Her Immortal Love (18 page)

“No, my darling, it's all right. I forgive you. Please don't cry.” His voice was so warm, so gentle, so full of love.

Lydia's heart trip hammered in her chest and the blood beat so fiercely in her veins she feared she would faint.

“Yes, darling,” he said softly. “I know, love. I miss you too.”

Tears stung Lydia’s eyes and she wanted to run howling through the streets like a mad dog.

“No. That’s not true. I do love you. I've always loved you.” He paused for a long moment. “Yes, I will love you forever.”

She pressed her fist to her mouth. She stifled back a moan as the bile rose in her throat.

“The Saint Antimo Abbey?” She saw him nod. “Yes. I remember. We had a wonderful time there. Tuscany. The villa in Montaclino. It was all very beautiful. Just as you were.”

The doorjamb was the only thing that was keeping Lydia on her feet. She leaned against it, hoping, praying she was dreaming, that she'd wake up and Tristan would be lying next to her, his arms around her, his lips warm and soft on her neck instead of him sitting on her couch, in her home, whispering endearments over the phone into his lover's ear.

She moaned. She could feel the marks on her body where he had bit her breasts and squeezed her hips as his cock had surged inside her.

She could still smell him on her!

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “Yes, love, I promise.” He paused but when he spoke again his voice was as heavy with pain as it was soft with love. “Wait for me, love. I'm on my way. Wait for me.”

He thumbed off the cell phone. His silhouette was a darker shadow against the gloom of the living room. He bowed his head, his shoulders slumped. After a long moment, he lifted his head and rose from the couch. As he turned towards the bedroom he saw her.

Lydia couldn't see his face but she sensed his shock.

“Lydia,” he said. “What are you doing there?”

Her throat constricted as she struggled to form the words that rolled about her chest like hot rocks.

“I live here,” she said simply, wearily.

He moved towards her, but she noted that his movements were wary and hesitant as if he was trying not to scare her. He was naked and, despite it all, she could not help but notice how beautiful his tall, muscular body was.

When he drew close enough to touch her, she quickly stepped away from him, her arms shielding her body. She could see his face now. His gorgeous, beloved face. Her hands slowly curled about her arms, her fingers throbbing. She wanted so much to scratch out his beautiful eyes, scrape her nails down his handsome face. Hurt him as much as he had hurt her. Instead, she hugged herself harder, as much to comfort herself as to keep from striking out at him.

“Leave,” she said, her voice low and cold.

He made as if to touch her. “Lydia, what—”

She shook her head and took another step back. “Don’t touch me. Just go. Go and never come back.”

His eyes darkened, but with sorrow not with anger. “You heard.”

Her throat tightened until the pain was unbearable. She willed herself not to cry. She had cried in front of Douglas when he finally confessed to his affair with Tiffany. She would not cry in front of Tristan.

“I heard.”

“Please, sweet—”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”

He stared at her, his throat working. “Lydia, please. If you would just—”

“Just what? Trust you?”

He nodded. “Yes, trust me.”

“Oh, God, you’re unbelievable. I did, Tristan. I trusted you. And this is how you repay my trust.”

“I know what this must look like. And I’m sorry. I would never have done this to you but—” He raked his hands through his hair. “It’s just not the—”

“What? Time?” Lydia laughed but her laughter hinged on panic. “But it’s the perfect time. The perfect time to finally tell me the truth. Don’t I at least deserve that?”

Her voice had risen until it was almost a howl. She quickly took in and released a deep breath. No, she would not make a scene. She would not give him the satisfaction of a scene.

“Yes, Lydia, you do deserve the truth. But there are things I need to explain to you. Want to explain to you. It’s just that right now it’s—”

“Complicated,” she finished for him. “Yes, you told me that last night. No, Tristan, there's nothing to explain.”

“Lydia, please—”

“I don't want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any of it.” She rubbed her forehead. It was pounding. She suddenly felt weak, as if all the life had seeped out of her and she was nothing but an empty shell. “I'm tired. I just want to sleep. Please, just get your clothes and go.”

