Amazing Love (13 page)

Fat, shiny tears welled in her eyes. Oh, now he'd gone and made her cry. Why was it that whenever a guy tried to say something sensitive to a lady he got tears for his trouble? But this reaction from Claire was far from standard. She was poised, calm, practiced at dealing with any situation with aplomb. He knew instinctively, as with the first time she'd taken his hand, she was showing him a part of her that was best kept deeply buried. In this respect they were so much alike.

“So, you're still planning to leave?” There was a slight waver in her voice as she tilted her head toward the ceiling and blinked several times to quell the unwanted emotions.

“I have to.” And he did.

She exhaled, blowing the breath of resignation upward, then looked him directly in the eye. With her emotions once again in check, she rested her palm along his jaw. “I want you to know my feelings for you will never change.”

A spurt of disbelief in the form of laughter bust from his chest. He had no doubt she meant what she said, but her ignorance was bliss. She'd given him absolution for his sins without knowing the extent of them. But then others long before her had conve
niently forgotten similar pledges once the chips were down. He didn't want to be around the day Claire's loyalty was tested.

“Pretty funny, huh?” She smiled and shook her head at what was certainly an odd reaction to a woman's promise of support.

“Pretty amazing.” He lowered his face and covered her mouth with his own. The words from her lips were bittersweet on his tongue. Her sigh of contentment as she molded her body to his was a warm invitation to tell her how he felt. As much as he wanted to it would be wrong.

The phone on her desk jangled. He felt a pang of loss as she pulled away.

“That's probably the guys letting me know they're ready to get started again.”

“You told them you were coming here?” She passed a hand through her hair, smoothed the front of her blouse and took her seat on the couch as if nothing had happened. She seemed fully recovered from the intensity of the moment, once again a cool competitor. It was no wonder she'd been at home on the Miss America stage.

“Oh, sure,” he admitted casually. “They've figured out how I feel about you.” He stood as she signaled for him to answer the ringing line.

Claire watched with fascination as his shield slipped back into place during the brief phone conversation. By the time he'd barked a list of orders at
Zach and Eric, he was safely behind the brusque exterior.

So, the boys knew how he felt, huh? When would he tell her how he felt? When he said goodbye?

“There's been a little change in plans,” he said after dropping the handset into its cradle.

“Oh, yeah?” She bit into the cold taco, now as appealing as a mouth full of wet cardboard.

“The Sons want to record live instead of in the studio.”

Stunned by this “little change,” she tossed the food back into the sack. “Is there enough time to regroup for something like that? Won't that require a professional crew?”

“Sure, but I have some local contacts I can call who will take care of everything. My big concern is for the sound quality. The acoustics at Abundant Harvest are pretty good, but open air would be better.” He shook his head. “There's just no time to consider anyplace else. We'll do the performance at the church with the school kids for an audience. The guys want to play before a live crowd, so that's what I'm going to give them. This may be their only recording session, so I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure they enjoy every minute.”

“You're pretty amazing yourself, you know that?” She winked and lifted her bottle of mineral water in salute.

 

“Claire, I'm sorry to bother you at home this morning, but you've had three calls already from that Arthur O'Malley fella.” Justin apologized for intruding on her personal time after such a late night.

Sunshine slanted through the wooden blinds over the bay window in her breakfast room. The shafts of light formed bright stripes on the cool tile and all three animals were stretched out, side by side, basking in the warmth.

“Did he leave a number?” She scribbled it on the edge of the business section of her newspaper and assured Justin he'd been right to call her at home.

It must be important or Art wouldn't be trying so hard to reach her. With all the calls she'd fielded recently from reporters and radio stations, it was no surprise she was hearing from the magazine again. She hoped
Today's Times
would be interested in more details on the Southern Savage. She refilled her coffee cup, stirred in sugar substitute and squirted in her one guilty pleasure, whipped cream. As she settled back into her breakfast nook, R.C. jumped up on her lap and curled himself into an orange tabby ball.

Art picked up on the first ring.

“Wow, I didn't expect you to answer the phone yourself.”

“Oh, I'm not quite that much of a big shot around here. I still carry a sack lunch and sharpen my own pencils.” He chuckled. “How are you, Claire?”

“Busy,” she admitted, as Tripod rested his big nose on her knee and nudged her for some attention. “The phone hasn't stopped ringing. Thank you, by the way for the wonderful article. It had just the right balance of past and present that I was hoping you'd achieve.”

“Well, evidently it was not heavy enough on the past to satisfy our readers. What with all the fuss in the last few years over kids in beauty pageants, we've had a torrent of e-mail asking for a follow-up. So, my editor is saving page space in an issue next month. He wants me to dig deeper, you know, really detail your days as a young girl on the competitive circuit in Texas. What do you think?”

