Marriage, Interrupted

Which would make this not exactly a venture into new territory.

By midafternoon, the crowd had begun to thin, as more and more people slipped out the front door and back into the stream of their normal lives. The funeral, the burial, 1001 nameless condolence givers had all—mercifully, Cass decided—become an indistinct blur.

Except for Blake.

She sat on one of the sofas in the living room, Lucille next to her, close enough for the older woman to occasionally squeeze Cass’s hand. That is, when she wasn’t talking off the ear of whoever came over to offer his or her sympathy. Cass didn’t know ninety percent of these people, a fact that made it much easier to keep her emotional cool.

Except about Blake.

His nearness, both through the services and now, back at the house, tormented her no less than the too-hot-for-March noonday sun that had seared her skin through her black silk maternity dress. Had she been deluding herself these past dozen years? Cass really had believed she’d broken Blake’s almost mesmeric hold on her heart, her mind. Her soul. But the truth was, she now realized with a mixture of embarrassment and horror, the attachment had never truly been severed. Like stretching a rubber band thin enough to give the illusion of separation, if you increase the tension even a little too far—twannnng! Right back where you started.

Like now. Her mental and emotional resources stretched to the max, all it took was Blake Carter’s reappearance in her life, and…twannnng!

And, boy oh boy, did it smart.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said yet another pleasant-looking middle-aged stranger, grasping Cass’s hand. Cass gave the woman a brave little smile and murmured her thanks, wondering which one of them was more relieved at having gotten through the requisite contact. That done, now whoever-she-was could scarf down the catered hors d’oeuvres with a clear conscience, while Cass could return to obsessing about her ex with anything but.

All she knew was this absurd attraction was inappropriate at best and sheer, stark-raving, just-lock-me-up-now-and-throw-away-the-key idiocy at worst. All she knew was, whatever was going on in her head had to stay there, where no one could see, or know how seriously flawed she was. All she knew was, she was a brand-new widow, almost seven months pregnant with her second husband’s child, but she would have spilled state secrets to feel her first husband’s arms around her. So damn Blake Carter for reappearing in her life to remind her of what she’d lost, of what she’d missed, of what she would never have again. Not with him, at least. And judging from her abysmal track record thus far, not with anybody else, either.

Speak of the devil. Cass glanced up to catch Blake approaching her, his brows dipped in an undecided expression somewhere between pity and confusion. His nearly black hair was still too long, she noticed, the threads of silver at his temples the only thing making him look any older than when they’d been married. She knotted her hands together at the memory of gliding her fingers through those thick waves when they—

The tiny moan just sort of slipped out. Yet someone else she didn’t know gave her a funny look. “The baby kicked,” she said with a shaky smile.

The woman smiled back and returned to her conversation while Cass went back to studying the only man who’d ever rocked her world. In rapid, profound and heart-stopping succession.

Okay, she really had to stop this.

Mercedes Zamora, one of her business partners, had snagged him with a tray of something or other. Blake politely took one, obviously trying to extricate himself from Mercy’s rapid-fire monologue. Thank God for small favors, Cass thought, trying to shift her weight on the sofa. Maybe by the time he made it over here, her heart rate would be back to normal.

Right. Now she noticed the fine webbing at the corners of his eyes, which made him look more distinguished, as did the creases bracketing a mouth she remembered with a clarity vivid enough to make her squirm in her seat. And not because of the baby, either.

Having escaped Mercy’s clutches, Blake was back on course toward Cass…and the fantasies vaporized in the heat of those hound-dog eyes, eyes that seemed to plead with her to explain what had happened between them. On the surface, the answer seemed simple enough—that he’d broken one too many promises for her to ever be able to trust him again. But in truth, the answer was anything but simple. God knows, she would have given anything to untangle the myriad reasons why their marriage had sizzled, then fizzled, at least enough to lay them out in order of importance. But the more she tried to sort out the jumble of disappointment and heartache left in the wake of their divorce, the less she understood. Two things, however, she was absolutely sure of: She could never forgive him for virtually abandoning their child, and she could never forgive herself for still, after all this time, wanting him so much.

Even now, as he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her—since, after loudly announcing she had to pee like a racehorse, Lucille had abandoned her—where she sat staring at a plate full of food she couldn’t get past her throat if she tried, she still yearned to feel his touch, to hear his soothing voice when he’d kid her out of a bad mood or comfort her when she was legitimately upset. For so long, he’d been her best—and often, her only—friend. That their marriage had destroyed their friendship hurt almost more than anything else.

“How’re you holding up?” she heard at her elbow.

