Rating: NC-17 - This story contains consensual graphic sex between a man and a woman. If this offends you, is illegal where you live or you are under 18, go somewhere else.
Disclaimer: The characters of John Lawless, Willy Kaa, Andy Deakin, and Dave and Jo Bruford belong to South Pacific Pictures. The use of those characters in this story is not intended as copyright infringement. The rest of the characters in this story are from my previous Lawless stories or my imagination and are copyrighted by me.
Author's Note: While this story is not a direct sequel to Lawless, the NZ Tele-film or my other Lawless stories it does contain characters from and references to them. It is not necessary to have read any of the others to follow this, but it might add to the reader's enjoyment if they are read first.
"Leave off!" John erupted angrily. Over the noisy conversation in the crowded pub, he could hear hard rock music bellowing from the jukebox. The frenetic beat pulsed in his blood, kindling his simmering rage into a boiling fury. He yanked his arms from Willy’s grip and turned to go after TJ once more. This was going to be the last time THAT prick got in his face!
Willy grabbed him again, this time around the waist and pulled him back. He spun John around until they were face to face. He moved in very close and shouted, "You wanna kill him for Christ’s sake? What’s wrong with you, bro?"
John’s brown eyes were glazed with fury; his breathing was erratic and loud. His entire body was tensed. The muscles in his jaw twitched. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists that the veins in his arms stood out. It took him a moment to even realize where he was. Then his chest heaved once and the rage on his face suddenly stilled. He took another deep breath and his eyes clouded over. A wave of guilt washed over him as he looked at Willy. John Lawless whispered, "I dunno."
Willy’s eyes widened then his mouth tightened with a pain of his own. He’d seen John do this one too many times not to already know the answer. "You think killing that dickhead is gonna bring her back?"
John’s body sagged at Willy’s words. The rage inside him tightened into a ball in his stomach. The tension turned into a knot at the back of his neck. He swallowed hard and unclenched his fists. "You can let go," he mumbled, his voice husky. "I’m done."
"You are that," Willy acknowledged, "you ARE that." He looked at his friend’s face. John’s eyes were haunted, haunted by the memory of Caro; Willy’s sister and the woman John had loved. The woman whose death was eating him alive. Killing him as surely as the alcohol or the constant brawling was. Willy released John’s arms and took a step back.
John shook himself once and then looked down at the floor to examine his handiwork. TJ was curled in a fetal position. His eyes were closed and beginning to swell, his nose and mouth were bleeding. John leaned down and asked, "You okay?"
TJ moaned, opened his eyes and muttered, "Bugger off. What do you care?"
John stood and shrugged. TJ had deserved it anyways. He had a nasty mouth and he’d made one wisecrack too many. John turned and walked away. Away from TJ, away from Willy, out the door of the pub and into the night, wishing he could walk away from his pain that easily.
He strolled along the waterfront, wanting some place to go, something to do. Memories assailed him wherever he went. He'd only lived in Auckland for a couple of years, and now he felt as if he was going to die there, and soon. It seemed as if no matter what he did, whether it was bury himself in work, in alcohol, in fisticuffs, he couldn't bury his feelings as easily as he had buried Caro.
He stood, finally, on a bridge overlooking the water. It was very inviting, the water was. He could dive in, swim until he couldn’t swim anymore, and then let the current carry him away. He could let the water drown him, like he was drowning in grief and in anger. The legacy of Caro wasn’t just the loss of her love, but the recognition of his feelings. He stood staring at the water, contemplating what was left of his life. He felt like a rudderless ship floating endlessly on the sea. No one needed him; no one would miss him, so what if he drowned? Who would care?
"Let go," he heard a woman shout. He turned, his eyes scanning the area, looking for the source of the sound. He tracked along the deserted warehouses, the empty street, then finally, near a small park; he saw two boys and a woman.
One of the boys was trying to take the woman’s handbag and she was fighting him. Automatically he ran to help, feeling a shot of adrenaline re-ignite his fury. He reached the attempted mugging and grabbed the boys by the scruff of their necks. "Leave her be," he ordered.
The boys struggled in his grasp and then the bigger of the two kicked him. The smaller boy got free and punched John. A ring on the youth's hand connected sharply with John's mouth.
Neither blow really hurt him, but they opened the floodgates of his already simmering rage. He released his grasp on the big one and smacked him hard across the face. The boy went down on one knee. Then John rounded on the smaller one.
He pulled back his arm as if to punch him, when he felt a restraining hand. "Don’t," the soft voice implored. "Let them go. They’re just kids."
Now he rounded on the woman. As he did, he heard a scrambling noise and the two would-be muggers were on their feet and running away. He groaned and put a hand to his mouth where the kid had clipped him. It came away bloody.
"You’re hurt," the woman observed. "I live around the corner. Come on, I’ll clean that up for you."
He looked at her with mild astonishment. "How do you know I’m not another mugger?"
"Who ever heard of one mugger breaking up another one?" she retorted.
John moved closer to the woman. He loomed over her. She was small, though not petite. He turned his anger into pseudo menace with practiced ease. "Maybe I’m a killer," he muttered.
She studied him briefly and then snorted at him. "I think you’re a man in a lot of pain. Now, are you going to let me help you or not?"
His whole body slumped at her words. "What’s your name?" he asked.
"Frances Carmody. And no one calls me Fran or Franny," she added in a warning tone.
He stuck out his hand. "John Lawless."
She took his hand and shook it firmly. "Thank you for coming to my aid, Mr. Lawless." She studied him for a long moment in the dim light and added, "Now will you let me help you?"
Surprising himself, John followed the woman to a trim little house two blocks away. Though the neighborhood had gone downhill over the years, Frances’ yard was neat; the grass was mowed and the hedges were trimmed. The footpath from the street to the house had been swept and there was a cheerful looking pot of flowers next to the front door. In the dim light he caught a glimpse of lace trimmed curtains in the windows.
Frances unlocked the door and gestured for John to enter. She turned on a light and a soft glow filled the room. Her lounge was neat and cozy despite being choc-a-block with possessions. The scent of lemon furniture polish and lavender potpourri immediately washed over him. The two scents were strong but not unpleasant.
He noticed a large camel back sofa upholstered in old-fashioned cabbage roses. The sofa was huge and probably quite old, but not an antique. Lace doilies decorated the arms. A matching coffee table, in the same dark wood rested in front of the sofa. It was covered with a thick layer of magazines and books. A horsehair armchair with matching ottoman faced the windows to the street. Next to the chair sat a large wicker basket full of brightly colored yarn with knitting needles and such. There was an afghan on the ottoman, handmade by the look of it and more lace doilies on the arms of the chair. There were several little tables scattered through the room; some covered with lacy scarves and some with china knick-knacks. Everything looked sparkling clean and well cared for if a bit worn.
As he turned to view the rest of the room, John realized that Frances had vanished. He wondered momentarily where she had gone, but then went back to examining his new environment. There were two windows to the street on either side of a fireplace. Each window had cream colored curtains trimmed with lace and he was reminded of his grandmother’s, his Nana's house.
There was a fire laid out in the grate, though it didn't look as if it had been used in years. As he stood there in the quiet stillness of the woman's home, he felt some of the tension ease out of his body. This was a home, he realized. A place where someone lived and loved, where they laughed and cried, where important events in their lives were played out amid a background of cherished mementos.
John walked over to the fireplace to examine the photos on the mantel. There were five grouped together. Obviously a family history. First, a tall good-looking man and pretty woman, dressed in their best and smiling tensely at the camera, a wedding picture. Then the same couple, slightly older, still dressed up, looking less tense, but still uncomfortable, the woman holding a baby. Then the couple, now a little older still, not quite so uncomfortable, and the little girl was wearing a communion dress. Then the same three people in front of this house, looking very happy. Lastly, a photo of the man in uniform. John picked the picture up to study it more closely. The man had a strong face and his smile was sure and confident.
"That was my father," Frances remarked as she returned and saw what he was looking at. "He died in Vietnam."
John quickly put the picture back, ashamed to have pried. He turned to face the woman. She had a tray in her hand; on it was a first aid kit, a bowl, and a flannel.
She put the tray on a little table and gestured for him to sit in the armchair. "Your cut is still bleeding," she noted.
John nodded, walked over to the chair, and sank gratefully into its cushioned depths.
She critically eyed him, seeming to assess him with her glance and stated, "That wasn’t your first fight tonight, was it?"
John gawked at her. The woman, Frances, appeared to be in her middle forties. She had thick black hair pulled off her face with a barrette. It was lightly touched with gray. Her face was round and full and she peered at him with wide green eyes as if she needed glasses. Her mouth was relaxed, but he thought it a little pinched as if life hadn’t been kind to her. She was dressed in a navy wool skirt and a gray jumper. She wore sensible shoes and lisle stockings. She was overweight, but didn’t seem at all bothered by it. Everything about her screamed old maid, yet she had a quiet grace, an innate strength, and a placid glow about her, as if she was happy with her life.
"No, it wasn’t," he admitted. "I’m sorry," he added, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
"Sorry for what?" she asked as she sat on the ottoman. She dipped the flannel into the bowl, and then she gently pressed it to his mouth and expertly began cleaning his cut.
"I dunno," he confessed. "I’m just sorry."
She laughed and the sound and the smile that went with it changed her face. John caught a glimpse of the young girl she had been before life intervened.
"You poor man," she chided gently. "Having to be sorry for being yourself. What you did was very brave, even if rather stupid."
"Stupid?" he echoed. "I wasn’t the one fighting to keep my handbag. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to just give them what they want? They could have hurt you."
"Not those two," she protested. "I’d have flunked them if they did."
"Flunked them?" he repeated dumbly. Then it dawned on him. "You a teacher?"
She nodded. "First form, Playson High School."
"They were pupils of yours?" he asked incredulously.