She shoved her cup away, sloshing coffee across the glass tabletop and the unread sections of the paper.

“I'd rather not, Art.”

He paused, seemingly surprised by her response. “Do you mind telling me why?”

Actually she did, but that would only pique his interest more. He made his living as an investigative reporter and he hadn't climbed the food chain in his business by backing down or killing a story just because some woman would rather not cooperate. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and pleaded silently for the right words.

“I've already told you everything of interest. The rest is pretty boring stuff.”

“How about letting me be the judge of that?” There was amusement in his voice, a tactic she felt was meant to put her at ease.

“No, you're going to have to trust me on this. The article was perfect and anything more would be overkill.”

“Claire, let me put this another way.” His voice changed. He was all business. “You've caught my editor's attention. He wants a detailed accounting on the perils of being a child in the spotlight. Your experience on the beauty queen treadmill is something different from the usual sitcom-kids-run-amuck scenario, and he's decided on you for the centerpiece of the story. If you don't want to cooperate, that's your call. But the piece is scheduled and we'll get what we want with or without your involvement.”

She tensed in the kitchen chair, balled her free hand into a fist and dug her nails into her palm. The hand that held the portable receiver shook, bumping the cool plastic against her ear. Sensing her agitation, R.C. jumped to the floor and scurried out of the kitchen.

“Is that a threat, Mr. O'Malley?”

“No, it's simply the truth.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

“Look, Claire, it's not that hard to find somebody who will tell everything they know about you just to see their name in print. I've already got what I need, so why don't you save both of us some time
by confirming the rumors I've heard about a former voice coach.”

Her skin crawled at the thought of Arthur O'Malley knowing her shameful secret. Even worse, he assumed saving a little time was more important to her than guarding her privacy.

“I expected to be treated as a professional when I agreed to the first interview.” She bristled at his threat.

“Oh, spare me the righteous indignation,” he chuckled softly, obviously amused by her reaction. “You knew the reputation of the ‘Out of the Spotlight' feature all along. You admitted you did it for the money, and it's time to pay the piper.”

She closed her eyes and imagined the lead in on the local evening news.

“In an embarrassing feature story released by
Today's Times
magazine, former Miss Texas and local entrepreneur Claire Savage was exposed by a receptionist in the office of the therapist who's treated Savage for years for the sexual abuse she suffered at the beginning of her competitive career.”

The young, up-and-coming newscaster would flash an artificially white grin for the camera, smug in the warm cocoon of her own protected, self-confident existence.

Claire had never known that world herself, and now the one she'd crafted so carefully threatened to dissolve as quickly as the packet of sweetener had melted in her steaming cup of morning coffee.

L
uke plucked four ones from his wallet and waited patiently for his turn before the cashier.

“Good morning, Luke.” The barista behind the counter waved a cheery greeting. “The usual?”

“Yes, thanks, Britti.”

“You got it.” The friendly young woman turned back to her work. “You're running pretty late today. I'd just about given up on you.”

He glanced at the big wall clock and noted the time. Nearly ten. Hours later than his usual coffee run. But he'd needed solitude to think over Claire's incredible offer of help the night before. The urge to tell her how he felt was almost overpowering. But he'd limited his feelings to those of gratitude with no mention of the love he so wanted to share with her.

Luke paid the cashier and dropped the remaining bill and change into the tip jar.

“See you tomorrow?” Britti called.

“You betcha.”

He settled sunglasses on his nose, adjusted his baseball cap and lifted the steaming cup to his lips. He sipped cautiously and turned toward the spot where his truck was parked. As the tasty latte slid down his throat he spotted the pink Mustang and sucked in a breath of recognition, sputtering in surprise.

“I'm sorry,” Claire apologized as she climbed from her pony coupe. “When you weren't at your apartment, I tried the church and Ken said you might be here. He told me to remind you about his scone, by the way.”

Luke snapped his fingers as he remembered his offer to pick up a pastry for the pastor, then smiled a greeting to the blonde before him, who was sweeter than any confection in the bakery. But she remained straight-faced. No hint of humor touched her eyes. As she neared his side she reached for him as a child reaches for a comforting hug. He opened his arms and she stepped inside his embrace. He felt her shudder as she sighed and relaxed against him, the stress from her worries passing out of her slender body while she drew strength from the contact.

“What is it, sugar?”

“I feel like such a fool,” she muttered, her face pressed against his chest. “I thought I could strike a deal, do my part and believe God would control everybody else.”

He patted her back with his free hand and took care not to slosh his drink. “I don't know what kind of deal you're talking about, but sometimes we're better off avoiding tight spots altogether instead of hoping for divine intervention to save the day.”

