The Delaney Woman (22 page)

T
hey were in his study with the door closed. It was the first time since Claire's arrival that they'd really been alone together.

Kellie rubbed her arms and walked to the window. “I don't know what to say. Surely you understand that I can't simply walk away and wait for Kevin Davies to contact you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I don't know you anymore. Perhaps I never did. How can I be sure you'll contact me at all? You could sweep this under the rug and hope I'll forget it.”

He stared at her, aghast. “Do you really think so little of me?”

She wouldn't look at him.

“I love you, Kellie,” he said, his voice low.

“Yes. So you say.”

His hands clenched. “What in the hell is the matter with you?”

“Love is relative, isn't it? It can mean something completely different depending on who is saying the words.”

“Now, it's I who don't know you.”

“There is that,” she agreed. “Perhaps neither of us knows the other.”

“I'm going to pretend you didn't say that,” Tom said evenly, “and return to the subject at hand. Kevin Davies has behaved decently and honorably for fifteen years.”

“He had my brother and my nephew killed. Pardon me if I don't agree with your definition of decency.”

Tom ignored her sarcasm. “I don't believe he had anything to do with your brother's murder. McGarrety could have worked that one out with others like him. They want Davies to be reelected. He's the only Nationalist candidate who stands a chance.”

“And if he did have something to do with it? What then?”

“Then we'll know for sure.”

“That isn't enough for me, Tom.”

He gripped her shoulders and looked down into her face. She hadn't been sleeping. The wounded purple under her eyes was testimony to nights lived on the edge of her nerves. “You want justice served, but it won't be, Kellie. Nothing will bring them back. You said you needed answers. You won't find a name, an actual person who did the deed. Who will you blame? It's time for you to take hold of yourself and go forward. Your brother chose his life. Do you really believe he didn't know the risks?”

She pulled away from him and turned back to the window. He made sense. But the truth of it, the logic, angered her. This time
she
changed the subject. “By telling me to go forward, you don't mean here in Banburren, do you?”

She was a woman who stared directly into the truth, no matter the cost. “That's up to you.”

“For God's sake, Tom. You're not even divorced. Your wife is here, living with you in the same house. You feel a responsibility for her. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“Yes, I do, and I have every intention of divorcing Claire.”

She turned to look at him. “Really?”

He wanted to ask her to stay, to wait until he unscrambled his life, but he didn't. “I'm working on it, Kellie. It will take some time. There's Heather to think of. I can't simply throw Claire out in the cold. What would you think of me if I did that?” He'd never felt so helpless. “I wish I could make you understand.”

“I do understand, more than you realize.”

“If I could keep you here, I would, but it isn't working.”

“Isn't it?”

“You know it isn't. We're all miserable.”

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. “No, Tom. All of us are not miserable. Your wife has come home and everything has gone her way.”

“I don't think of her as my wife.”

“How do you think of her?”

“She's Heather's mother. That's all.”

“I see.”

“No, you don't.” He turned her toward him again. “This isn't a game, Kellie. It isn't what I want, but there's no other way. I won't ask you to wait for me until my life is settled. When that happens, and believe me it will, I'll have to take my chances with you. But until then I want you to trust me.”

She didn't believe him and he couldn't blame her. The obvious question would be for her to ask why he'd never bothered to divorce Claire in the seven years they were apart. But she wouldn't ask. Pride would keep her silent.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” she said.

Accepting the inevitable didn't make it any easier.

“When?” he asked.

“The bus to Belfast Airport leaves at seven in the morning.”

“Let me drive you.”

“No.”

He didn't try to change her mind. “Are you going back to Oxford?”

“Yes.” She turned away, stopping at the door. “Tom?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not leaving this alone. I came here for a reason. I'm going to finish it.”

His throat burned and the urge to pull her into his arms and damn the consequences had never been stronger. “Be careful, Kellie,” was all he said.

Kellie stood in the doorway and watched Claire read to her daughter. Her voice was lovely, raspy, low for a woman and emotion-filled, changing in tone and pitch with every character. Heather lay back on the pillow, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She was smiling.

Claire closed the book. “What do you think of her?” she asked her daughter.

“Who?”

“Tinkerbell.”

“She's rather silly, isn't she?”

“Why is that?” asked her mother.

“She can't marry Peter. She's a fairy and he's a boy.”

“Perhaps she wishes she were a girl and not a fairy.”

“But she's not.”

“She can still be jealous.”

Heather frowned, deep in thought. “He's a little boy and Wendy is a little girl. It's silly to be jealous.”

“Yes,” said Claire. “I suppose it is.”

Heather stroked her mother's cheek. “I like you. I'm glad you came back.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad. I love you.”

Heather nodded. “I know. You love me and Da loves me and Kellie loves me and Gran loves me. Everyone loves me.” She ticked her family members off on her fingers.

Claire laughed. “My goodness. You're a very popular young lady.”

Heather laughed.

Kellie cleared her throat. The two on the bed looked up. Heather clapped her hands and sat up. “Kellie, we're reading
Peter Pan
.”

“I heard. It's a lovely story, isn't it?”

Heather nodded. “Have you come to read to me, too?”

“No, love. I just want to talk to you tonight, just for a minute, if I may?” She looked inquiringly at Claire.

Claire stood. “Of course,” she said. “I was just about to say good-night. Take all the time you need.” She kissed the little girl's cheek. “Sleep tight, darling. I'll see you in the morning.” She brushed past Kellie without meeting her eyes.