Again, she nodded. "Yes, but Eric wasn’t wearing his glasses and Tim will do whatever Eric tells him. It was so dark, I don’t think they realized it was I. But they would have," she added in a determined tone, "if you hadn’t come along."
John saw the sternness in her eyes and the firmness in the set of her jaw. He was again reminded of his Nana. He gave her a weak smile. He felt obscurely chastised. "I was just trying to help."
"Stop apologizing," she reiterated. "It was very brave. Most people would have ignored me. Thank you for being a Good Samaritan. The world could use more men like you."
John felt his face flush with embarrassment. His next words came out slowly. "I wanted to hit something."
Frances stopped working on his cut and looked at him. "Why?" she asked quietly.
"It was either that or jump in the water," he mumbled.
Frances dropped her hands and studied the man who now sat in her chair. He was quite tall and large. He was very muscular as well. His body seemed to vibrate with tension and even sitting in a chair nervous energy flowed from him.
He had long black hair lightly touched with gray that at present curled wildly about his face, and as was the fashion these days, he wore an earring. His face intrigued her. It was a handsome face she supposed, with a strong jaw, sensual mouth, neat goatee, and brown eyes. She thought her female students would probably find him attractive, would probably call him a "Baldwin or Smith," she thought the term was, after some actors the teens thought the epitome of male perfection.
However, it was his eyes that fascinated her. In the short time since he’d come to her rescue, Frances had seen anger, shock, pain, and sadness move through his eyes. Her father had had eyes like that. A mirror to the soul her mother had called them. Now John’s eyes looked haunted. He was obviously in great emotional pain and just as obviously drinking to avoid it. He smelled like a distillery. "You have a problem," she stated finally. It was not a question. "A big problem."
She rose from the ottoman and instructed in her best teacher’s voice, "Sit there and hold that flannel over your mouth. Your cut is still bleeding. I’m going to make tea. When I come back, we’ll see if we can sort this out."
John nodded and did as he was told, relieved to have someone take charge of him for once. The enormous amount of alcohol he’d consumed hadn’t even come close to touching his ache. It never did. Now he felt slightly nauseous, headachy, and knackered. He held the flannel to his mouth and waited for Frances to return. Shutting his eyes, he leaned back in the armchair resting his head against the soft cushion.
When Frances returned with a pot of tea, cups, and some biscuits, John was asleep. His face was relaxed, his body at ease. He looked younger somehow, as if in sleep, the world-weariness she sensed in him was gone.
She put the tray on the coffee table. She gently lifted his legs, put them on the ottoman, and took the flannel from his fingers. She took her favorite afghan and spread it over him. Then she sat down on the couch and poured herself a cup of tea.
John shook himself awake. He hurt everywhere and had a crick in his neck. But for the first time in weeks, he felt rested. He sat up in bed, only he wasn’t in bed, he realized. Not his bed anyway. He must have passed out. Where was he? Then he remembered.
He opened his eyes and saw he was still in that woman’s house. Oh god, she lay on the couch her body all twisted up. Had he? What had he done? These days he was drinking so much, half the time he couldn’t remember anything about the night before. She moved in her sleep and he realized that she was alive.
He sighed and sat up higher on the armchair. He groaned as his muscles protested. The woman shifted again and sat up. What the bloody hell was her name?
"Good morning," she stated.
"Uh morning," he muttered. He felt a flush climb up his face.
She looked at him, her green eyes seeming to read his mind. "You passed out. I assumed you needed the sleep. I’m Frances, by the by, in case you’ve forgotten."
His embarrassment grew. "Uh, John."
She smiled. "Yes, I remember. John, would you like the loo and some coffee?"
He felt like he was five again and in need of instruction. He nodded, now completely humiliated. She pointed toward the back of the small house and then rose from the couch. "Come join me in the kitchen when you’re finished." Then she turned and left the room.
John carefully removed the afghan and folded it neatly. He placed it on the ottoman and then went in the direction she had indicated. Her lavatory was quite utilitarian and scented with lavender. It was sparkling clean as if always ready for guests. He used the toilet and then filled the basin with water and washed his face.
He studied himself in the mirror over the basin. He had a black eye and his mouth was swollen. One of the kids had cut his lip. He remembered that. His T-shirt was torn and a bit bloody. He looked at his hands. His knuckles seemed to be perpetually red and puffed up from fighting. He was a mess.
Feeling more than a little guilty, he opened the medicine chest to see if he could find some aspirin and mouthwash. He found a bottle of mouth rinse, but no painkillers. Then he finished cleaning himself as best he could. He knew he could never wash away the shame. Finally, he left the bathroom and went to find Frances to apologize.
She was in the kitchen. When he walked in, he had another flashback. The room smelled of baking, something sweet and wholesome, fresh and comforting. When he was a kid, his Nana's kitchen smelled like that. He would wake Sunday morning and run to find her. She always had a hug and a kiss for him and usually some fresh baked sweet, something his Mum would never let him have.
There was a large farm table in the center of Frances’ kitchen, set with dainty plates and glassware. A vase of daisies was centered on the table and there was a hint of lemon in the air. She was standing by the stove with her back to him.
Frances turned when she heard his footsteps. "Please sit down. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute, bran muffins in five."
"Bran muffins?" he echoed as he seated himself.
She laughed softly. "I like to start the day healthy." She turned back to the stove and then walked over to him with a mug of steaming coffee. She set it down carefully and asked, "Milk? Sugar?"
"Just black," he requested gratefully.
She nodded and went back to the bench, set a timer and then sat down across from him. "So John Lawless, what’s your story?"
"My what?" he repeated, nearly choking on his first sip of the strong black liquid.
She smiled. "You’re not a ruffian despite your looks. You’re not nearly as tough as you pretend to be. So what’s your story?"
John put the mug down and studied Frances. In the thin sunlight, he could see the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Her skin had a smooth healthy glow as if she never wore makeup. She was smiling at him encouragingly and her voice was very gentle, if firm. She wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t plain either. She wasn’t nearly as old as his Nana, though her calm presence did remind him of her. Sharply. She sat there, accepting his scrutiny. Her gaze was level and unflinching.
The two of them sat like statues for a long moment and then the timer went off. Frances rose, put on mitts, and removed the muffins from the oven. She turned the pan over a basket and John watched as the muffins flopped out. She turned back and put the muffins in front of him. "Eat," she ordered, then turned away again.
John looked at the steaming muffins. They were golden brown and would have looked inviting if his stomach hadn’t turned over from the thought of eating. Still, just like when he was little, he obeyed.
Frances came back to the table, a mug of tea in her hand. She watched as John buttered a muffin and then took a bite. She sat back down and asked, "When did you last eat?"
He chewed, swallowed and then answered, "I dunno. I’ve been . . ."
She nodded as if she understood. "Would you like some bangers?"
John felt his stomach roll at the thought of anything else. He shook his head. "The muffins are fine. I’m not . . ."
She could smell the alcohol coming off his skin in waves. "The muffins should help," she suggested softly. "So, John Lawless, tell me, why do you drink so much?"
He swallowed another bite of muffin before he retorted almost flippantly, "It’s easier than not drinking."
"Easier?" she repeated thoughtfully. "Last night, before you passed out, do you remember what you said?"
He shook his head, again overcome with embarrassment.
"You said you had to hit something or jump in the water."
His jaw dropped. "I said that?"
She nodded. "Yes, you did. And in your sleep, well, it was obvious you had some very unpleasant dreams. You were moaning and mumbling a great deal, and you kept calling out for someone named Caro. Clearly, something is troubling you. I’d like to help if I could."
His mouth opened even wider. He almost glared at her, daring her to meet his gaze as he asked, "Why?"
She met his eyes unflinchingly and then paused for a long moment before she responded. There were many possible answers to his question, but none she was willing to share on such a short acquaintanceship. She hoped what she did say would be enough. "Because I can," she finally asserted. "And," she added in soft voice, "because I want to."
There was something in her tone that touched John. It wasn't the words, which were simple, or even the content of what she said. It was more like a feeling that she meant it. That somehow if she could do this for him it would be a help to her as well. He ate more muffin, pondering her offer. He took a sip of coffee and asked, "What day is it?"
A small smile played across her lips as she replied, "Saturday."
"Do you work?" he asked.
Now the smile grew. "Yes, I'm a teacher."
He shook his head. "Sorry, you told me, didn't ya? I was . . ."
"You were drunk," she stated flatly.
"Yeah, I was," he answered, chagrinned.
"What pain are you running from?" she inquired.
She'd nailed him with that one. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. "Pain," he echoed. "A few weeks ago, I lost someone."
"Lost someone?" she reiterated. "No, John, you didn't lose someone. They died. Lost implies they were only misplaced for the moment. I hate that use of that word. Makes it sound as if we could just find them again that everything would be all right. But you can't find her, because she's gone forever. It was a she, wasn't it?" He nodded. "Your wife?"
"No, but she was going to be."
"I'm very sorry," she condoled. "I know it's inadequate and completely useless to say that. Especially as I barely know you and I didn't know her. But all the same, I am saddened by the death of anyone."
He nodded as if he appreciated her words, but said nothing.
"How did she die?" Frances asked.
"She was murdered," he replied in a voice devoid of all feeling.
Frances gasped. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened into an O. "Murdered? Oh dear. Did they catch him?"
"It was a her," he corrected softly. "And yeah, I caught her."
"You caught her?" she repeated. "Are you a policeman?"
He grimaced. "I used to be. I'm a private investigator now."
"Used to be?" Frances eyed him speculatively. "You haven't had an easy time of it, have you?"
John shrugged and sipped some coffee. "Not any harder than anyone else."
"I don't think that's true," she mused thoughtfully. "Still, I do believe you're never given more than you can handle. And everything happens for a reason."
"Find me a reason why Caro should be dead and I'm still alive and I'll kiss your feet," he spat angrily. His entire body seemed to vibrate with tension and barely controlled rage.