“I don't want to go, Lydia. I don't want to lose you.”

“But you have to go, Tristan. I heard you. She’s waiting for you. You told her you'd come right away. You asked her to wait. So go. Go to her.”

Tristan reached over and took hold of her arms.

“No, let go of me.” Lydia struggled to get away but he held her tight, his hands hard around her arms.

“Lydia, please, you have to listen.”

“No! I don't have to do anything. I'm not a child. I'm thirty-nine years old.” She looked up at him, her heart bursting. “Is that it? Is that what this is about? You couldn't deal with it any longer? My being older than you? So you found someone else. Someone younger.'

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it? Who is she? Can’t you at least tell me that?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Her name is Rosemary Pryor,” he finally said. “And she is…she was my wife.”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “Rosemary Pryor? Oh, God. Mother was right. She was absolutely right about you.”

She started laughing. A wild, out of control laughter that made her chest hurt. But it was the laughter of grief and now her sobs were also fused with that laughter and the sound was unlike anything she had ever made in her life.

She sounded like a mad woman.

“And all this time,” she went on, the weeping and the laughter swelling within her, “I thought Mother was just being cruel. That she didn’t want me to be with you because she wanted me to be alone and unloved. Like she is. But all this time she was right about you. She was right!”

Her tearful laughter was now a scream.

Tristan shook her. “Stop it, Lydia. What are you talking about?”

“Rosemary Pryor, of course. Who else?”

He frowned. “What do you know about her?”

“That she’s ninety-four years old, lives in a nursing home and suffers from dementia. But the part about her being your wife? That I didn’t know.”

“How do you know about her?”

“The detective. It wasn’t in his written report. But he told us. Me and Mother. He told us about her. About you. How you visit her every Sunday. And that you bring her calla lilies. “

Lydia shook her head, the tears dashing from her eyes. “Your wife. No, I’m sorry, your ex-wife. But of course. What else could she be? You’re twenty-five. She’s ninety-four. It makes perfect sense.” She laughed again but her laughter was hinging on hysteria.

“I know how it must sound. Yes, Rosemary was my wife. But it’s not what you think. She’s—”

Lydia pushed herself away from him. “No! I don’t want to hear any more of your damned lies. I just want you to go. I want you to go and never come back. Leave. Now. Or, I swear, I’ll call the police.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and went into the bedroom.

She stumbled into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. She went over to the cabinet and took out a tin of coffee. She made a pot, her movements slow, mechanical, automatic. She didn’t even know why she was making coffee. Then she realized it was something she always did after Tristan had spent the night. He had told her once he liked waking up to the smell of coffee. She heard him walking down the hall. He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. She kept her back to him as she stared at the coffee streaming into the glass carafe.

She waited for him to say something.

He didn’t.

She listened as he walked away, the front door opening then closing, the purring of his car’s engine, the sound of it moving away from her house and down the street.

When she could no longer hear his car, when she could no longer hear anything but the ticking of the kitchen clock, she finally collapsed in a sobbing heap onto the cold kitchen floor.

Chapter Twelve

Saffron bit into her croissant. “So. How long has it been?”

“Three weeks and two days,” Lydia answered dully.

Saffron raised an eyebrow as she brushed the crumbs from around her mouth. “Not counting, are we?”

Lydia sipped her coffee. She looked over at her kitchen window. It was a bleak, gray Sunday morning in December. She and Saffron were having brunch. Lydia had not wanted to have brunch. Not because she didn’t want to see her best friend. She just hadn’t felt like doing much of anything lately.

“And you haven’t heard from him?”

Lydia shrugged. “I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I guess he took me at my word. He’s good at that.”

Saffron frowned. “Good at what?”

“Giving me what I want.” Lydia’s voice choked and she took another sip of coffee to cover it.

But Saffron must have noted her distress. She placed her croissant onto her plate and took Lydia’s hand. “You did the wrong thing, hon. You know that, don’t you?”

