The Saint

It wasn’t that she was drunk. She’d had only a couple of glasses, and, even as out of practice as she was, it would take more than that. No, the problem was that she had begun to feel relaxed. Somewhere during this weird picnic dinner, she had begun to enjoy herself, to enjoy Kieran’s company, to enjoy hearing about home and laughing at his stories.

When she reviewed how it had all started, out there on the porch, she wasn’t exactly sure how he had managed to insinuate himself into her apartment and turn the whole stilted evening into a living-room picnic, complete with music and liquor and laughter.

But that was Kieran McClintock for you. He was smooth like that. The woman didn’t exist who could tell him no when he wanted to hear yes. He was born charming, and he’d just gotten better at it as he got older.

Wait… That wasn’t quite right. She had put on the music, and she had unearthed the booze. Maybe she was putting the blame in the wrong place….

She’d done that before, hadn’t she? When she had told Kieran that he killed Steve…that hadn’t been completely true. Part of her still blamed him for his part in the accident—and always would. But part of her had finally accepted that there was plenty of blame to go around.

And that’s why opening the wine had been such a mistake. She owed him an apology, and it wasn’t going to be easy to say what she needed to say. It was two years overdue, and it was going to stick in her throat. Steve’s name always did.

And it was definitely going to spoil what had become a rather nice evening. She hadn’t had company in so long, she’d forgotten how pleasant it could be.

He came in from the kitchen now, holding an apple, a small knife and a paper plate. He sat down beside her, his back against the wall, too.

He hummed along with the old Beatles song on the radio. He never rushed into small talk. That was one of his most charming traits. He could let a silence rest easy in the room. Of course, when you were the gorgeous Kieran McClintock, beloved heir to the McClintock fortune, which included practically the entire town of Heyday, it probably wasn’t difficult to be relaxed and self-confident and let other people do the impressing.

“Kieran, there’s something I need to say,” she began.

He turned his head and smiled at her. “Okay,” he said.

Up close, even by this dim light, she was struck by how blue his eyes were. And how gorgeous. God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. When she’d first left Heyday, she’d drawn horns and evil, arched eyebrows on her mental image of him. Even after she admitted, much later, that he might not be the devil, her memory had been distorted.

Most of all, she’d forgotten his amazing charisma. She’d forgotten that he radiated power and masculinity and charm like a light. That was, of course, why teenage boys, fifteen-year-old girls, spinsters and old men and puppies followed him anywhere. The only people she’d ever met who didn’t like Kieran were the men whose girlfriends openly lusted after him.

Suddenly the wine seemed to rise straight to her brain. And, as the warmth from his shoulder pressed into hers, she felt the edgy fingers of sexual tension feather at her spine.

Oh, God. She should have known this would happen.

When she didn’t speak, he smiled easily and held out the apple he had been peeling.

“Want dessert? I washed it. It doesn’t seem too banged up, though it did do a Slinky down two flights of stairs.”

“Sure,” she said, though she knew she was just stalling. She didn’t want to talk about Steve, not tonight, not to Kieran. She felt all mixed up inside. It was nerve-wracking to hang here like this, caught between the building desire and the lingering bitterness.

He cut off a wedge of the apple and handed it to her. She chewed it slowly. It tasted sweeter than anything she’d had since she left Heyday. In fact, she thought, shutting her eyes, it tasted like Heyday itself. It tasted like her mom’s apple pies and candy apples at the Ringmaster Parade. It tasted like green trees and blue skies and sunshine that slanted slowly over long afternoons.

When she opened her eyes, Kieran smiled and handed her another. As she took it, their fingers touched briefly, both of them slick with apple juice, and warm. Something sharply sweet jolted through her. Kieran would taste like Heyday, too, she thought. His lips would taste like home.

Oh, dear God, she still wanted him. But why should that surprise her? She had always wanted him, ever since she was fifteen years old and didn’t even understand what wanting meant. Up until that very last, terrible day, she had always felt a little breathless at the sight of him.

And now here they were, after all that had happened, after two whole years apart. Everything had changed between them—and yet, in this most primitive way, nothing had changed at all.

Just then the radio station began playing a love song that had been all the rage five years ago. She knew that song. It was corny and lilting and unabashed in its emotion. She had secretly loved it, but Steve had thought it was hilarious. He had wandered through the house, making up alternate lyrics, each more nauseatingly saccharine than the last.

“Steve made such fun of this song,” she said. “I never had the nerve to admit how much I liked it.”

Kieran smiled. He didn’t even seem to notice that she had finally brought up Steve, although that was probably another example of how smooth he was.

“I bet Steve loved it, too,” he said. “Teenage boys do that a lot. They aren’t comfortable expressing emotion yet. Eventually they grow out of it.”

She looked at him, feeling the sadness come streaking through her. No, she thought, tightening her shoulders to resist the pain. Steve wouldn’t grow out of it. Steve would never get the chance to grow up.

Kieran’s face tightened, and she knew he could read her thoughts. Or maybe he had just recognized his own insensitive blunder.

He put out his hand and touched her face.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Oh, hell. I’m so sorry.”

She turned away. She looked down at her apple. She’d been holding this piece too long. It was starting to turn brown where her fingers pinched it.

“I think—I think maybe it’s time for you to go,” she said.

“Claire, don’t. Don’t close off again—”

But she had to. Didn’t he understand that? When she left herself open, open to wanting him, open to remembering Steve, then the pain came charging in, like an enemy rushing a breach in the defenses. She couldn’t endure it. It simply hurt too much.

She tried to climb to her feet, but he was so close. It was hard to get leverage without reaching out and touching him.

“Really,” she said. “It’s late—”

“Claire, talk to me. Please…tell me what you’re feeling.”

What she was feeling? She got to her feet somehow and stood staring down at him. She tried to find her earlier numb indifference, but it was gone. Something had stolen it. Kieran, with his blue eyes and his sexy smile and his knotted, inextricable ties to Steve, had stolen it, as he had stolen so many things in her life.

“What do you think I’m feeling? I’m hurting. Is that what you wanted me to say? I’ve lost everyone I ever loved, and it hurts. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He rose, too, but she shoved away from him and moved toward the radio. She flicked it off just before he reached her.

“No,” he said. “I never wanted you to hurt.”

“Oh, that’s right. What was I thinking? You’d much prefer to hear that everything is fine, that I’m okay and you’re forgiven. In fact, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you came. So that you can be forgiven, and you can get on with your life.”

She was right. She could see it in his face. He didn’t deny it. He just stared at her, looking exhausted and guilty as hell.

Somehow that drained all the fury right out of her. She went limp. “All right, then, you’re forgiven,” she said. “And I’m fine. Now please go home. Please.”

Her voice cracked, and she felt something warm, like blood, on her cheeks. She reached up and touched the liquid, but it was clear. It was tears—the first she’d cried since Steve’s funeral. She tried to choke them back. She didn’t want to do this. Not now, not ever. She lifted her chin and swallowed hard, but still they poured down her face.

Kieran stood in front of her, his face dark. “Don’t fight it,” he said. “It’s all right. You need to cry.”

He brushed the tears with his fingers. And then, very slowly, he kissed the damp places where they had been. She didn’t resist as he pulled her into his arms and bent his head close to hers. She could feel his heart pounding.

He was so strong, she thought. And she was not. Once, she had been…but now she was being helplessly drained by this flood of tears.

So she let herself rest against his chest. Just for a little while, she thought. Just until she borrowed enough strength to stand on her own again.

When he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his, when he bent his head and kissed her, she thought at first it was just another kind of comfort. His lips were tender, moving slowly, as if he hoped he might be able to stroke new life into her.