Kellie sat down on the bed and took the child's hands in her own. Wouldn't it be lovely to be so young again and to assume that one was unconditionally loved for no other reason than mere existence? She breathed deeply and began. “I'm going away.”

“Where?”

“I'm going back to England for a while, and then I'm not sure.”

“Why?”

“I only came for a short holiday. But now I must go home.”

Heather snuggled down into her comforter. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

She stretched out her arms. “Kiss me goodbye now.”

Kellie wrapped her arms around the little girl and kissed her. “I'll miss you,” she said.

“Will you write?”

“Absolutely. If you'll write back.”

“Will you have e-mail?”

“I will.”

She grinned. “I'll e-mail you.”

* * *

Claire sat on the back stoop smoking a cigarette.

Tom sat down beside her. “Those will kill you, you know,” he said.

She nodded. “I know. At the moment I'm not terribly concerned with dying of cancer or heart disease.”

“What do we do now?”

She ground out the cigarette. “What do you want to do?”

“Did you ever love me, Claire?”

Leaning her head back against the door, she smiled. “How can you even ask?” she said softly.

“I'm not sure of anything anymore.”

She was silent for a long time. Finally she spoke and when she did her words shook him and he was more confused than ever.

“There was a time when I loved you so much I'd press my face against your shirts in the closet and just breathe in the smell of you. You had an electricity about you that left me wanting and anxious, insecure and vulnerable, quite desperate, actually, to be in your presence. I hated it when you were away or when you visited your mother or ran errands or read or walked or drove somewhere because it took time from us. The best part of every day was crawling into bed beside you and waiting and hoping that we would make love. For some reason, when we did that, when you concentrated only on me, the world was right. I don't think I ever felt that otherwise.” She was silent again and then the words came out, low and earnest. “That's how much I loved you.”

Tom stared at her, bereft of speech. She wouldn't look at him. Why hadn't he seen that she felt so strongly? Would he have done anything differently? What was it that made a man and woman walk together down the same path for a time and then change direction, part and go their separate ways? When did the fire, the excitement, the desire leave a marriage once embarked upon with such hope and joy? They'd started out with everything in place to make the journey together. When had it gotten out of hand? When did each of them decide the other would no longer do?

He thought back to the prison years. It wasn't the long separation with visits limited to one day a month. Claire had been incredibly loyal during those years, cheerful and loving and filled with hope, never once missing a visit. But when he came home, he felt the change. She was different, nearly a stranger, with habits she'd cultivated during his absence. Gone for long periods in the evening, she became surly when he asked where she'd been. Her association with the Nationals consumed her life. It was the kind of existence he no longer wanted to live. The rhetoric was dated and absurd. World opinion was with the Catholic population of Ulster. Sinn Fein was legitimized and given legal and political status. Everyone was permitted to vote. Finding housing, always difficult, became less so. The lure of peace had a harmonizing effect on the country. The organization was anachronistic. The pipe bomb had given way to the ballot box.

He had seen it clearly. Claire had not. She took more risks. He became silent, unforgiving, bitter. She spent days, even weeks, away. Then she told him about the baby. He'd been naive. How could they, practicing their avoidance techniques on each other, have conceived a child? If he'd really thought about it, he would have suspected from the beginning that she had a lover. The concept of infidelity was so foreign to him he hadn't even considered the possibility. Now, he was the one who'd been unfaithful. He wanted to ask her if it hurt, but he said nothing. What did a man say when he preferred another woman to his wife? Would she be forever stunted because of his words or would she recover, a better, wiser woman? What did she want of him, this woman he'd once known more intimately than anyone else?

“What about now? Do you love me now?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“It's the all-important question, isn't it? If you don't, everything would be a great deal easier to work out.”

“In other words, you would feel less guilty.”

“There is that.”

“It's not a fair question, Tom.”

“Why not?”

Her voice rose. “Because I don't know yet. Because we haven't had a chance to be alone. You've given me no time.”

“There's no need to shout.”

She began again. “We've known each other our entire lives. Is nothing salvageable? Is your ego so fragile that everything we've done, everything we've been to each other, all the good we've shared is erased because I didn't see things your way?”

He stared at her. “You're amazing. Somehow you've managed to convince yourself that you're the victim.”

“I am the victim. I'm the one who was sent to prison.”

He shook his head.

She sighed. “All right, Tom. What do you want me to do? I can't go back. There's a great deal I regret, but how does that help us now? Would it make you feel better if I wrung my hands and groveled? I can do that. At this point I'll do just about anything.”

He stood, wooden-faced. “It's late. I'm going to bed.”

“Tom.”

He waited.

“Are you still writing?”

“Aye.”

“May I read some of the new poems? I've read everything already published.”

“If you like. I'll print some out for you.” Once he would have asked her to tell him what she liked. But that was a long time ago. Now, her opinion no longer mattered.

Claire sat down again and stared into the inky darkness. If she were a betting sort of woman she wouldn't give her hopes for a new start even a one percent chance of happening. Tom was through with her and, like it or not, she must accept it. She wouldn't be one of those clingy women who refused to acknowledge that their marriages were over, the kind who kept intruding into their ex-husband's lives and marriages with inconvenient phone calls, tears and accusations. She'd known women like that. Ireland was filled with them. Divorce was new in the Republic and even in the North, Catholic marriages were rarely dissolved. More often, men left their wives and took up with new women, even living with them for years and starting new families. No, she decided, she had her pride. She wouldn't go where she wasn't wanted. If she couldn't have her husband back, at least she would have his respect.