Born in Ice
Page 85
He knew his mood was foul, and couldn’t seem to alter it. It was the book, of course, but there was more. He could admit, at least to himself, that he’d been restless since Liam’s christening.
There’d been something about it, the ritual itself, that ancient, pompous, and oddly soothing rite full of words and color and movement. The costumes, the music, the lighting had all melded together, or so it had seemed to him, to tilt time.
But it had been the community of it, the belonging he’d sensed from every neighbor and friend who’d come to witness the child’s baptism, that had struck him most deeply.
It had touched him, beyond the curiosity of it, the writer’s interest in scene and event. It had moved him, the flow of words, the unshakable faith, and the river of continuity that ran from generation to generation in the small village church, accented by a baby’s indignant wail, fractured light through stained glass, wood worn smooth by generations of bended knees.
It was family as much as shared belief, and community as much as dogma.
And his sudden, staggering wish to belong had left him restless and angry.
Irritated with himself, and her, he stopped in the doorway of Brianna’s sitting room, watching her with her knitting needles clicking rhythmically. The dark green wool spilled over the lap of her white nightgown. The light beside her slanted down so that she could check her work, but she never looked at her own hands.
Across the room, the television murmured through an old black-and-white movie. Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in sleek evening dress embraced in a wine cellar. Notorious, Gray thought. A tale of love, mistrust, and redemption.
For reasons he didn’t choose to grasp, her choice of entertainment annoyed him all the more.
“You shouldn’t have waited up.”
She glanced over at him, her needles never faltering. “I didn’t.” He looked tired, she thought, and moody. Whatever he’d searched for in his long day alone, he didn’t appear to have found it. “Have you eaten?”
“Some pub grub this afternoon.”
“You’ll be hungry, then.” She started to set her knitting aside in its basket. “I’ll fix you a plate.”
“I can fix my own if I want one,” he snapped. “I don’t need you to mother me.”
Her body stiffened, but she only sat again and picked up her wool. “As you please.”
He stepped into the room, challenging. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where’s the interrogation? Aren’t you going to ask me where I was, what I was doing? Why I didn’t call?”
“As you’ve just pointed out, I’m not your mother. Your business is your own.”
For a moment there was only the sound of her needles and the distressed commercial voice of a woman on television who’d discovered chip fat on her new blouse.
“Oh, you’re a cool one,” Gray muttered and strode to the set to slam the picture off.
“Are you trying to be rude?” Brianna asked him. “Or can’t you help yourself?”
“I’m trying to get your attention.”
“Well, you have it.”
“Do you have to do that when I’m talking to you?”
Since there seemed no way to avoid the confrontation he so obviously wanted, Brianna let her knitting rest in her lap. “Is that better?”
“I needed to be alone. I don’t like being crowded.”
“I haven’t asked for an explanation, Grayson.”
“Yes, you have. Just not out loud.”
Impatience began to simmer. “So, now you’re reading my mind, are you?”
“It’s not that difficult. We’re sleeping together, essentially living together, and you feel I’m obliged to let you know what I’m doing.”
“Is that what I feel?”
He began to pace. No, she thought, it was more of a prowl—as a big cat might prowl behind cage bars.
“Are you going to sit there and try to tell me you’re not mad?”
“It hardly matters what I tell you when you read my unspoken thoughts." She linked her hands together, rested them on the wool. She would not fight with him, she told herself. If their time together was nearing an end, she wouldn’t let the last memories of it be of arguments and bad feelings. “Grayson, I might point out to you that I have a life of my own. A business to run, personal enjoyments. I filled my day well enough.”
“So you don’t give a damn whether I’m here or not?” It was his out, wasn’t it? Why did the idea infuriate him?
She only sighed. “You know it pleases me to have you here. What do you want me to say? That I worried? Perhaps I did, for a time, but you’re a man grown and able to take care of yourself. Did I think it was unkind of you not to let me know you’d be gone so long when it’s your habit to be here most evenings? You know it was, so it’s hardly worth me pointing it out to you. Now, if that satisfies you, I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to join me or go upstairs and sulk.”
Before she could rise, he slapped both hands on either arm of her chair, caging her in. Her eyes widened, but stayed level on his.
“Why don’t you shout at me?” he demanded. “Throw something? Boot me out on my ass?”
“Those things might make you feel better,” she said evenly. “But it isn’t my job to make you feel better.”
“So that’s it? Just shrug the whole thing off and come to bed? For all you know I could have been with another woman.”
For one trembling moment the heat flashed into her eyes, matching the fury in his. Then she composed herself, taking the knitting from her lap and setting it in the basket. “Are you trying to make me angry?”
“Yes. Damn it, yes.” He jerked back from her, spun away. “At least it would be a fair fight then. There’s no way to beat that iced serenity of yours.”
“Then I’d be foolish to set aside such a formidable weapon, wouldn’t I?" She rose. “Grayson, I’m in love with you, and when you think I’d use that love to trap you, to change you, then you insult me. It’s for that you should apologize.”
Despising the creeping flow of guilt, he looked back at her. Never in the whole of his life had another woman made him feel guilt. He wondered if there was another person in existence who could, with such calm reason, cause him to feel so much the fool.