Frances didn't falter. She stared him down and then declared, "I can't do that. God makes these decisions. All I know is that there's always a plan."
"God?" John objected. "You going to try to help me with religion? Look, Frances, you seem like a nice enough woman, but I am NOT about to be reborn unto the Lord."
She smiled with amusement. Her tone was light as she answered. "I am NOT trying to convert you. Nor do I expect you to be reborn. In point of fact, I have no formal religion. But even so, I believe everything happens for a reason if we can only find it."
John felt his face flush. The woman was just trying to be nice and he was acting like a dickhead. "Sorry," he muttered in apology. "I seem to lose my temper awfully easy these days."
"Somehow I don't think it's just these days," she reflected thoughtfully. "You've always had a problem with anger, haven't you?"
How did she know these things about him? He dropped his eyes. "I guess," he admitted.
"John," she chided softly, "don't be ashamed. You are who you are. Even if you have problems, I can tell your heart's in the right place. Your coming to my aid last night proves that."
"I don't have a heart anymore," he disclosed. "It died with Caro."
She shook her head. "No, that's not true. If you had no heart, you wouldn't hurt. And you are in pain." She paused and then asked, "Do you play sports?"
He blinked twice at the non sequitur. "Sports? I work out with weights, but otherwise . . ."
"Did you ever play? The rugby or soccer?" she inquired.
"A long time ago," he scoffed impatiently. "Why?"
"Those boys you met last night?" she remarked with an innocent smile. "If they had something to do besides get into trouble, they'd be a lot better off. With all the budget cuts at school, we've lost our sports program. I was thinking, maybe you could coach them."
"Coach a bunch of boys?" John curbed the impulse to rise from the table. "Are you crackers? I’m an ex cop who drinks too much and gets into daily brawls! What kind of an example would that set?"
"Maybe if you had something else to do, you wouldn't feel the need to drink or fight," Frances prompted calmly.
John looked into her eyes. She meant it. She thought he could coach a bunch of boys . . . "I dunno. My temper . . ."
"You'd have to work on controlling it," Frances commented. "But it could be good for them and good for you."
John turned the idea over in his mind. What did he have to lose? He knew he couldn't go on as he was. After a moment he asked thoughtfully, "You think I'd be good at it?"
As she rose to refill his coffee mug she smiled, "We won't know unless you try."
Dave sat across from John's desk. He tapped his foot and his brown eyes darted nervously around the room. His normally happy if bland countenance appeared worried.
John waited him out. Dave had suddenly appeared in the middle of the workday, clearly ill at ease about something and then had sat down in the client's chair. John hadn't seen him since the funeral, two weeks before.
"You remember Jo's brother, Dylan?" Dave asked quickly.
John's eyes widened. Now there was a non sequitur if there ever was one. He searched his mind for some trace of the bloke. An image finally flitted into his consciousness. Tall, too good-looking, dressed like a sharpie at Dave and Jo's wedding. He'd hit on every one of the bridesmaids, even on Marla, John's then girlfriend. "A hoon if there ever was one," John muttered.
Dave nodded. "That's him. He's been . . . shit, John, he's gotten himself in deep and looks to be dragging me and Jo in it with him."
"What'd he do?"
Dave shifted nervously in the chair. His eyes again darted around the office and then came to rest just to the right of John's shoulder. "He gave Jo some stuff. She didn't mention it to me. Bloody hell, it has to be swag from some job he pulled."
"What kind of stuff?" John asked, his professional curiosity aroused.
Dave's foot began tapping again. Dave's face flushed with embarrassment as he explained. "You know how tough it is to make it on a cop's salary, especially with kids. Trying to save for university and all. Jo's been wanting new carpet for two years. Anyways, he said he'd gotten a great deal and gave it to her. She stuck it in the garage and I found it yesterday."
John could almost feel the humiliation his friend felt as he admitted what he saw as inadequacy. John ignored the guilt and asked, "How do you know he's lying?"
Dave gave him a cynical look. "Dylan wouldn't know the truth if it hit him on the arse. Besides, I took a look at it. Really expensive carpet. No way he could just buy it."
"But you don't actually know it's swag," John observed. "You're just guessing he nicked it."
"Well, yeah, I don't have proof," Dave argued. "But I checked the hot sheets and there was a robbery at a flooring store. Carpet, tiles, lino, and such. Has to be from that."
"But you don't really KNOW, do ya?" John insisted.
"No, I don't KNOW," Dave nearly choked on the words. "But I know Dylan. He ain't held an honest job since before I married Jo. He's always been a layabout."
"Why don't you just ask him?" John queried.
"Like he'd bloody well tell me?" Dave snorted. "Shit, John, after all I've done for you, you ain't gonna help?"
John gazed at his friend. Dave looked pissed off and hurt all at once. "Just what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to get that shit out of my house and that prick out of our lives," Dave explained.
"He's Jo's brother. What does she say?"
Dave sighed. "She thinks I'm crackers. Thinks I see crime everywhere. Won't admit that Dylan could do anything wrong."
"Damn," John swore softly. "That's gonna make it tough. You're sure he couldn't have come by the carpet as he said?"
Dave shrugged and rose from the chair. "I know him, mate. He's never worked a day in his life. No way he could come up with the cash to buy it. No way."
John nodded. "Give me the address. I'll have a talk with him."
"Thanks, mate," he paused, then continued, "So, uh, how's things otherwise?"
John shrugged. "Day to day."
"Not getting any easier?"
John gave him a look. "No, Dave, it's not."
"Sorry, mate. I'm not too good with . . ."
John rose and nodded. "Yeah, mate, I know."
John went to pay Dylan a visit. Jo's brother lived in a rundown tenement on the eastside of Auckland. Not the greatest neighborhood, to put it mildly. As John parked and locked his car, he could see why Dave thought his brother-in-law had nicked the carpet.
John climbed a flight of rickety stairs and knocked on the door of Flat B. After a minute, he knocked again, a bit louder. Finally, he heard some footsteps and a voice murmured, "Just a tick."
Dylan looked as if he hadn't been to bed yet. His wild mane of blond hair was tousled. His blue eyes were bloodshot. He had an inch of stubble on his chin. He wore no shirt and John could see his chest was completely shaved. He wore only dark black trousers and no shoes. "Who the bloody hell are you?" Dylan demanded.
John gave him his most disarming smile and said, "Want to talk to you about some flooring. I hear you're the man when it comes to carpet."
Dylan looked John up and down, shrugged and then muttered, "You a mate of Dave's, then?"
So he wasn't nearly as stupid as Dave made him sound. John decided to admit the truth. "Yeah, he asked me to have a word with you."
Dylan opened the door wide and gestured for him to enter. "I've got nothing to hide. Can you do us a favor though? Keep your voice kind of low." He gestured toward a closed door.
John nodded. And began to look around the flat. It had clearly come furnished, the sofa and couch in the lounge were completely scungy. The table had a matchbook stuck under it, but it still listed to one side like a ship with a broken mainsail. The armchair had broken springs sticking out.
Dylan eyed the tall man and asked, "Who are you anyways?"
"John Lawless. I used to work with Dave. We met at his wedding."
"You used to be a cop!" he exclaimed. "You nearly got Dave tossed off the force according to Jo. Whatcha doing here?"
"Dave's kind of bothered about the carpet you gave Jo."
"Thinks I nicked it, don't he?"
"Did you?"
Dylan shook his head. "Nope. I bought it."
"Got the receipt?"
Dylan laughed. "What bollux. Dave can't afford to buy it for Jo and when I do, he gets all bent. What’s his problem?"
"He's just worried. About Jo and you. So, you got that paper?"
Dylan looked John up and down. He moved to the chair, sat down, and lit a smoke. "You know," he said consideringly, "I don't owe you or him any explanation."
"Too true," John replied. "But all the same, it would be nice if you were to set his mind at rest."
Dylan laughed. "I dunno. I kind of like Dave's knickers in a twist."
John took two steps toward Dylan and yanked him up out of the chair. "Well, I don't. If you bought the carpet legal, prove it and I'll go. Otherwise I'm gonna dog you till I get the truth."
Dylan laughed again. "Nice to know I'm so trusted. Just piss off. This ain't none of your business anyways. I can give my sister a gift if I want."
"If you nicked it, she can't keep it."
"She'll be right pissed if Dave makes her give it back. And so will I."
"Then just give me what I want."
Dylan shook his head. "No way. You're going to have to trust me. And mate," he sneered, "let go or else I'll be screaming for the cops myself."
John released him. He'd had enough experience with hoons to know he'd gotten all he was going to get for now. He shrugged. "All the same," John promised as he turned to go, "I'll get the truth from you. And I warn you, you get Dave in trouble and you'll have to answer to me."
"Nice to know the bro-in-law's got good mates. Too bad he don't think of me that way," Dylan said bitterly.
John turned at that and thought he saw a sad expression cross Dylan's face. If Dylan had expressed any emotion, it was gone now. John shrugged and let himself out. There was more than one way to skin this cat.
John returned to his office, booted up his computer and began to do a little background research on Dylan. The Internet made everything easy. There were no secrets anymore. With a few deft clicks he had Dylan's entire credit and work history at his fingertips and with a few more searches, the balance of Dylan's life. What he learned seem to confirm Dave's suspicions.
Up until six months prior Dylan had a pile of debts and as the cops were so fond of saying, no visible means of support. He owed everyone from his tailor to his favorite pub keeper. Then suddenly, all his bills were paid or became current. Now his credit history looked better than John's did. However, search as he might, John could find no record of Dylan having gainful employment. He sighed with frustration. He really WAS going to have to dog the bloke to discover anything.
John waited outside Dylan's flat that night. He hated surveillance, but since he didn't have a paying client, he didn't want to use Andy. He figured if Dave wanted Andy in on it, he'd have asked him to help in the first place. He couldn't afford to hire anyone else to help, since Caro's death; he'd let his work slide a bit. He wasn't broke, but if he didn't get it together soon, he would be.
