Phoenix Heart (33 page)

I looked down at the floor and shook my head. I took a deep
breath. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible for us. I’m just sorry it’s put you
to so much trouble.”

“Now that’s the least of your worries.” The look of sweet
understanding on his cherubic face brought me right to the edge of losing it
again. He stepped forward and took my hand and cupped it between his. “Now,
honey, don’t do that.”

I smiled and began to pull away. “I’ll just go straighten
things up.”

He patted my hand and let me go. “All right. But do stop by
to say good-bye before you leave.”

I nodded and turned quickly and nearly ran to the apartment
door. I rested my hand on the knob, then took a deep breath and stepped inside.

A cross-hatched pattern of morning sunlight lay across the
hardwood floor of the living room and up over the brick fireplace. Out through
the French doors, the leaves of the elephant ear palm bobbed gently in a light
breeze. Tiny grey-green needles shed from the mimosa tree covered the patio
table in a misty coat of green. Pink and red petals from the geraniums Andrew
had plucked and arranged in the cut-off plastic soda bottle lay scattered
across the grey-green. The white Persian from next door slept in the warm
sunshine, curled on the burnt orange cushion of the chair Andrew had sat in.

At the thought of him, the pain tightened my throat, but
something else happened at the same time. Feelings and memories of the last few
days started to coalesce in my mind and formed one thought: I did this.

I stood up to seriously bad guys. I got Andrew out of the
airport, out of the hotel, found an apartment, nursed him, and helped find the
evidence to clear his name and mine. I did this. I had been smart, brave, and
resourceful. And, regardless of the outcome, Andrew Richards had been attracted
to me. I knew that. That wasn’t a fluke.

A shiver went through me as the truth settled in and I
wanted to cry and laugh at the same time, a very strange feeling. Maybe, just
maybe, my parents had truly been idiots (and much worse). Logically, I’d known
that for years; but standing looking through the apartment to the garden was
the first time that I knew it in my heart as well as my brain. Feeling washed
through me, and while I still felt the loss of the possibilities with Andrew,
for the first time in my life I knew that I could find love. It would never be
easy, it would never be like one of my fantasies, but I could and would find
it.

In “Steel Magnolias,” one of the characters mentions that
her favorite emotion is laughter through tears. I completely and utterly agree.
I stood in the hall smiling as the tears rolled down my cheeks and felt the
potential opening within me. Amazing, wonderful, forever to be remembered.

I pulled a tissue from my coat pocket, blew my nose, turned
right, and headed for the kitchen. The lovely sunlight also came through the
kitchen window, warming the yellow tile counter and lying across the stove and
oven. I walked around the room, running my hand across the brick mantle of the
fireplace, then down across the counter to the place where I had laid the
newspaper and set the groceries I looked down at the bucket on the floor, still
sitting near the fridge where Andrew had dropped it.

And I still felt the joy, but I also felt the pain of loss,
and it was okay because loss is the risk you take when you decide to open
yourself to love.

I opened the refrigerator and took out the last of the eggs,
the carton of milk and the two oranges and an apple out of the vegetable bin
and put them in a paper bag. I left the paper plates, the cheap skillet and
sauce pan, and the other things I’d bought that could be used by the next
tenant. A quick wipe with the sponge took the dust from the counters. The floor
wasn’t dirty. We hadn’t been there long enough to get it dirty. I left the
kitchen, deposited the bag of groceries near the door and walked resolutely to
the bedroom.

The mattress was where it had been, the sheet and blanket
pulled up over it. Before we had left, I had spread my skirt and sweater out
again to dry, and they still lay on the carpet near the patio doors. My make-up
lay on the floor, still wrapped in the t-shirt. The newspaper with Andrew’s
picture and mine lay near the bed where we’d left it.

I folded the blankets and sheets and stacked them with the
pillows on the foot of the mattress. Next was the patio, a quick check around
to make sure we had left no debris. As I swung open the French doors, the white
Persian lifted his head and turned to look at me, but he didn’t move from the
chair.