There’d been something about it, the ritual itself, that ancient, pompous, and oddly soothing rite full of words and color and movement. The costumes, the music, the lighting had all melded together, or so it had seemed to him, to tilt time.
But it had been the community of it, the belonging he’d sensed from every neighbor and friend who’d come to witness the child’s baptism, that had struck him most deeply.
It had touched him, beyond the curiosity of it, the writer’s interest in scene and event. It had moved him, the flow of words, the unshakable faith, and the river of continuity that ran from generation to generation in the small village church, accented by a baby’s indignant wail, fractured light through stained glass, wood worn smooth by generations of bended knees.
It was family as much as shared belief, and community as much as dogma.
And his sudden, staggering wish to belong had left him restless and angry.
Irritated with himself, and her, he stopped in the doorway of Brianna’s sitting room, watching her with her knitting needles clicking rhythmically. The dark green wool spilled over the lap of her white nightgown. The light beside her slanted down so that she could check her work, but she never looked at her own hands.
Across the room, the television murmured through an old black-and-white movie. Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in sleek evening dress embraced in a wine cellar. Notorious, Gray thought. A tale of love, mistrust, and redemption.
For reasons he didn’t choose to grasp, her choice of entertainment annoyed him all the more.
“You shouldn’t have waited up.”
She glanced over at him, her needles never faltering. “I didn’t.” He looked tired, she thought, and moody. Whatever he’d searched for in his long day alone, he didn’t appear to have found it. “Have you eaten?”
“Some pub grub this afternoon.”
“You’ll be hungry, then.” She started to set her knitting aside in its basket. “I’ll fix you a plate.”
“I can fix my own if I want one,” he snapped. “I don’t need you to mother me.”
Her body stiffened, but she only sat again and picked up her wool. “As you please.”
He stepped into the room, challenging. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where’s the interrogation? Aren’t you going to ask me where I was, what I was doing? Why I didn’t call?”
“As you’ve just pointed out, I’m not your mother. Your business is your own.”
For a moment there was only the sound of her needles and the distressed commercial voice of a woman on television who’d discovered chip fat on her new blouse.
“Oh, you’re a cool one,” Gray muttered and strode to the set to slam the picture off.
“Are you trying to be rude?” Brianna asked him. “Or can’t you help yourself?”
“I’m trying to get your attention.”
“Well, you have it.”
“Do you have to do that when I’m talking to you?”
Since there seemed no way to avoid the confrontation he so obviously wanted, Brianna let her knitting rest in her lap. “Is that better?”
“I needed to be alone. I don’t like being crowded.”
“I haven’t asked for an explanation, Grayson.”
“Yes, you have. Just not out loud.”
Impatience began to simmer. “So, now you’re reading my mind, are you?”
“It’s not that difficult. We’re sleeping together, essentially living together, and you feel I’m obliged to let you know what I’m doing.”
“Is that what I feel?”
He began to pace. No, she thought, it was more of a prowl—as a big cat might prowl behind cage bars.
“Are you going to sit there and try to tell me you’re not mad?”
“It hardly matters what I tell you when you read my unspoken thoughts." She linked her hands together, rested them on the wool. She would not fight with him, she told herself. If their time together was nearing an end, she wouldn’t let the last memories of it be of arguments and bad feelings. “Grayson, I might point out to you that I have a life of my own. A business to run, personal enjoyments. I filled my day well enough.”
“So you don’t give a damn whether I’m here or not?” It was his out, wasn’t it? Why did the idea infuriate him?
She only sighed. “You know it pleases me to have you here. What do you want me to say? That I worried? Perhaps I did, for a time, but you’re a man grown and able to take care of yourself. Did I think it was unkind of you not to let me know you’d be gone so long when it’s your habit to be here most evenings? You know it was, so it’s hardly worth me pointing it out to you. Now, if that satisfies you, I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to join me or go upstairs and sulk.”
Before she could rise, he slapped both hands on either arm of her chair, caging her in. Her eyes widened, but stayed level on his.
“Why don’t you shout at me?” he demanded. “Throw something? Boot me out on my ass?”
“Those things might make you feel better,” she said evenly. “But it isn’t my job to make you feel better.”
“So that’s it? Just shrug the whole thing off and come to bed? For all you know I could have been with another woman.”
For one trembling moment the heat flashed into her eyes, matching the fury in his. Then she composed herself, taking the knitting from her lap and setting it in the basket. “Are you trying to make me angry?”
“Yes. Damn it, yes.” He jerked back from her, spun away. “At least it would be a fair fight then. There’s no way to beat that iced serenity of yours.”
“Then I’d be foolish to set aside such a formidable weapon, wouldn’t I?" She rose. “Grayson, I’m in love with you, and when you think I’d use that love to trap you, to change you, then you insult me. It’s for that you should apologize.”
Despising the creeping flow of guilt, he looked back at her. Never in the whole of his life had another woman made him feel guilt. He wondered if there was another person in existence who could, with such calm reason, cause him to feel so much the fool.