Dylan dressed in a tuxedo strolled out the door of the building at eight o'clock. He got into a beat up car and drove off. John followed.
Dylan drove to the entertainment district and parked behind a nightclub. Dylan knocked on the back door, spoke to someone, and then went in.
John drove around to the front and found a parking spot. He studied the front door of the club before going any further. It was brightly lit and there were two rather large bouncers, also in tuxedos standing in front of the entrance. As he watched a well-dressed couple were turned away. Then two women, dressed to the nines and giggling were let in. He waited a few more minutes watching as two more couples were turned away and then he nonchalantly strolled over.
"Hey, mate," he asked, "what's the fee?"
"Nothing for you. Private party tonight."
"How you know I'm not here for it?"
The bouncer laughed. "I just know."
"Come on, mate, I seen those gorgeous girls wander in. Give me a break, will ya?"
"Move along, mate. Come back another time. Tonight's women only."
John nodded and left wondering what Dylan was up to.
John followed Dylan for the next three nights and the pattern continued to repeat itself. Dylan, dressed in a tuxedo, would arrive at a nightclub or restaurant, enter through the back, and stay for several hours. Each time John tried to get in, he was told the place was closed for a private party. If Dylan was working as a waiter, why all the big secrecy? Even if he was being paid in cash, surely he could have just explained. Finally, on the fourth night, John tried a different tactic.
He followed Dylan to yet another nightclub. This time he waited twenty minutes and then knocked on the back door.
A beautiful woman opened the door. She looked at him, her eyes raking his frame and then asked, "You leave your costume at home?"
"Uh, no," John replied. "This is it."
Her eyes again raked his form from the top of his head to his feet. She paused at his arms and then seemed to study his crotch. She raised her eyes to meet his and said, "Well, it's unusual, but you certainly have the looks for it. I guess you'll do." She stood back and allowed him to enter.
'Looks for what?' John wondered. Then as he moved past her, he stopped wondering. His line of vision let him observe a brightly-lit stage and five men standing close together. The men each wore some kind of costume. There was a cowboy, a biker, a man in schoolboy uniform, a man with very long hair all in black leather and Dylan in his tuxedo.
The men seemed to be comparing notes and the biker was giggling. As John stood there, a tall man strutted off the stage, carrying some clothes and wearing only a g-string with a bunch of notes sticking out of it at odd angles. He was squealing. "What a crowd. And to think, I used to LIKE rough trade."
The cowboy giggled. "Too touchy for you, Martin?"
"Just you wait, Giles," Martin said. "Those girls like to rip you apart. Never saw such a bunch of randy women in my life!"
Giles punched Dylan on the arm. "They're going to love you."
Dylan smiled and asked, "Hey, Martin, any of 'em weigh less than three stone?"
Martin shook his head. "They're all cows."
"No sheep?" the biker asked with a laugh.
Giles retorted, "Don't you get enough of that at home?"
The other men laughed even the biker. John turned away. So Dylan was a stripper. He wondered what kind of money he made. He turned to leave and ran smack dab into the woman.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I got the wrong place."
"You aren't a stripper, are you?" she asked.
"Like I said, wrong place."
She looked him up and down. "You'd do well. I pay two hundred to start. Plus you'd make tips. Especially with a body like yours."
He shook his head and felt a flush climb up his cheeks. "Not interested." Then he asked, "Whatcha pay him?" He gestured at Dylan.
"Our star attraction? He gets five hundred and makes the most tips of anyone I've ever seen."
"How does he do that?"
"He's straight, unlike most of the others. So when the girls get a little touchy, he actually responds to them. Seems to make him more tips."
John nodded and left. No wonder Dylan didn't want Dave to know how he got the money for the carpet. John went back to his car and waited until Dylan finished his evening's work.
Dylan left the nightclub alone and drove straight home. John followed him and then braced him at the front door to the building.
"You're a stripper," John declared.
Dylan looked at him. "You've been spying on me."
"I told you I'd dog you. You want to talk here or upstairs?"
Dylan shrugged and let John follow him to his flat. Once inside Dylan loosened his tie and asked, "Want a beer?"
John shook his head. "Just the truth. Why didn't you just tell me? From what your employer said, you could well afford the carpet."
Dylan gave him a cynical look. "Would you want your sister to know you took off your clothes for money?"
"It's an honest profession and legal."
"Honest profession?" he echoed ironically. "You really think Dave wouldn't have something to say about it?"
John shrugged. "I won't tell him. Not if you'll show me the papers on the carpet. I'll just tell him you bought it legal."
"Why?"
John studied Dylan. He looked completely shagged out and more than a little embarrassed. Also very guilty. "He don't need to know. It's your secret and your business. Only in the future, don't be messing with him. Dave's a good bloke and he treats Jo right."
"That he does. Anyways, this is very short-term. Just till I get enough cash to start my own business."
John nodded as if he believed him. He'd heard that before when he was a cop from female hookers on the stroll.
Dylan studied the detective. "You don't believe me, do you? You don't think I have plans." Dylan didn't wait for an answer. "Why you think I live in this shithole and drive that crappy car when I'm making almost a thousand a night? I've saving. Soon I'll have enough and then I'm going to open a pub."
"A pub?"
"Yeah, a pub. I've got a great idea for one. But it takes cash. Soon as I have enough then I'm done."
John said nothing. Everyone needed a dream. Something to keep them warm at night. Something to keep them going day by day when it seemed like there was no reason to go on.
Dylan shrugged and went to a desk in the corner of the room. He pulled open a drawer and dug through it. He found some papers and handed them to John. "Here. Take 'em to Dave. Now bugger off. I'm knackered."
John accepted the papers, left and went home, wondering how he was going to get through the rest of the night himself.
The following morning John called Dave and asked him to come by the office. When Dave arrived, he handed him the receipt for the carpet. Dave was astonished. "But where did he get the ready?"
"He's working," John announced.
"Working?" Dave repeated. "Doing what?"
"If he wanted you to know, he'd tell you," John explained. "It's legal."
"You sure?" John nodded. "You ain't gonna tell me?"
"It's not my place," John demurred. "But Dave, he seems like an okay bloke. Maybe you need to lighten up on him. Give him a chance. He really cares about Jo and the kids."
Dave grimaced. "You saying I've been an arsehole about him?"
"People change. Maybe he has too."
John carried the last carton out of the house and stowed it in the back of the hired lorry. He took a red bandana from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Willy came round from the cab of the lorry and asked, "That it, bro?"
John nodded. The last of it. He shut the door of the lorry and then turned back to look once more at the little rented house. He was glad he'd never bought it. He'd been happy there once, but now, he couldn't go back. Couldn't live with the memories. Frances had encouraged him to move. She'd said there was no shame in leaving the past behind. Still, in a way, Caro was in that house. Leaving it was like leaving her behind and he wasn't sure he was ready to do that.
Willy tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Ready?" he asked.
John studied his friend. Willy wore his usual black on black, black T-shirt, black vest, black jeans, and black boots. His shaven head glistened with sweat. His eyes were red and his mouth was tight. His arms bulged with muscles and tattoos. John thought he looked knackered.
John knew Willy had taken Caro's death just as hard as he had. Still, they had never talked about it. It was as if despite their deep bond, despite their mutual loss, the words couldn’t be spoken. The guilt lay between them like a chasm.
John realized with a start that he hadn't seen that much of Willy lately. After he'd helped Dave with his brother-in-law problem, he'd taken to spending a lot of time with Frances and the kids. And he'd gone back to trying to build his business.
"You look like death warmed over," John remarked. "What you been doing to yourself?"
"If you'd come round to the pub like you used to, you'd know, wouldn't you?" Willy snapped.
"Sorry, bro," John lied. "I had a case."
"You ain't been to the local in three weeks," Willy muttered. "It's just lucky I remembered about today. Where you been hanging?"
"Nowhere," John lied again. "Just working." It was clear Willy didn't believe him from the expression on his face. Still, "We gonna move this stuff?" John asked.
Willy shrugged, pulled one more puff off his smoke, and then sent the butt arching into the street. He turned and went back to the cab of the lorry. He started the engine and drove off.
John took one last glance at the house that would never be his home and followed slowly in his own car. He'd rented another house. This time near the waterfront. Near his office and Frances.
He drove slowly, keeping Willy and the lorry in sight. Finally, they arrived at the small house in the rundown neighborhood. Frances kept telling him he could make a difference here. He didn't believe her, but he did know that she kept him too busy doing things most of the time to get into trouble.
Willy parked the lorry in front. John pulled in behind him. John got out of his car, tossed Willy his keys, and caught Willy’s with his other hand. "I'll start with the small stuff. You round up the blokes and the beer, eh?"
Willy nodded and slid into the driver's seat of John's car. Willy was on his way to the local to pick up Andy, Dave, and anyone else who could be bribed with free beer. With luck, they could have this finished in a couple of hours.
John took another set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. The inside of the house was freshly painted and the wood floors newly varnished. Everything seemed fresh, clean, untouched and untainted. Given his luck in life, he wondered how long it would remain that way.
He slipped the keys back in his pocket and began unloading cartons and putting them in the house. He'd managed to get about a fourth of the cartons moved when he heard the noisy arrival of his mates.
He walked out the front door and saw Andy, Dave and a few others walking toward him. Willy had two cases of beer in his muscular arms. Willy moved past him into the house.
John shook hands with the blokes, except for Andy, who insisted on wrapping him in a bear hug. Andy was accompanied by his dog; a big black Labrador named Wolf. "Don't let that dog shit in my new house," John warned Andy.
Andy's big blue eyes flew open and his jaw worked convulsively for a second. Then he realized that John was joking. "Wolf would never do that," Andy insisted anyway. "You know I train 'em better."
John grinned and lightly punched Andy's arm. "I know. Stick Wolf in the backyard. It's fenced in and there's a dog run already."