“You lazy bum,” I whispered and walked over and gave his
head a scratch. He moved his head under my hand, trying to take full advantage
of the opportunity to get as much scratching as possible. He began to purr
loudly and I smiled. “I’m not spending my life here scratching you, you lazy
thing.” I gave him one more quick pat and walked back in the apartment and
closed and latched the doors behind me.

I walked into the bathroom, scanned the counters, turned
toward the shower and stopped dead. Andrew’s torn white silk shirt hung over
the curtain rod. It was clean, but the white was dulled by the wash in water
and a tinge of blood. I slowly pulled it down and fingered where the bullet had
gone through.

In an instant I was back in the hotel room, scared out of my
mind, Andrew kneeling before me, bleeding, gasping in pain, needing me. I had
grabbed at the ragged hole through the shirt and ripped the material.

“Owww,” he’d said.

I had jumped. “Oh, God!” I had said. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yeah. That was my favorite shirt,” he had said weakly,
trying to grin, as much pain as he was in, trying to make me smile.

I brought the shirt up, twisting it in my hands and buried
my face in it. It smelled of soap and still, very faintly of Andrew.

Yes, I knew that love would come to me, but I also knew that
it had already come and the loss of that love burned.

A sob welled up. “Andrew,” I whispered. “Andrew.”

The front door of the apartment crashed open. I spun around,
the shirt clutched in my hands.

“Melanie!”

A shudder went through me. I stepped to the door.

“Melanie,” he cried. I heard his footsteps coming up the
hall then he ran in the room and stopped when he saw me. “Melanie,” he
breathed.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

His long hair fell over his face but it couldn’t hide the
bruise on the right side. It was black, purple and yellow. His eye was swollen,
his lip puffy. It didn’t look like he had slept. He hung on to the doorframe
with one hand, staring over at me, breathing fast. “Where have you been?”

I just stood and stared.

He took a step into the room, then another, and stopped. “I
called the hotel over and over and rang your room and there was no answer then
I called this morning and they said someone had picked up your luggage.”

“I’m…” I swallowed. “I’m going home. My flight leaves at
2:30.”

“Going home? Why? You have until Sunday.” He was still
breathing hard and he had trouble getting the words out.

“And this has been such a great holiday, right?”

I turned my back on him and walked over to where my clothes
lay in the sunshine. I knelt down and picked up my sweater. “I’m tired,” I
said. I unwrapped his shirt from around my bandaged hand and dropped it in
front of me and started folding the sweater carefully. It was awkward, but I
managed.

“I was worried about you,” he said.

I smoothed the sweater carefully, and then reached for the
skirt. “There was no need.” I folded the skirt and put it on top of the
sweater.

“No need? I wake up in the hospital, I can’t find you, you’re
not at the hotel?”

I picked up the clothing, my bandaged hand hidden
underneath, and stood. I balanced the load and carefully walked over to pick up
my purse. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. But I woke up and you weren’t there.” He
cleared his throat. “I’ve been trying to find you.”

“There was no need,” I repeated.

“What do you mean no need?”

“You had already thanked me. You didn’t have to do it again.”

“You think that’s all I wanted?” he shouted, his voice
suddenly rising from strained calm to flaming anger. “Damn it Melanie! Look at
me!”

My head jerked around and my eyes met his. Though bruised,
his right eye was no longer swollen shut. The sunlight shining in on the carpet
reflected up and lit his eyes; I could see the green and gold clearly.

“Why didn’t you come to the hospital?” he asked.

“I didn’t need to,” I said calmly. “Melinda Brannan was
there.”

“You did come,” he breathed.

I looked away. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you come in and see me?”

“You were busy with the press.”

“Couldn’t you wait until they left?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I was tired. I had a life to get back to.”

“You could have left me a note, some kind of word.”

I looked at him. “Why, Andrew?”

He looked surprised. “What do you mean why?”

“I mean why? Why did you want to find me? Why does it matter
where I was? Your ‘official fiancée’ was there.”

He looked away. “You’re my friend. I wanted to make sure you
were okay.”

I swallowed and nodded. “I am okay.”

“Good.”

