

Tears came as she remembered another time he had said those words, when they had first made love—the night she had realized how much she loved him.

And then part of her began to pull away again, charged with fear and questions: what would happen next? What could happen next? What had happened to her resolves?

She fought with herself—part of her loving this feeling of being in his arms more than anything in the world, part protesting it couldn't last.

Finally, she raised her head and looked into his eyes. "Maybe love can't do it," she said. "It didn't work before, Ben."

He shook his head slowly, his eyes deep and clear. "Because I was holding back," he said quietly. "Just as

you said. And you were holding back, just as I said, Kate. But now—now it's different."

"But for how long?" she asked. "I just can't—it hurt enough before, Ben. Later, when it's been deeper—"

"I want you forever," he said softly, gazing into her eyes. "Forever, Kate, as my wife."

"Oh, Ben," she said, laughing and crying at the same time. "It's such a beautiful thought." To have him always, to give herself over to the love she had been fighting and fearing and wanting. . . .

"Say yes, Kate."

She smiled, running her fingers through the softness of his hair. "I don't—I just don't know."

"I promise you something, Kate," he said quietly. "You were right about my search for the perfect woman. I had found her and I was afraid. That woman is you, Kate. It took your good-bye to make me see that. There is such a

thing as perfection, Kate, when you love another as I love you, as I love everything about you."

"I love you so much," she murmured.

And she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him in a long, deep kiss, a perfect kiss that sealed their love forever.