Lydia's eyes widened. “The wrong thing?” She pointed at her chest. “
I
did the wrong thing?” Her voice rose until it was almost a sob. She stopped and swallowed.

“What about him?” she went on in a quieter tone. “He lied to me, Saff. He lied.”

Saffron waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. The detective's report. And this woman you heard him talking to on the phone.” She leaned over the table, her eyes narrowing. “But did you give him a chance? Did you really give him a real chance to explain?”

“There was nothing to explain. I heard him on the phone. Telling some ninety-eight year old woman he loved her. It’s obvious that he’s just what Mother said he was. Some kind of gigolo.”

Saffron let go of Lydia’s hand and leaned back against her chair. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Bullshit. I mean, come on, we looked him up on the internet. The detective was right. He’s rich. Why would he need to scam some old lady out of her retirement money? Plus this isn't about your mother. This is about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since you met Tristan, you've wanted some excuse not to be with him.”

“That's not true.”

“Oh, yes, it is.” Saffron held up her hand and counted off on her fingers. “One, because you never could see yourself with someone younger than you. Two, because you still feel self-conscious at how sexual you are with him.”

“What?”

Saffron flashed her a dry look. “Because we all know, of course, that only nasty, sinful women enjoy sex.” She went back to counting off on her fingers. “Three, deep inside you’re still that lonely, little girl who yearns for her mother's love and approval and it was driving you crazy doing something she obviously disapproved of.”

“Saff—”

“Shut up. I’m not done. Four, you refuse to get it through that thick skull of yours that you deserve to be as happy as anyone else. You were happy with him, weren't you?”

“Yes,” Lydia admitted. To Saffron and to herself. “I was happy with him. Very happy but—”

Saffron firmly shook her head. “Forget but. But don't matter.”

“It does, Saffron. It does matter.”

“Sorry, no. It don't. But is just a word people use to certify their fears.” Saffron took her hand again and squeezed it. “Give him another chance. Please. As much for his sake as for yours.”

“I can't. I won't. How can I…after…” Lydia shook her head as the tears stung her eyes.

Saffron’s face softened. “You miss him. You miss him so much it's eating you alive. Remember that night he took you on that carriage ride? Lord, have mercy, I've never seen a man look at a woman the way he looked at you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lydia said.

Saffron laughed. “Nothing ever is, hon, especially if it’s something worthwhile. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart. But I know Tristan loves you. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. And I seriously doubt you have any idea what it is you’re giving up by not giving him a chance to explain.”

Saffron was wrong. Tristan didn't love her. He'd never once said he loved her. He'd just given her that song and dance about being patient. Patient regarding what? She had no idea. And she still had no idea what he had wanted from her. Sex, she supposed. He had asked her to trust him. And she had. And he repaid her trust with lies and betrayal.

She slowly shook her head and withdrew her hand from Saffron's grasp.

Saffron sighed. “Well, you do what you think is best. It's your life.” She rose from her chair and picked up her keys. “But you're making a big mistake. Probably the biggest mistake of your life.” She leaned down and kissed Lydia’s cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Saffron frowned. “For what? For telling you what I think? Even though you’ve obviously chosen to ignore it?”

Lydia smiled sadly. “Yes, for that.”

Saffron patted her shoulder. “Hang in there, hon.”

“I’ll try.”

Saffron left. Lydia listened to the sound of her car starting and then moving off down the street.

And then, once again, she was alone.

* * * * *

A phone warbled.

Lydia, who had fallen asleep on the couch, groggily woke up. She snatched her cellphone from off the coffee table and looked at the screen. It was her mother. She placed the phone back on the table and let it ring. After the ringing stopped, she picked it up and saw that her mother had left a message. She played it.

“Lydia? Lydia? Are you there? Really, you know how much I hate not talking to a live person. You could at least be there when I call.”

Her mother paused as if expecting Lydia to answer. “Well, fine then. I'm calling to invite you to play bridge with me and the girls next weekend. Saturday at two. I'll expect you there.”

The message ended. She erased it. In her mind’s eye she saw herself sitting around a bridge table with her mother and the
girls.