We stared at each other for a long minute. It was I who
finally broke the silence. “Look, Andrew. I’ve got to finish cleaning up and
go. I talked to the landlord and settled everything and I’ve got to get to the
airport. Mr. Kent will be picking me up in about ten minutes.”

“Settled?” His eyes widened. “Good Lord, Melanie. I didn’t
even think. You paid for all of this.” He reached for his wallet. “How much was
it?”

“Forget it.” I grabbed the t-shirt with my make-up and set it
on the other clothing I held. I scanned the room to see if I had forgotten
anything.

“No, I won’t,” he said and shook his head. I watched the
long, red-gold hair hanging over his forehead shift in the light. I blinked and
looked down at my clothes. “You can’t afford this. How much was it?”

I headed for the door. “I said, forget it. I don’t want your
money.”

“No, damn it!” He reached out and grabbed my arm. I had
hidden the bandage under the clothing I carried, and it was that wrist that he
grabbed. I winced and dropped the clothing on the floor. He looked down at my
hand swathed in white, then to my face. “My god, Melanie,” he breathed, “what
happened to your hand?”

I pulled my wrist from his grasp and knelt down on the floor
to pick up my clothes. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing. What happened?”

I sat on my heels and stared at the pink sweater lying on
top of the heap. “When I was running down the stairs, one of the bullets hit
the banister near my hand. The splinters of wood cut it. That’s all.”

“That’s all. That’s all.” Andrew turned and walked away from
me, then turned back and stared at me kneeling on the floor, the clothes piled
in front of me. There was a long silence, and then he suddenly sat down
cross-legged on the floor as if the strength had suddenly just blown out of
him.

“You can’t know,” he said softly after a long silence. “You
can’t know what it was like to be sitting on the floor in that lab, and see
that gun rising up and pointing at me, and then to hear your shout, calling him
a son-of-a-bitch, daring him to come after you. And I watched that gun move
away from me and go after you.”

I looked over at Andrew. He stared down at his hands. “And I
couldn’t do anything. I knew that even if I could get past J.P., that I didn’t
have the strength to help you, and you were going to die trying to save me.” I
saw a tear trickle down his cheek and land on the back of his hand and I felt
such a wrenching, such a tearing pain that I had to get away, had to get out.

I snatched up the clothes and headed for the door.

“Melanie.”

I shook my head and kept walking.

“Melanie.”

I stopped.

There was a long silence, then his voice, low and harsh. “Why
did you leave me, Melanie? Why did you leave me there alone?”

“You weren’t alone,” I whispered. “Caren was there.”

“Caren.”

I walked through the doorway.

“Don’t go, please.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said lightly, my voice tightly
controlled. “It’s no longer the second Friday of the month. It’s now the third
Thursday. I discover the meaning of life every third Thursday.” I took a step
toward the front door.

“Damn it, Melanie. No! I won’t let you!” I heard him come up
behind me.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do this to me, Andrew.”

“What?” he whispered. His voice was just behind my left
shoulder. I felt the tickle of his breath on my ear.

I hugged my clothes to me, pressing in, trying to stop the
pain and the anger. “I won’t stand by, being your ‘friend,’ watching you with
Caren, marrying her.”

“I’m not going to marry her.”

I heard the birds out back, the faint rumble of traffic out
front, the blood pounding in my ears as my heart hammered in my throat. “What?”
I whispered.

“I’m not going to marry her. I only said that at the
hospital so as not to embarrass her. She’ll announce in a couple of days that
she’s broken off the engagement.”

I pressed harder on the clothes. My breathing was quick and
shallow, my heart beating so quickly I felt dizzy.

“Turn around,” Andrew whispered.

I shook my head.

He took hold of my arm. “Turn around,” he said.

I hugged my purse and clothes, making them a shield. I
turned slowly. Andrew reached out and took hold of my chin and tilted my face
up until my eyes met his. Harmonic, trembling, burning, healing. He began to
smile. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay with
me.” His hand came up to cup my cheek. “I don’t love Caren,” he whispered. “I
think now that I was going to marry her because I didn’t. I couldn’t risk
loving someone and losing them. I loved someone--Beth--I loved Beth and lost her,
and I loved you so much that it scared the living daylights out of me.”