She shrugged, shook her head. Refused to look at him, to react to that soft, Oklahoma-tinged voice that had always turned her insides to warmed honey.

There had to be a logical reason for this. Hormones. Exhaustion. Misdirected grief.

Insanity.

Yes, let’s go with that, shall we?

Blake seemed to hesitate, then cautiously took her hand in his, sending trickles of warmth to places she’d just as soon forget existed. Yep, she was seriously messed up, all right. As if to compensate, a shiver slalomed down her spine.

“You’re freezing,” he said, his brows taking a dive. “Here…” He pulled an ivory wool throw off the back of the sofa, tried to spread it over her lap. But she pushed it away, as if accepting his ministrations somehow indicted her.

“It’s just my hands,” she insisted. “I’m not cold. Really.”

“But you have been under a helluva lot of stress, ho—” She watched as he swallowed back the endearment. “Maybe you should go lie down.”

“I will. Soon,” she promised before he launched into his Poppa Hen routine, before she remembered far more than she wanted to. Before she forgot the one thing she most needed to remember. Finally she met his gaze, only to immediately wish she hadn’t. “I’ll rest in a bit. I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

His expression was unreadable. “I understand.”

But he didn’t, of course, since she barely understood herself. She didn’t want to be alone, to think about her situation, to worry about how she was going to get through this mess, to wonder why Blake’s presence was so thoroughly discombobulating her, especially after all this time. Especially today.

She hadn’t noticed when he’d risen. He now stood in front of her, his hands slouched in his pockets as usual, although the navy jacket and tie were anything but. However, unlike her son, who looked about as natural in his get-up as he might have wearing chicken feathers, Blake seemed right at home. But then, she supposed these days he wore suits, even formalwear, pretty regularly. After all, Blake Carter was a millionaire now, an entrepreneur who’d beaten the odds and rocketed to the top of his industry. Idly, Cass wondered if money and success had changed him.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll get back to the hotel—”

“Like hell you will,” Lucille squawked right behind Cass, making her jolt. The woman had a habit of popping up, prairie-dog fashion, at remarkably inconvenient moments. She sidestepped the arm of the sofa to snag Blake’s forearm in red talons. “With six bedrooms, you should stay at some hotel?” She vigorously shook her head, the rhinestone earrings flashing like a blitz of paparazzi flashbulbs. “Forget it.”

“Cille, really, I don’t think that’s such a good idea—” Cass put in, but Lucille had pressed her crimson lips together in her you-can-talk-but-I-won’t-hear expression.

“The man should be with his son. And the son should be with his mother. So maybe this isn’t the most ideal situation in the world, but since when does life play along? Besides, sweetheart…” She nailed Cass with her green gaze. “I know you wouldn’t push my buttons at a time like this.” Tarantula lashes swallowed up her eyes as she squinted. “Would you?”

“I believe this is called emotional blackmail, Cille.”

“Whatever works. Besides, Blake would be happy to stay.” The tarantulas veered in his direction. “Right?”

After a moment—a very long moment—Blake replied, “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Listen to him. Like it would be trouble to put up my stepgrandson’s father. Besides, have you looked in the kitchen recently? There’s enough food to feed Yonkers in there. All these people on these weird diets…nobody eats real food anymore. Towanda’s been kvetching for the last half hour about how the hell is she going to stuff it all in the Fridgedaire. We won’t have to cook for a week.”

“This has got to be a bad dream,” Cass muttered, but Lucille pretended not to hear her.

“This is no time for Cassie and me to be sitting around, depressing each other. So, for a few days, you’ll stay. Be a father to your son. Regale us with stories about the ice cream business. Keep our spirits out of the toilet.”

Apparently convinced the matter was settled, Lucille left to see out the last of the guests, except for one set of distant cousins, who seemed to have bonded with the buffet. And Mercy was still here, too, having a set-to with Towanda, if the raised voices coming from the kitchen were any indication. Suddenly, the argument stopped—which led Cass to wonder whether the two women had come to terms or killed each other—leaving the house ominously quiet.

Blake hesitated before asking, “Is this okay with you?”

“Oh, right. As if I have any say in the matter.”

His mouth tilted. “I’m not afraid of an old lady.”

“Yeah, well, I am. And if you had any sense, you would be, too.”

“Nope, sorry. Although Towanda’s another story entirely.”

Cass glanced away before she was tempted to smile. “In any case, please don’t feel obligated to stay if you don’t want to.”

“Actually…I wouldn’t mind hanging out more with Shaun. While I’m here.”

“I’m…sure he’d like that.”