“Yeah, but it's a little too late to apply that wisdom now.”

“You wanna tell me what this is all about?”

She lifted eyes that pleaded for understanding. “Can we go sit inside and talk?”

“Would you rather follow me to the church or your office?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically, a cascade of hair brushing her shoulders. “I don't want to infect any place special with this conversation.”

His skin prickled at her choice of words. If what she had to say would taint the very atmosphere surrounding them, how would the news affect him? He shrugged off the selfish thought and prepared to help her unburden from whatever troubled her so deeply. He held the door for Claire as they made their way to a corner booth in the nearly empty shop. He slid into the opposite seat and waited. She fiddled with her car keys, studying each closely as if one of the keys would unlock the answer to her problem.

Luke put his hand over Claire's to still the agitated act and stared intensely until her eyes met his.

“Just tell me,” he calmly instructed.

Her stomach was a churning mass of raw nerves. She closed her eyes against the memory she'd spent half her life trying to erase. The darkness behind her lids was never enough to dim the light that had blazed on the ceiling of her mind's eye for so many years. She'd focused on that light overhead as a distraction from the secret act that had been committed against her. She didn't require the threats from the male voice instructor. Her shame was enough.

“Th-there was a voice teacher early in my competitive career. He was the best, c-came highly recommended.” She slipped into the stammer that accompanied her speech anytime she communicated the memories with her therapist.

“He c-coached me at his home for a couple of months.” She forced herself to look Luke in the eye, willing him to understand so she wouldn't have to say the words. “We were always alone.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, he nodded.

She looked away, hesitated for so long that he squeezed her hands, encouraging her to continue.

“I'm so ashamed of what happened, Luke. I was too young to understand. M-my mother never expected anything like that so she h-hadn't prepared me, didn't warn me.” She searched for the words, hating to speak of it with Luke.

“But you told her, right?”

She shook her head. “Not for a long time.”

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest.

“Claire.” There was anguish in the way he said her name. And just like before, she felt it was all her fault.

She'd endured the humiliation for weeks, silently accepting her fate, believing the teacher who told her this was her due for being a young temptress.

“When I finally told Mama I begged her not to go to the police.” Claire's voice was no more than a whisper. She moved her lips to get the words out but forced little air along with the syllables, hoping to keep them from clinging to her, clinging to Luke.

“By then Daddy was long gone and we were on our own. I knew what kind of fuss there would be. I'd had a couple of important wins and Mama and I had mapped out our plans. Public embarrassment would have cost me my education.”

Luke stared at the tabletop. Slowly, unbelievably he shook his head. “And your mother just let the jerk get away with that?”

“Not on your life.” Claire always felt a measure of pride at the memory of how her mother had confronted the man. “She threatened him with physical alteration if he ever came near me again.”

There was a small puddle of shredded napkin on the table between them, the result of her need to destroy something as she told the story, as if by tearing apart the paper she could do the same to the memories. Luke swept it aside and took both of her hands in his once again. The warmth of his skin was
a balm, soothing the icy chill that had settled over her spirit.

“You're incredibly brave to tell me this when you didn't have to, but it does explain some things.”

“I'm not telling you just so you'll understand me better. There's more.” Now he was going to find out what a fool she really was. Seeming world-savvy, Luke would probably never put his private life at risk by doing something as stupid as what she'd done. He'd even tried to warn her against it. But the worst was out. Only the ignorance and backlash of her decision remained.

“
Today's Times
is determined to do a feature next month on the perils of being a private kid in the public spotlight. They want something apart from the sitcom tragedies of the eighties and the editor seems to think I'm the perfect subject.”

Luke's jaw tensed as he ground his teeth. “This is all O'Malley's doing, isn't it?”

“Not entirely.” She felt lame defending the man, but it really was her own fault. Mama always said when you pick up a snake you should expect to get bitten. “The editor had the idea for the feature, but O'Malley's on to something and he's going to get his story with or without my help.”

“Oh, sugar.” Luke leaned his head against the tall padded back of the booth and closed his eyes. “I knew the moment I recognized the guy that he was bringing something bad into our lives.”

Our lives.
He saw this as his problem, too. Her spirit lifted for the first time that day.

Thank You, Father, that Luke isn't rejecting me because I'm damaged goods, that he cares enough to feel my worries as though they were his
. For just a moment her heart felt lighter. Then she realized what he'd said.

“You recognized O'Malley?”

“Uh, yeah, when you brought him into the church that night.” His words rushed out. “I knew I'd heard his name somewhere before. He's pretty big in print journalism, ya know.”

“And you tried to warn me.” She hung her head.

“Hey.” His fingers tightened on hers. “It was just a hunch and I could have been wrong.”

