The Saint

He crouched beside her. “Let me help.”

For a minute he thought she was going to refuse. For a minute, she thought so, too. He could read it in her eyes. But obviously even she could see how impossibly rude that would be. She blinked, brushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded.

“Thanks,” she said. She dumped a handful of little green florets into the bag and began scooping up some more.

It took several minutes, but finally they had it all, down to the last strand of green spaghetti. She went in first. She left the door open behind her, so he assumed she wouldn’t call the police if he followed her in.

It was a beautiful apartment. Had she just recently moved in? The living room had high ceilings and an elegant coffee-colored molding; a brand-new, thick, champagne-beige carpet; and almost no furniture. One chair with a throw blanket across its arm, one small coffee table and a bookcase with a stereo on top—that was it. No sofa, no lamp, no stack of unopened mail on the foyer table. No tail-wagging puppy, no roommate, no—

No anything.

“It’s a nice place,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

“A couple of years. Since I left Heyday.” She had gone straight to the kitchen. He heard the growling sound of the garbage disposal churning up broccoli—and discouraging any further conversation.

Two years? He stood in the doorway and looked around incredulously. She’d lived in this apartment for two years, and she had yet to hang a picture? She had never bought a television?

He moved through the big, hollow room and entered the kitchen. It looked a little more lived-in. The small breakfast bay had two chairs, and the table was covered in books and papers. He had heard she was still teaching. This must be where she created her lesson plans and did her grading.

He handed her his collection of ruined food and watched as she fed it to the disposal. “Thanks,” she said again. But she didn’t quite look at him. She didn’t quite meet his eyes.

When she was finished, she washed her hands carefully; dried them on a blue towel, which she refolded neatly on its bar; and then turned to him.

“So. You said you were hungry. I’m a terrible cook, but I have a few frozen dinners. Would you like me to heat one up for you?”

“That would be very nice,” he said. He wasn’t sure what had made her decide to let him stay. Maybe she was too tired to go on arguing with him. Maybe she’d decided it was easier to feed him and then send him on his way.

Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to change her mind. “How about if I set the table?”

She turned and smiled a little. “The table’s a terrible mess. Sometimes I eat in the living room. But there’s only one chair. I’m not exactly set up for entertaining.”

It almost took the years away, that smile. He felt something relax inside. Perhaps the real Claire was still alive inside that uptight iron maiden. He hoped so. He wasn’t sure why that mattered so much, but it did.

“No problem,” he said. “Just tell me where everything is, and I’ll improvise.”

She pointed out the cabinets and drawers that held all the flatware and dishes. Then she rummaged a minute in the freezer and emerged holding two red-and-white cartons.

“I’ve got vegetable lasagna and vegetable lasagna,” she said. She raised one eyebrow. “Your choice.”

He smiled. “Vegetable lasagna sounds good.”

They didn’t talk while she put the microwave through its paces. His instincts told him not to rush things. They were doing fine, especially considering how long it had been since they’d seen each other, and how hostile their parting had been. But the truce felt fragile, and he didn’t want to test it.

When both boxes were warmed up, she moved to the breakfast table and began stacking papers, preparing to move them to the kitchen counter.

“That’s okay,” he said, touching the pile of papers. He avoided connecting with her hand. “I’ve got us set up in here.”

She looked up with a quizzical expression. “Where?”

“Come see,” he said. He led the way to the living room. He’d put the plates and utensils on the coffee table, but he’d solved the seating problem a little more creatively. While she’d been putting away the few groceries that survived, he had taken the throw and spread it across the carpet like a picnic blanket.

He thought it looked kind of nice. The only light in the room came from three brass sconces at intervals along the cream-colored walls, so it wasn’t terribly well illuminated. But it had a pleasant, picnic-under-the-stars feeling, and he hoped she’d go for it.

She hesitated, holding a little plastic tray of vegetable lasagna in each hand. He could feel her internal debate—was this too cozy? Was he trying to get too close?

Finally she held the food out to him. “If I’m going to sit on the floor, I’d better put on something more comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

And she meant it. When she returned, just a couple of minutes later, she was wearing a yellow cotton sundress, and she had brushed some of the stiffness out of her hair. Now that it was swinging more naturally, and shining in the light from the sconces, he realized that her haircut was actually quite sexy.

In fact, she looked beautiful.

She paused at the stereo. She turned it on—maybe feeling that awkward silences would be more easily covered up if they had some background music. A classical station was playing Chopin, and she made a small face, probably judging it to be too much like “mood” music. She punched a couple of preset buttons and found an oldies station that was playing some nice, low-key rock and roll.

“That okay?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

He was already cross-legged on the floor, with his pseudo-food in front of him, and as she dropped down beside him, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was the same perfume she’d always worn. He smiled, strangely relieved. It was as if Claire, the real Claire, was materializing before his eyes.

They each took a bite of their lukewarm lasagna. God, it was awful.

She grimaced. “Maybe if we open a bottle of wine, that would take the edge off this stuff. Someone gave me one as a moving-in present. I’m pretty sure it’s still in there.”

Two years ago? If the lack of a dining-room table hadn’t told him she didn’t socialize much, the two-year-old bottle of wine would have.

“Great,” he said. He didn’t care about the food, but he was definitely in favor of anything that might take the edge off this stilted conversation.

“I’ll get it.” As she climbed to her feet and headed into the kitchen, he watched her go, pleased to see how soft and feminine her sleeveless dress was, pleased that she still wore yellow, which used to be her favorite color.

Strange that he should remember that. He wasn’t usually the least bit interested in women’s clothes. Through the years, many of his girlfriends had complained that he simply never noticed, no matter how much money they spent. So why on earth should Claire’s wardrobe matter?

Suddenly, he felt a flash of insight. And he finally realized why, in spite of every urging of his own better judgment, he had searched out Claire Strickland’s address tonight.

It was purely selfish, really. He needed to assure himself that, all things considered, she was doing okay. That Steve’s death had not destroyed her.

He needed to get at least that one small load of guilt off his breaking back.

Kieran didn’t know whose fault Steve’s death really was—not in any absolute moral, philosophical, religious sense, anyhow. In the eyes of the law, of course, it had been Steve’s own fault. He had been speeding.

But why was he speeding? Because he didn’t want to disappoint Kieran. Because Kieran had made it clear that commitment to their team was the most important thing in the world.

Maybe, as Claire had thrown in his face that night, Steve had died trying to live up to Kieran’s impossible expectations.

He couldn’t bring Steve back. But perhaps, if he could see that Claire’s life hadn’t been lost that morning, too, his conscience would let up a little.

He leaned back against the wall, swallowed another bite of cardboard lasagna and waited. Wine was exactly what they needed. Maybe after a couple of glasses he just might find out how deeply under this mound of grief and repression the real Claire Strickland was actually buried.

WHILE KIERAN RINSED the dishes, Claire rested her head against the wall and decided that she definitely shouldn’t have opened the wine.