"You getting a dog?" Andy asked with surprise.
John shook his head. "Nah. Last owner had one."
"You should get a dog," Andy reiterated. "I could train 'em for you. He'd keep you company so you wouldn't be alone."
A shadow passed over John's face. He felt a surge of anger wash over him and then, he took a deep cleansing breath. Andy meant well, he probably didn't even realize what he'd actually said. "I'll think about," John replied. "You can walk through the house and out the back, it's the shortest route." Then he turned to help the rest of the blokes.
Three hours later, everything was unloaded. All the furniture was in place and all the cartons were in their proper rooms. Now he and his mates were eating takeaway and drinking beer. Soon, some of the blokes split and it was just he, Dave, Andy, and Willy.
"Kind of like old times," Dave muttered in a maudlin tone. "Where you been keeping yourself these days?" he asked. Dave hadn't seen him since his last visit to John's office.
John looked at his mates. He'd never thought he was all that important to them. Still . . . "I've been working," he stated.
"Working on what?" Andy asked.
"A case," John lied.
"What kind of case?" Dave asked.
John rose from the sofa and headed toward the kitchen. "A case of beer," he retorted with a forced laugh. "Who wants another?" he muttered trying to deflect their curiosity. It seemed to work, at least on the surface. The blokes all laughed and when he came back with a handful of cans, they all chimed in with thanks.
Finally, Andy and Wolf split, then Dave, leaving John alone with Willy. Willy lit a smoke and studied John. His friend sat on the couch, sipping a beer, looking more at ease than Willy had seen him look since Caro had died. Something had changed. John's eyes were less haunted. It looked as if he'd somehow found some peace. "So, bro," Willy asked softly. "What's really up?"
"Whatcha mean?"
"You ain't been to the pub, no one's seen you around. You say you've been working a case, but you look, hell, you look better. So how?"
John knew what he was asking, but he wasn't sure how to explain. Wasn't sure he could explain. He felt his face redden. He grinned sheepishly and continued to lie, "Just working, Willy. Honest."
Willy stubbed out his smoke and rose from the couch. He shook his head and eyed John warily. "Sure, mate. Up for a game of pool?"
John shook his head. "Need to finish unpacking. I got an early day tomorrow. Figured I'd hit the sack."
Willy shrugged again and with one last quizzical glance, he left the house. John cleaned up the debris and then feeling at loose ends decided to go for a walk. He found his feet took him to Frances house, which was only a few blocks away.
His mind was focused on other things as he strode there and he didn't notice Willy, lurking in the shadows following him.
He knocked on Frances door and waited for her answer. He heard a shouted, "Just a tick, John."
Willy, watching from up the street, heard that same voice in the night stillness. He watched as the door opened and John stepped inside the house. He never saw the woman, but he knew there was one. So John had moved on, had he? No wonder he didn't come round anymore. Caro hadn't even been gone two months and already he was putting it to someone else? Willy felt a white-hot rage fill him at the lack of respect for his sister. He turned away and went to the pub; he'd deal with John in the morning.
John was sitting on the sofa drinking tea. Frances sat in her armchair; her hands busy with her knitting. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate. Frances was counting softly, and as he listened to her soft melodious voice, he felt the tension ease out of him. It was so peaceful in her home.
Frances stopped her counting and asked, "You all moved in?"
John nodded. "Everything's there. Still got some cartons to unpack, but basically, yeah."
"Yes," she corrected automatically. "Not yeah."
John laughed. "Always the teacher," he retorted.
Frances gave him a wry grin. "Proper English is very important."
"Even for a Kiwi?" he teased.
Now she laughed. John felt the joyful sound wash over him like a wave. He took another sip of tea and sighed, almost feeling content.
Frances glanced at him. She could see the change, the way he'd begun slowly, but surely to come out of himself, to stop wallowing in self-pity. The pain and guilt were still there and so was the rage, he just had a better grip on it. Still, any peace he'd thought he'd found was merely an illusion; he had yet to deal with his loss. Until he talked about it, nothing would really change. She counted two more rows and then asked, "Did you see her brother today?"
"Ye . . . Yes," he answered.
Frances smiled. "How is he?"
"Okay, I guess," John mumbled. "We didn't . . . There were a lot of other blokes about. No time to talk alone," he lied.
Frances lifted her eyes from her knitting. "You are a very bad liar, John," she chided sternly. "I don't know how you managed undercover."
John felt his face redden. "I used to be quite good at it. Lying I mean," he retorted defensively. "Only it wasn't so much lying as playing a part. And I thought I was doing the right thing."
"You were doing the right thing," she admitted. "But you don't have to lie to me. And you need to talk to him. He's in as much pain as you are."
"I can't," he whispered. "If I open that door. Frances, it's . . . I'm . . . afraid."
"I know," she acknowledged softly, "but keeping the pain inside only makes it harder to deal with it."
"You don't understand," he refuted. "We're blokes. We don't . . . its not the way it works."
Frances laughed softly. "Not the way it works?" she repeated. "So that's your excuse? You're a bloke so rather than deal with the grief, you'll get drunk, and fight. Is that what your father taught you?"
"I never knew my father, not really," John answered softly. "He died when I was five."
"I'm sorry," Frances condoled. "Your mother raised you?" He nodded. Frances paused while she turned this over in her mind. "She never remarried?" John shook his head. "So you had no male role model, did you?"
He thought briefly of Mick Sullivan, but rather than explain about the cop who had befriended him when he was young, he simply shook his head.
"I'm sorry, John. But that explains a lot, doesn't it?"
Now he studied her. She always dressed like a stereotypical old maid. He had never seen her in anything but skirts and sweater sets with sensible shoes. Still, there was a youthfulness about her, a kind of serene innocence that he found very comforting. When Frances smiled, the whole world lit up. And she smiled a lot. She was smart, funny, and her questions and comments were always interesting. Her advice was sound. She no longer reminded him of his Nana or Mum, she was just . . . Frances.
"How come some man didn't snap you up?" the question slipped out before he could stop it.
She looked up from her knitting, her green eyes wide with shock. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked.
"You'd have made a good mother," he commented quietly. "You should have had children."
She smiled. "I do have children, John. Over the years, I've had hundreds of them."
He shook his head. "You know that's not what I mean. I've seen you with your pupils. You should have had kids of your own."
She stared at him hard. "John, for a man who has lived the kind of life you have, you can sometimes be quite naïve. Did it ever occur to you that this might be a painful subject for me? After all, it takes two to have children."
He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Still, something made him persist. "I'm not thick, Frances. I know it takes two. And I'm not naïve either. I'm sorry if I've upset you, but it's a fair question."
"Fair?" she echoed. "It's very impertinent and rude, actually. You're prying."
"Prying? You ask me personal questions all the time. Why can't I ask one?"
Her eyes were still locked with his. She could see the muscles in his jaw twitching with controlled anger. She said nothing for a long moment and then finally she answered, "I never had children because I never married. And I never married because the right person never asked me."
John saw the pain move across her face. He had hurt her by forcing her to speak. "I'm sorry," he muttered as he dropped his eyes. "I don't know why I did that. You've been kind to me and I repay you by . . ."
"Don't you?" she repeated softly. "I think you know why, John. Just because you think things should be a certain way doesn't mean they will be. I told you once, I believe everything that happens happens for a reason. You may think you can bend life to your will, but I don't."
"I don't . . . " he started. Then he stopped and thought for a moment. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed and Frances could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. "You think I decide how the world should be and then when it doesn't behave the way I want, I rail against it?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "Look at your life. Look at how you handle or rather don't handle things. Instead of confronting your emotions, you evade them."
"That's not true," he argued.
"It IS true," she reiterated. "When Caro died you put your grief aside to find her killer. That was natural, but terribly unhealthy. Now that repressed grief lies like a great weight inside you. You share this bond with her brother and yet still, you evade discussing this with him. If anyone can understand how you feel, share it, help to heal it, he could. Yes, I know you talked about it once with that woman, but John," she continued as he attempted to interrupt her, "one conversation, one crying jag, is not nearly enough. Unless of course you didn't love her as much as you claim."
His jaw tightened even more. His eyes grew dark and his hands began to clench into fists at his side. He felt the rage like a burning fire in his blood. The desire to lash out overwhelmed him. "What do you know about it?" he exploded. "You live here, alone, not even a pet. As far as I can tell, you have no friends, no family. You spend your life teaching a bunch of children who don't give a rat's arse about you. You look out your windows at the world instead of living in it. How can you even begin to tell me how I felt about Caro. Where do you get off judging me?"
Frances looked at him. She could feel the hostility and though it wasn't really directed at her, the words still stung. She remarked evenly, "I'm not judging you. As to what I know about love, well, I may be alone, but that does not mean I always was. There are many kinds of love in the world, John. Many kinds. Do not presume that the kind you've experienced is all there is."
His face went blank for a moment, trying to work out her meaning. Then he glanced around the room. For the most part, she seemed almost sexless. Surely, she wasn't trying to tell him? "Frances, are you gay?"
She laughed. "Now there is an example of a perfectly good word that has been ruined in the age of political correctness. One must now hesitate to use it since the connotation has changed so greatly."
"You've evaded the issue," he snapped.
"Yes," she admitted. "I have. What possible difference does my sexual orientation, always assuming I have one, make? Would it actually change anything? Either way, I would still be who I am. And as you so aptly pointed out, I am here, alone, with no friends and family. So really, John, why should it matter?"
He stared at her face. Her eyes were focused on him, her gaze unflinching. Her mouth was set in a sort of half smile as if she couldn't quite decide which way to go with it. He looked at her for a long moment and then confessed, "It matters to me."
"Why?" she asked.
He couldn't explain it, wasn't even sure he understood it. He shook his head and insisted, "It just does."
"Then I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I do not feel compelled to bare the intimate details of my life with everyone I meet. John," she added in a more conciliatory tone, "it's really not important."
