Chapter Twenty-Four
Michael neither called nor tried to see Rochelle. Ruth Shipley didn't call her either, and it appeared the two of them were putting her on hold. Three days later, she called Ruth. “I was just calling about the house,” she told Ruth after giving her name.
Ruth stretched the truth, and Rochelle recognized it right away.
“Oh, Miss Rathbone, I've been meaning to call you. I've just been so busy…” She left the statement hanging.
“Has it been decided if I am to rent or buy?” Rochelle asked directly.
A tone of regret sounded in Ruth's voice. “I'm sorry, Miss Rathbone, Michael hasn't given me his decision yet. I really can't tell you anything. If you would like to look at other houses, I'll be glad to show you.”
“No thanks. I'll just wait for his answer.”
She felt wounded and betrayed. She resented Michael's standoff, and was determined not to put herself in his presence until he had the decency to call her. She knew he had breakfast at the restaurant every morning between seven and eight. To avoid running into him, she purposely waited until ten to have a late breakfast, it enabling her to skip lunch. Then in the evening, she bought fast food and carried it back to the motel. Hibernating in the closed motel room the rest of the time, she either read or watched television to pass the time.
On the fifth day, she was having a second cup of coffee at the restaurant following her late breakfast when Michael slid in the seat across from her. She grabbed her purse to leave, but he reached across the table and restrained her, holding her arm. “We have to talk.”
“I don't think there's anything left for us to discuss,” she snapped. He had left her for five days to ponder and stew over his attitude toward her, which she took no responsibility for causing.
“I'm sorry,” he said, still holding her arm. “I had no right to act that way with you.”
“And it took you all these several days to come to that conclusion? I have recently run away from one temperamental man.
I don't need another, Michael.”
“You have every right to be angry. I just could not deal with having you know those things about me. I wasn't ready to face that with you.”
“I didn't mention any of it, Michael, if you'll recall, until you brought it up yourself. You didn't have to face it with me until you were ready.”
“I know that. Rochelle, I have spent the past couple of years trying to live down all the gossip and tales that have circulated about the deaths of my father and Tina. I was accused, tried, and fortunately found not guilty. Nevertheless, do you think that exonerates me? It doesn't, not by a long shot. There are still people who will always think I'm guilty until the perpetrator is found, and from the little the police are doing, that may never happen.”
She was angry and hurt, but humbled at his disclosure. She agreed with his analysis and knew a dark cloud would hang over his head from now on until the case was resolved. At least he was finally sharing a little of who he actually was. She hated to admit it, but his sudden absence in her life after three wonderful days with him was painfully miserable.
His hand moved to her wrist, and she shook it off. Still hurt, she retorted in an injured air, “I was never prepared to believe the worst about you, but you were prepared to read the worst into my thoughts. You were angry with me, and I did not deserve that. I did nothing wrong.”
“I know that. I simply reacted to something that is still very personal. I am sorry. I don't know what else to say.”
Rochelle let go of her purse, and settled back in her chair.
Letting her eyes trail to her cup of coffee, she resisted the urge to give Michael a strong taste of her anger, or more aptly, her frustration over his five-day rejection. Instead, she recalled her misery over the past few days, now wanting things to be as they were before he became upset with her—and frantically needing a decision about the house. That motel room was driving her stir-crazy.
“What have you been doing?” he asked, trying to break the icy chill that clung to the air between them.
“What do you suppose?” she countered tritely.
“How does the car drive?” He tried again.
“It drives like it's in charge instead of me,” she snorted, and then watched a smile grow on Michael's face. “It isn't funny,” she reprimanded crossly.
He reached up and drew his hand across his mouth, and put on a steely face of seriousness. “I'm not laughing,” he stated, staring at her with a blank expression.
Rochelle's mouth twitched and she bit back a reluctant grin, until she could contain it no longer. Then she giggled. “If you expect me to forgive you for treating me so badly, I don't,” she said petulantly.
Michael covered her hand with his. “You don't have to. I was wrong.”
Rochelle stared at the strength and character in his face, her gaze moving down to where he touched her hand. Thoughtfully she began speaking. “Michael, I'm the authority on pain and anguish. I know how it feels, and I know what it can do to someone. Why do you think I avoided telling you all about me? I could not face telling you and having you know the kind of shame and degradation I have faced and lived with. It hurts, and I know you were hurting, but do not make me the enemy, because I'm not.”
“Chelle, I'm sorry, honey. I just wasn't prepared to have you know about the sick tale of what happened to me. You think things are behind you, that you can go on with your life, maybe find some happiness, but it is a faulty concept. Nothing is ever behind you.”
“Then we're in the same situation, Michael. Do you think my life just began? At least you have a second chance. I am not sure I do. If Tobias ever learns where I am…” She couldn't finish her thought.
“I feel like a heel, Chelle. It was just a bad moment, and I was more worried and hurt over what you might think than the fact that you knew. I am glad you know now. It is out in the open. Mabel told me I should open up my closet of skeletons and let them out.
Perhaps the time will come when you'll feel comfortable enough with me to do the same.”
“There are some things I can't share with you, Michael. It isn't that I want to keep secrets, it's just that there are hurts in a person's life too painful to share.”