“But you weren't, and now look what a mess I could be in.”

“Maybe not.” The distracted tone of Luke's voice said he was mulling over the subject.

Her gaze darted upward. “What makes you say that?”

“Let me think about this today, I may have an idea.”

Her head throbbed with the problem. She disentangled her fingers from Luke's and massaged her temples with the heels of both hands. “I'm going to give this to God. There's nothing else I can do anyway.”

With his pulse pounding at the base of his throat,
Luke watched Claire pressing her hands to her head, as if she were trying to squeeze the fear from her mind. The worry emanated from her like waves of heat, searing his skin and sinking into his soul.

A small, unwanted thought started low in the depths of his consciousness and spiraled upward, determined to surface no matter how he tried to ignore it. In the span of a few seconds it was a fully formed plan that was fated to change the course of his life. But could he go through with it? For the precious, unselfish woman across the table from him, yes, he would make the sacrifice.

He loved Claire. The feeling was a deep, pure emotion he'd never known before and may never experience again. No matter the future, he would carry his feelings for her for the rest of his days. So her problems were his problems, but how could he tell her that? How could he help without tipping the hand he was trying so hard to keep to himself? He couldn't change the past, but surely he could do something that would make a difference for her future. Something to help her hate him less after he was gone.

He adjusted his cap, repositioned the sunglasses over his eyes and stood with his hand out to Claire.

“You're right. As Christ said, worry won't add a single day to your life.” Luke pulled her to her feet, admiring the faith of the woman who stood before him. “I have a lot to do today and if you'll give me
some help I think I can keep you too busy to worry about this.”

Grateful eyes sought his. “Thank you, Luke. That's all I really wanted to hear you say.”

 

“No, I don't have an appointment, but please give Mr. O'Malley my card and tell him I'm prepared to wait as long as it takes to see him today. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

Luke snapped his business card on the granite counter before the receptionist and then settled into a chair by the window. On a hot summer day, the vision of New York from the thirty-eighth floor of the office tower was incredible. It had been years since he'd visited the city that never sleeps. After a slow turn around the island while they awaited landing instructions from air traffic control, Luke had enjoyed the view as the aircraft approached LaGuardia.

Now he glanced down at his jeans and T-shirt. There had been no time to change. He'd rattled off a list of jobs for Claire to accomplish, made a half-dozen phone calls and then headed straight to Bush Intercontinental Airport. Luke had been telling the truth about his busy day, even if he hadn't mentioned his schedule now included the first available flight to New York.

“Luke Dawson?” The voice was unsure.

Luke stood and turned to face his old nemesis. Though it galled him to do it, he extended his hand.
A man on a mission couldn't afford to have pride or principles stand in his way.

O'Malley's eye widened as he accepted Luke's greeting. “So, it
is
you. This is quite a surprise given your reluctance to speak with me in Houston.”

Luke withheld the expected apology. “I'm a busy man just as I'm sure you are. Could we speak privately? This won't take long.”

“Evelyn, answer my line, please.” O'Malley inclined his head in understanding and turned toward his corner office. “Right this way.”

Luke fell into step behind O'Malley, a prisoner following the padre to the gallows. As he strode toward a front-end collision with the truth he prayed his decision to protect Claire at all cost wasn't one he'd have to pay for the rest of his life.

 

Claire sat in the sound booth next to Dana and listened for what seemed like the hundredth time as the Sons rehearsed their opening number. Dana rolled her unadorned eyes and puffed her cheeks out, evidence of her exasperation over the lackluster performance.

The guys were dragging from days of non-stop practice. On an energy level scale, theirs was at bedrock. Once the auditorium was packed with kids, that alone would build excitement, but they couldn't depend on the momentum of teenage vibes to get them through what would surely be the most impor
tant performance of their young lives. They needed to be pumped from the inside out. Each member of the band had a personal stake in the outcome of the recording and that buy-in had to be evident in every movement that accompanied the music. Without the unique synergy of the Harvest Sons on top of the enthusiasm of their audience, they were doomed.

Something was simply missing. Certainly it made a difference that Luke was out of pocket for the day, but there was more. The joy of the event had leaked out of the band as if a pinprick had released the lighter than air element that kept them flying high over this career opportunity. She watched the guys struggling with the number they could play in their sleep under normal circumstances.

What had Luke said to her only last night?
Abundant Harvest is like a whole 'nother experience
. And why shouldn't that impression carry into their recording? Why not take this unique experience to the next level? Kick it up a notch.

Claire fished her Blackberry out of its hiding place in the bottom of her shoulder bag and dialed directory assistance. Several phone calls later she punched the A/V console button that would feed her voice to the stage.