"I don't get you," he retorted as he rose from the depths of the sofa. "You know almost everything about me and yet you tell me nothing about yourself. You've given me advice and friendship, but what do you get in return?"
She watched him pace. He filled the room with his physical presence. She was again, as she had been so many times before, reminded of her father. John looked nothing like him, but his essence was similar. How could she ever explain to him how she felt? "Perhaps I don't want anything."
He stopped pacing long enough to gape at her. "Everybody wants something," he insisted.
"Do they?" she mused thoughtfully. "What do you think I want, then?"
"Well," he replied his face suddenly flushed with embarrassment, "Women usually. That is . . ."
Frances began to laugh. Soon tears were running down her cheeks. "You egotistical ape," she snorted finally. "Is that what this is about? Are you feeling less than appreciated?" She shook her head. "Go home, John."
He felt like an idiot. As if he was he was five again and his Nana was chastising him for breaking something. He went over to where Frances sat and loomed over her. He looked down at her face, so full of amusement and apologized sheepishly, "I'm sorry."
Frances shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Don't apologize. That's the funniest thing I've heard in weeks. Don't you get enough female attention? I've seen the number of teenage girls who've suddenly become fascinated by rugby practice since you began coaching. Is your ego that in need of hand holding?"
His flush and embarrassment deepened. He sat down on the ottoman at Frances' feet. "No," he answered slowly. "As a rule, I never even notice. I'm just . . ."
She let her knitting fall into her lap. She reached out as if to touch him and then let her hand fall back to her lap. "John," she murmured softly, "you can't make this go away by avoiding it. Drinking, fighting, even sex, they're all just delaying tactics. From what you've told me, this has been the pattern of your life. I realize that men ARE different, but if you ever hope to get past this, you are going to have to deal with it."
His gaze went to her hands. He took one in his and held it for a long moment. Then he examined it. She had long artistic fingers, barren of jewelry or nail varnish. There were a few brown freckles and some wrinkles. The knuckles were a little swollen as if she might be arthritic. Still, it was a beautiful hand. Almost without thinking, he brought the hand to his lips and kissed it.
Frances pulled her hand back as if she'd been burned and she felt a flush move up her face. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and gazed at her. "I dunno," was his only answer. He swallowed twice and then added, "Maybe I should go."
She nodded. "Yes, I think that would be best."
John rose from the ottoman and moved toward the door. "Will you be at practice tomorrow?"
Frances nodded her assent and John, appearing satisfied with that, left closing the door behind him.
Frances looked at her hand for a moment, sighed, and then picked up her knitting.
The banging woke John up. He'd fallen asleep on the couch. When he'd gotten home from Frances' he'd been upset and confused. He felt guilty for hurting her with his questions and for prying into her life. And why the hell was it so important to him anyway?
In his frustration he’d found a half-empty bottle of Jack and drank until he’d passed out. Now there was someone banging on his front door.
"Just a tick," he shouted. He sat up on the couch and felt the room spin and his stomach lurch. "And stop that bloody banging," he yelled.
"I'll give you banging," Willy shouted from the other side of the door. "Open up."
John rose unsteadily from the couch. He went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Willy stood a foot back from the door. John gestured for him to come in.
Willy shook his head. "Out here."
John looked at his friend. Something seemed really off about Willy this morning. He looked as if he'd been up all night. As if he was still drunk. Willy's body was tense, wired, and the muscles in his jaw were twitching. His face and eyes were angry. John took a step forward and said, "Why you want me . . ." he never finished the thought.
As John watched, Willy, in slow motion, hauled his arm back and landed a solid punch to John's stomach. John reeled from the impact. He felt the jolt through his body and his stomach began to roll. He had to fight to keep from heaving. He lurched upright and yelled, "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
"She's not even cold in her grave and you've already replaced her," Willy roared as he landed a hard punch to John's jaw.
John's head snapped back and his knees began to buckle. He put up his hands to ward off another blow as he began to sink to the ground. He collapsed on his knees. "What are you talking about?" he exclaimed.
"You dickhead," Willy grumbled. "I know you're shagging someone else. I saw you!"
"You saw me," John echoed stupidly. "Willy, you're crackers. I haven't . . . I'm not! Stop hitting me."
Willy kicked him in the legs. "You rat bastard," Willy roared. "You're shagging that woman you visited last night. Don't lie to me."
John's head began to spin as he tried to fight the pain. What woman? Where had Willy? Shit! "Willy, stop. I swear, I ain't doing anything!"
"You lousy lying shit," Willy complained. "Right after I left here you went to her house."
John groaned as Willy's feet connected with the small of his back.
"Get up and fight," Willy yelled.
John stayed where he was. He hurt to much to move and he was still fighting not to spew the pitiful contents of his stomach.
Willy grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and yanked him to his feet. "You prick," Willy swore again. "Couldn't even wait a decent interval, could you?"
"Willy," John muttered softly. "Look at me. I swear to you, I swear, it's not what you think, man. I am NOT shagging anyone. It's not like that. Frances isn't like that."
"Frances isn't like that," Willy mocked him. "Oh and what is this Frances like?"
"She's just a friend," John insisted.
"A friend," Willy repeated nastily. He pulled back his arm in preparation for another punch. "Like Sonya was a friend?"
John grabbed Willy's arm and twisted it. "No, bro," he said sadly. "Like you're a friend."
"Like I'm a . . ." Willy repeated. He twisted out of John's grasp and looked at him.
John stood there waiting. "Willy," he admitted, "I still love Caro. There isn't anyone else in my life. Not that way, anyways."
All the fight seemed to go out of Willy at that. His whole body went limp, his face fell, and his eyes turned sad. He shook his head and turned to go.
"Willy," John called softly. "Come back. I think we need to talk."
Willy turned back and with slumped shoulders, allowed John to lead him into the house.
They sat in the kitchen drinking beer though it was only ten in the morning. Willy was chain smoking and John was drumming his fingers on the table. The sound of the clock was very loud in the silent room. Tick tock tick tock, precious minutes of irreplaceable time passed as the silence lengthened.
John got up from the table and got himself another beer. He pressed it first to his temple and then against his throbbing jaw. He knew it was probably swelling. Great, Frances would have a fit.
Willy watched him and then apologized, "Sorry."
"You pack a hell of a punch," John commented with a small grin. "You didn't have to hit me so hard."
"Yeah, I did," Willy admitted sheepishly. "It felt good," he added with a grin. "Why didn't you just tell me?"
John shrugged. "Embarrassed, I guess. Look, Willy, I'm sorry I haven't been around lately. Frances said we should talk, I guess she was right."
"This Frances, is she pretty?" Willy asked, still not completely convinced.
John gave him a look as if he knew exactly what Willy was thinking. "Willy, I told you, it's not like that. She's a nice lady, a teacher. She's just a friend."
"I want to meet her," Willy insisted stubbornly.
"You don't believe me," John stated flatly.
"I believe you, but . . ." Willy paused, took a sip of beer and then insisted, "But I still want to meet her."
"I love Caro," John explained. "I miss her every single day. It hurts like the devil. Frances has been trying to, I dunno, help me deal with it. She has me coaching pupils of hers at rugby. It seems to be maybe helping a little." He paused and examined Willy's face. "You think the pain will ever go away?"
Willy's eyes clouded over. "I dunno, mate. I miss her more each day not less. It's so hard to believe she's gone."
"I never even said goodbye," John muttered.
"Me either. Last time I saw her I was so pissed, I made no sense at all. I can't remember the last time I told her I loved her."
"She knew you loved her," John told him. "We talked about you quite a bit that last night."
"You did, did ya? You two didn't have anything better to talk about?"
John grinned at him then grimaced at the pain it caused to his jaw. "You didn't mind, did you? About her and me. You would have been okay with our getting married, wouldn't ya?"
Willy stared at John. They'd been through a lot together; there were many things that bound them, not only their mutual love for Caro. "Yeah," Willy confirmed softly. "It would have been okay."
"Thanks for that," John mumbled. He rose from his chair and put his empty beer can in the rubbish. With his back still turned he asked tentatively, "Do you blame me?"
"Blame you?" Willy echoed. "Why would I blame you?"
"I left her alone."
"You left her to find me, you dickhead. You had no way to know anything was going to happen."
"If it wasn’t for me Caro never would have met . . ."
"Yeah, mate, and if it wasn’t for me, she never would have met you. So if you want to blame someone, blame me." Then in a very soft undertone he muttered, "I do."
John turned at the words. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. "You blame yourself?"
Willy nodded. "Should be me that died, not her. Bowers was a prick, but he'd never have come after Caro if it wasn't for me. It's my fault."
John shook his head. "No, bro. It's not. You'd never have gotten mixed up with Bowers if it wasn't for me. I dragged you into it. It's my fault she's dead, not yours."
"You dickhead," Willy shouted. "It ain't your fault."
John studied him. "It's not yours either."
Willy rose from the table. He stood in front of John and as their eyes met a look of understanding passed between them. Willy grabbed his friend in a hug and they embraced for a moment. Then they both pulled apart, their faces full of embarrassment. Willy seemed to recover first. "What do you say I buy you breakfast to make up for beating on you?"
John had Eric by the scruff of the neck yet again. This kid had all the makings of a great rugby halfback, if he could just learn to be a team player. "Listen," John was explaining for the third time, "you can't punch the man you're blocking. It's a foul. If you do it, you'll get penalized and cost the team. You have to find a legal way to block him."
Eric stuck his tongue out. John resisted the urge to smack him across the face. He released Eric and prompted, "Why do you keep going after Kevin?"
"What do you mean?" Eric asked defiantly.
"Even when he's not your man, you're always getting in his face. Why?"
Eric shrugged and looked at his feet. John waited him out, knowing that kids didn't have quite the same tolerance for silence that adults did. "I don't like him," Eric admitted finally.
John shook his head. "Why don't you like him?"
"I just don't," Eric insisted. "What do you care anyways?"
John had wondered that himself. Still, he had come to care for the boys, to enjoy working with them. He'd begun to look forward to the two hours a day he spent outside coaching them.
He studied Eric as if he were a felon. The kid was tall for his age and hadn't yet grown into his body. He was always peering at people because he refused to wear his glasses. He was nearly thirteen, John knew, and Frances had said he was extraordinarily bright but didn't like to apply himself. "You know," John remarked consideringly, "I wonder about that too. But the fact is, I do care. You've probably figured out by now, that when I want to know something, I don't quit asking until I get an answer. So why don't you just tell me."
Eric looked at if he wanted to spit. Then his eyes darted around the playing field and came back to rest again on John. "Cause he's always insulting my Mum."
"What do you mean?"
"He's always making remarks about her. She works down at the Hardcastle," Eric added defiantly, naming the local.
"What's wrong with your mother working at the Hardcastle?" John queried. "If you father doesn't care, why should Kevin?"
"My Dad's gone," Eric admitted. "Kevin makes remarks about that too."
John's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, Eric," John conceded softly. "I'll talk to him."
"Don't," Eric pleaded. "That'll just make it worse. I don't need you fighting my battles for me."
Frances was right, the kid was smart. He was suddenly reminded of himself at that age. John nodded. Then he asked, "Would you like to learn how to box?"
"Box?" Eric echoed.
"Like Holyfield," John explained. "I could teach you."
"Why'd you want to do that?"
Why indeed? "When I was your age a very wise man taught me how to box. I wish I'd kept it up. Might have saved me a lot of grief. I just thought I'd return the favor."
Eric looked John up and down, trying to judge if he was working him or sincere. "I'd like that," the boy confessed softly and then added grudgingly, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. And after I've taught you, then maybe you can teach Kevin," John added with a grin.
Eric studied him and then turned the idea over in his mind. He seemed to like it. He grinned at John and then went back over to join his mates on the terraces. John grinned after him.
He turned away to check out the rest of the field when he felt eyes on him. He turned to find Frances standing off to the side, looking perturbed. He blew the whistle that hung around his neck and shouted, "That's enough for today. Run the field three times and then you can go."
He watched as the kids started their laps and then strolled over to where Frances waited. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Not here," she murmured softly. "Can you come over?"
"As soon as the kids are finished, yes."
She nodded as if that would have to do and then walked quickly away. John watched her leave a thoughtful expression on his face.
John knocked on Frances' door. He waited a moment, and when she didn't answer, he knocked again. Then he heard the sound of footsteps and finally, she pulled open the door. Her face was swollen and her eyes were red as if she'd been crying. She stood back to allow John to pass and then quickly shut the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Frances looked at him. Now that he was here, she wasn't sure why she wanted him. There probably wasn't anything he could do. Still, "Sit down, John. I'll get a crick in my neck looking up at you."
John went to the sofa and sat. Frances took her armchair. For once, she didn't pick up her knitting. Instead she held her hands in her lap and stared at them, as if she'd never seen them before.
"Frances, whatever it is, I want to help," John prompted finally. He had never seen her looking like this. She looked sad, defeated, and for once, her age, which he knew to be forty-five.
"I've had some news," she mumbled. She raised her eyes to study his face. "Some truly disturbing news."
John got up from the couch and went to sit on the ottoman at her feet. He took her hands in his and asked, "Are you ill?" She didn't look sick, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. He’d grown rather fond of her over the past few months, he realized he couldn't take it if . . .
She swallowed hard and shook her head. Then her eyes grew bright as if she was going to cry again. She pulled her hands from his and stated, "No, nothing like that. I got a letter today from the Air Ministry. It was about my father."
John breathed an inward sigh of relief. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't life threatening to Frances. "Your father?" he echoed. "I thought you said he died in Vietnam."
"That's what we were told," she said. "Only now . . ." she swallowed convulsively. She took a deep breath and added, "John, it's possible my father may still be alive. That he didn't die, but that he also didn't choose to come home."
"I don't understand. How is that possible?"
"Well, it seems that with the new push for more normalized relations between Vietnam and other countries, a lot of information is coming out. His body was never shipped back here, just his ashes, and his tags. So you see, it IS possible that it wasn't he. The Ministry says that they've received some information that makes them believe the ashes they sent us were another man. Not my father. John, after we got word that he was dead, my mother changed so much. She missed him terribly. She died herself only a few years later. I just don't understand it. If he was alive, why didn't he come home?"
"Maybe he couldn't," John said quietly. "Maybe he was a prisoner of war."
Frances shook her head. "No. The Ministry said that at the time my father supposedly died, three men went missing. One of them was a prisoner of war, he was released a year later and he's still in service. Of the two others, one died, and the other deserted. The body they found was burned beyond recognition, but the tags said he was my father. Now the Ministry isn't so sure. I don't know what to believe. My father was such a warm and loving man. To think he would desert us . . ."
"Oh, Frances," he murmured. He looked at her stricken face and then, he pulled her into his arms and held her. He stroked her hair and whispered, "I'm so sorry."
She began to tremble, her body heaved once and then she began to sob. John held her tightly and stroked her hair as she cried in his arms. Her tears lasted a long time; his shoulder became soaked. Finally her body stilled and she raised her face to his.
He smiled tenderly, then reached down, and brushed some tears off the soft skin of her right cheek with his fingers. Then he brushed them off her left cheek. Her eyes were wide and very bright. "Feel better?" he asked softly.
"Not really," she replied honestly. "But thank you just the same."
He knew she expected anger, but instead he grinned at her. "I know exactly what you mean," he replied. He touched her cheek again; her skin was very soft beneath his fingers. "You have really lovely eyes," he said softly.
She sucked in her breath and then abruptly pulled away from him. "I must look a mess. I'll be right back." She got up from the chair and nearly ran from the room toward the back of the house.
When she finally returned she seemed to have herself under control. She had washed her face and changed into a frilly blouse. She stood in the hallway near the back of the house and apologized, "John, I'm sorry I made you come over here. There's really nothing you can do."
He rose from the ottoman and went to stand by her. "Frances, don't be embarrassed. And don’t apologize."
"I'm not embarrassed about crying. But I do feel a bit of a fool. I'm not quite sure what I expected. It's not as if you can really do anything."
"I can be your friend," he remarked. "As you've been mine."
She looked at him. "I'm sorry, John. Go home."
"I want to help."
"How?" she asked. "How can you help?"
"I don't know. But I sure as bloody hell can't help you if you won't let me."
She shook her head. "I needed a shoulder. You've given me that. Thank you. You can see yourself out." Then she turned as if to go to the back of the house.
"Don't walk away from me," he grumbled as he grabbed her arm and pulled her back to face him.
"You're hurting me," she exclaimed. "Let go."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The sound of John’s breathing was loud in the room. There was now a tension between them, a feeling that neither of them wanted to name or admit, but existed just the same.
Finally, John released her. He could see his finger marks burning red on the skin of her arm. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Frances," he apologized helplessly. "You've done so much for me. Let me repay the favor."
"I don't think there's anything you can do for me," she answered.
"Frances . . ." She shook her head and turned to leave the room. This time he didn't try to stop her. Instead, he walked out her front door.
John walked the waterfront for a long time, ending up finally, at the pub. Willy was there and glad to see him. He got John a beer and then a shot of Jack. Then another shot. Soon, it was just like old times, with the two of them drinking and shooting pool. As the evening progressed, John got pissed. Eventually he decided that he needed some air. He began to walk the waterfront and found that he had ended up at Frances’. He could see a light in her windows.
He weaved up the footpath and banged on the door. "Who is it?" she called.
"Me," John announced.
"Me?" Frances repeated. She opened the door a crack. "John, what are you doing here?"
"I dunno," he slurred. "I was walking and this is where I ended up."
"You're drunk."
"Yeah, oops I mean, yes, I am. Please let me in. I want to apologize."
"You want to what?"
"To apologize for this afternoon." He grinned at her. "Please, teacher?"
She shook her head but opened the door for him. John unsteadily moved past her and plopped down on her sofa. "I really like this couch," he commented. "It's not quite as cozy as the chair, but it's very nice."
"I'm going to make you some coffee," she stated softly. "You're in no condition to be out on the street."
"You have really pretty eyes," he muttered under his breath.
Frances shrugged and went into the kitchen. John sat for a moment more on the couch and then he followed her. He entered the kitchen and saw a vision. Her black hair was loose and hung down her back in long spiral curls. She was wearing peach, a peach dress. She'd put on some weight, but she was still his Caro. He moved behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. "Caro?" he whispered incredulously.
"John, I'm not . . ." she began, but then she felt his lips move across the nape of her neck. She was so surprised she found she couldn’t speak or move.
John pulled her tight against him. He continued to kiss along the soft skin at the back of her neck. "I've missed you so," he moaned. "Why did you leave me?"
He thought she was Caro? How could he?
"I love you and I never said goodbye," he mumbled into her neck as he wrapped his arms tighter and pressed against her.
So that was it! The alcohol had unhinged his pain and grief. Her hair was the same color as Caro’s she knew, but surely, he couldn’t really believe? Still, his need touched her heart. She murmured, "Then say goodbye to me now. Tell me all the things you never got the chance to say."
"Caro, don't leave me. I can't live without you. I don't know HOW to live without you."
"I have to go, John. I can't stay. But you can live without me."
"I love you so much," he moaned.
"Show me."
He slid his hands from her waist to her shoulders and turned her to face him. His eyes were unfocused, then they focused, and he realized she wasn’t Caro. He released Frances and backed away. He put his face in his hands and began to moan.
She went to him. "John," she whispered his name liked a prayer. "John, look at me."
He shook his head. She pulled his face out of his hands and searched his eyes. "John, it's all right. It's all right." She released his face and took his hands. She pulled him into the living room and back to the sofa. She pressed his shoulders down and then sat next to him. He was crying now. She pulled him into her arms and held him as he had held her earlier.
"It's all right," she repeated. She stroked his hair and held him tightly against her. After a time his moans decreased and he raised his eyes. His handsome face was streaked with tears. "For tonight, I am her," she murmured. "Tell me all the things you need to tell her. Show me all the love you felt for her."
He captured her face with his hands and began to kiss her. His lips pressed to hers, his arms went around her body and held her close.
He poured everything into that kiss. All his love, his pain, his need. He clung to the woman in desperation, his mouth now hard against hers, his emotions in turmoil. He kept his eyes tightly closed. Although he knew it wasn’t Caro, somehow his drunken haze made it all right.
Frances let herself drown in his need. His kiss was passionate, tender, hungry, and full of a yearning love. His arms held her as if he would never let go. She could feel his grief for the woman he had loved, feel the emptiness inside him her dying had left. She couldn't help but respond to his emotional need and his physical desire.
They kissed for a long time, the power of illusion and emotion transcending the reality. John was moaning and his hands were caressing her breasts through the peach colored dressing gown she wore. His touch was gentle, rough, and very erotic. She pulled her mouth from his and moaned his name.
She lay her head on his shoulder as his hands continued to move over her body. She felt his mouth on the side of her neck and then she began to trace the muscles in his arms. His body was like a furnace. His skin hot to the touch, his muscles so firm and hard. She began to lose herself in the feel of him.
He raised his head and studied her. She looked back at him. His eyes were still unfocused, though open and his breathing was rapid. She rose from the sofa and pulled him into the bedroom.
While the rest of her house was very old maidish, her bedroom was not. The queen size canopy bed had a frilly duvet, which was turned down. The room was the very essence of femininity.
As they reached the edge of the bed, John paused, his eyes focused on the bed and her, and he began to tremble. Frances put her arms around his waist and pulled him tight against her. She breathed in his ear, "Make love to me, John."
He moaned and slipped his arms around her. Then he buried his face in her thick black hair. He felt soft lips on his neck and nails running up and down his spine. "I miss you so," he mumbled. "I never told you how much I needed you. How much you changed my life. You were everything to me."
Frances ached for him. Her heart broke at the loss in his voice. The depth of his despair was like the ocean, deep and never-ending. She stroked his hair and held him. She could feel his body against her, hot, hard and aroused.
John kissed her ear. "I love you so much. You’re leaving me is wrong. I need you."
"I didn’t want to leave you," she whispered back. "But it was time."
"It’s not fair," he moaned. "We had so little time together. You promised you would love me forever."
"And I will," she murmured.
He bent his head, shut his eyes, and began to gently kiss her again.
Soon the tenor of the kiss changed. Desperation replaced gentleness, need replaced grief and desire replaced pain. John's hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, and arousing her in a way she hadn't felt in years.
She helped him undress as he pulled off her dressing gown and they moved on to the bed.
Frances lay on her back as John hovered above her. She studied him for a long moment. His eyes were dark with desire, but she wasn’t sure who they were seeing. Then he closed his eyes again and moved on top of her. His large hands caressed her breasts and rubbed the nipples into hardness as his mouth moved along her throat.
As John made love to Frances, she knew she was simply the receiving vessel of his passion for Caro. She moaned as his soft lips moved down the hollow between her breasts then she felt his warm breath on her nipple. He took it into his mouth, began to suck and then she felt gentle fingers at her nether lips. He continued to suckle, rubbing his goatee along the areola as he began to move his fingers within her. She arched up and felt an orgasm overwhelm her.
She ran her hands down his body, found his erection, and began to caress him. He moaned and released her nipple. He removed his fingers and allowed her to guide him inside her warmth. He filled her impossibly full with one stroke. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down against her, feeling his hard chest crush her to the bed.
She buried her face in his neck as she felt him begin to thrust rhythmically. "I love you," she heard him say as he glided in and out of her. "Don’t leave me."
She felt tears well in her eyes. She wanted so much to take his pain away, to ease the hurt in his soul. She mourned for him and with him as his body covered hers, as his hard organ moved within her. He stroked her slowly, for what seemed like an eternity, as he let all the pent-up emotions out of their cage. She held him tightly as he moaned out his love and his ache. She stroked his hair and her body moved with his, aroused by his touch and his soul.
He began to speed his movements, his need for release now paramount. She felt her own body move to that precipice with him, to an exquisite place of pleasure. She moaned his name as she went over the cliff.
He groaned, climaxed, and his eyes popped open. His body shuddered once and then he focused on her face. His eyes opened wide and he exclaimed, "Frances?"
She gripped him more tightly. "John, it’s all right."
He pulled away from her, his expression one of revulsion and rolled off. He put his face in his hands and began to moan, "What have I done? What have I done?"
She sat up and yelled, "Stop it! Just stop it."
He had never heard her raise her voice before. That got his attention. He looked at her.
"John, you didn’t force me, if that’s what you’re worried about."
He stared at her. Her eyes were very bright and filled with unshed tears. "You were crying," he muttered.
"Yes," she replied gently. "But not because you hurt me. That’s not why I was crying."
"I didn’t . . ."
She moved to him and touched his face gently. "You were saying goodbye," she whispered.
"Saying goodbye?" he echoed. "Frances, I never meant . . . I think I’m going to be sick." He twisted away from her and ran to the loo.
She could hear the sound of his retching through the open door. She knew the revulsion wasn’t at her or the act. Knew it wasn’t because they had been together. It was at himself and what he thought he had done to her.
She sat up in bed and waited. She heard the flush of the loo and then water running for the longest time. When he finally returned he looked almost sober. She studied him as he stood there; he had a helpless expression on his face. "John," she gestured, "come here."
His eyes refused to meet hers; instead, he began picking up his clothes. She got out of bed and went to stand in front of him. She touched his face, then pulled it up to see his eyes. Those eyes were ashamed and guilty she could see that.
"Thank you," she murmured softly.
Now surprise and confusion moved into his eyes. "What?"
"Thank you for sharing your love with me. Your Caro was a lucky woman to be so loved. I'm sure she knew it. And I’m sure wherever she is now, she misses you as much as you miss her."
"I . . . Frances," he mumbled helplessly.
She put her arms around him. "John, I know what happened here. I know it wasn’t me you were making love to. Don’t be embarrassed or ashamed. I’m not. You have given me a lovely gift."
"A gift?"
"Yes, you let me feel your love for her and let me give you a last gift of love from her. What you shared with her was special and very beautiful."
He raised his face and gazed into her eyes. What he saw there surprised him. He expected anger, hurt, and dismay. Instead, Frances was looking at him with the same calm serenity she always did. She was still Frances. He touched her face. "I don’t know what to say."
"You don’t have to say anything," she murmured.
"I feel stupid," he muttered, "and embarrassed all the same. How could I . . . I’m so sorry."
"You were better off with nothing to say," she retorted. "John, you didn’t force me. I was not a virgin and maybe you didn’t notice, but I enjoyed myself."
Now his face flushed and he seemed to realize they were both naked. He took a step back, away from her.
She eyed him speculatively and then shrugged. She turned, picked up her dressing gown, and put it on. Then she turned back. He was still standing there, his clothes in his hands, barely hiding what was clearly the beginning of another erection. "John," she said softly, "you don’t have to go."
He shook his head and began to get dressed. Frances stood there for another moment watching him and then left the bedroom. She was sitting in her chair when he came out. "I’m sorry," he apologized again.
She stared at him. The guilt was all over him, like a palpable presence. She could see it in the set of his mouth and in his eyes. "Nothing to be sorry for. John, whatever you might think, I could have stopped you at any time. I didn’t want to stop you. Further I think somewhere inside you you know that."
He knew she was right. Knew however unconscious the desire, he had wanted to make love to Frances. Still he felt as if he was being everything Willy had accused him of. As if he was being disloyal to Caro. He had no idea how to explain himself to her and he was afraid to try. Frances had a habit of seeing right through him.
As if she read his mind, she said, "Don’t worry about it, John. We’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll never speak of it again. All the same, I want you to know I am NOT sorry that it happened. Not sorry at all."
He sucked in his breath and walked over to her. He sat down on the ottoman at her feet and took her hands in his. He studied her green eyes as if he could find answers there. She met his gaze and smiled at him. "Frances, I don’t know what to think about any of this. What happened here, how it could change things. I don’t want things to change, at least, not things with you."
"Yes, I know, John. You were drunk and I took advantage of you."
He gave her a weak smile. "I’m twice your size and a lot stronger. I don't know what I was thinking."
"You think way too much," she muttered. "And you analyze everything way too much too. Can’t something just be? John, after you leave here, it will be as if this never was. Things will be the same as they were before. Stop worrying about it, you’d be a lot better off if you could just accept life, instead of always trying to change it. Some things just are."
"Well, you certainly are you," he stated. "I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you."
"And it’s unlikely you will again. Go home, John. Forget about this. And tomorrow you can come back and help me figure out what if anything we can do about finding the truth about my father."
In the emotional turmoil of the past few hours, he’d forgotten all about her father. "I’m sorry," he began, when she raised a hand to stop him.
"No more apologies. I’m sick of your apologies. You’re a very nice man who thinks too much. Then you make yourself sick thinking about all the things you've done wrong. If nothing else, I’ve said to you tonight makes any sense or sticks in that thick head of yours, maybe this will. You are entitled to live, to feel, to even someday love again all without guilt. Because guilt is a completely wasted emotion. Now go."
He heard her words and it was as if a light bulb went off in his head. Suddenly he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. He looked up at her beautiful green eyes and asked, "Do I really have to go?"
She studied his eyes for a long moment; he was looking at her in a way she never thought she would ever see again. Certainly not on this side of forty. It was exhilarating and this time, it was for her. She shook her head and opened her arms.