Then quickly changing the subject, she said, “I called Ruth a couple of days ago. She said you haven't decided about the house. I have to do something soon. Living in that motel room is beginning to turn me into a cranky old lady.”
He expelled a tiny chuckle. “Feeling your age, huh? You must be all of twenty-three.”
“I'm twenty-four to be exact. It was my birthday the day you drove me to Bozeman.”
His mouth dropped open a moment in surprise. “Now, I do feel like the worst kind of heel. Chelle, why didn't you tell me?”
“Birthdays stopped being important to me about four years ago,” she said contemplatively, recalling her twenty-first birthday, which was the worst night of her life. Tobias had been brutal with her, and as drunken as he was, and angry, she was certain he was going to kill her that night.
She had drunk too much champagne at the disco where he took her, accompanied by two other couples and a young single man she had never previously met. For the first time in months, she felt carefree and happy because Tobias had made special plans just for her because of her birthday, seeming more his old self.
When Tobias excused himself to go to the men's restroom, her reasoning ability, sedated by alcohol, did not permit analytical thought of what she was doing or the possible consequences, thereof. When the man, called Steve, asked her to dance, she agreed readily. Unwittingly, she smiled, came to her feet and waltzed out on the dance floor with him, not the least thought that Tobias would find her behavior unbecoming.
When Tobias came from the restroom, he observed Rochelle and Steve quietly with a poker face. He watched while the song ended and they stood waiting for another, all the while staring into each other's face and laughing at some joke or other. Tobias's control was masterful.
Rochelle was having such a good time dancing with Steve, she saw no indication of Tobias's ill regard when Steve brought her back to their table and seated her next to Tobias. He smiled at them as though nothing in the world bothered him.
Internally though, he was a bomb ready to explode—and he did as soon as they arrived home at two-thirty in the morning. He slapped and beat her into near unconsciousness, then raped her with as much brutality as he could muster.
Like all the other times when Tobias had abused her, she needed a doctor, but he refused to let her see one. She was bedridden for nearly four weeks, certain she had sustained a fractured rib where he punched her with his fist.
“Tell me why you stopped having birthdays,” Michael prompted.
Rochelle shook her head. “No, it's not exactly a topic for conversation.” She glanced away, then straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and changed the subject. “What about the house?
I need an answer.”
“Is it your intention to buy it or rent?”
“If you will sell it to me I'd like to buy.”
“Even after knowing what happened there, you still want to buy?”
“Isn't that what I just said? If you're still concerned about Ruth telling me, she indicated that she was obligated to do so.”
“What else did she tell you?” he asked darkly, a grim look instantly shadowing his tanned face.
Noticing the sudden darkening of his mood, Rochelle proceeded to repair the breach threatening between them again. “Michael, it doesn't make any difference what she told me, but I can assure you there was nothing derogatory in her manner. Her attitude is very positive toward you. If you ever need a friend, you certainly have one in her.”
He leaned forward, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. “How much did she tell you?” he demanded firmly.
Rochelle sighed. “You're grilling me, Michael. I had best just leave. I can see you're not ready to let the subject rest.” She stood up, grabbing her purse.
“Sit down!” he said abruptly, drawing attention from other customers.
Rochelle glanced about her, seeing the inquisitive looks from all around. The waitress came over with the coffee carafe at that moment, setting a cup in front of Michael, and filling Rochelle's partly empty cup. Taking a deep breath, Rochelle gave Michael a sharp glance, and suddenly not caring who heard, she shot at him,
“Michael, I will not sit here and be party to a scene.”
“Then sit down and quit making one,” he demanded. “Are you certain you want to live in a house where something so violent has happened?”
Slowly, she sat back down. “My mind is made up. The house is the only one I liked out of those Ruth showed me. I would probably change the furniture in that room.”
“It's already been changed. All the furniture and carpet in there are new. There are smaller homes that require less upkeep, you know.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it? If you don't want to sell, just say so and I won't press you.”
“It isn't that. I just wonder if you have thought this through. You said yourself you may have to leave in a moment's notice. Wouldn't you prefer renting, or even better, I'll be happy to let you stay there for nothing.”
Rochelle looked in his handsome shadowed face, his statement not what she hoped to hear. The play of emotions across her features reflected her sudden unrest. “Michael, I have been taken care of all my life, and I truly want to do something on my own for a change, if for no other reason than to prove that I can.”
“I'll make a deal with you. Why don't you live there for six months, and if after that time you still want the house, I'll sell it to you.”
“Is that the only way we can do business?”
“I'm afraid so. Let's just say I'm not ready to sell.”
“Then we need to work out a rental agreement.”
“That isn't necessary.”
“Yes, it is.” She grabbed a napkin from the holder and began writing. When she was finished, she handed it to him. “This amount should be worthy of adequately compensating you through the six months you've given me. Will you accept it?”
“Accepted,” he said, wadding the napkin and tossing it down.
“I also need your permission to have a security system installed.”
“Permission granted. What else?”
“I need to know what to do about the kitchen.”
“I'll finish it, maybe not as fast as you'd like, but the kitchen is usable as it is.”
“I'll need a live in combination cook-housekeeper. Can you refer someone?”
“I'll give it some thought, and get back to you on it. What else?”
“Can you please stop being so abrupt?” His profile turned to her as he looked out the window, and for a brief moment, Rochelle saw a flicker of vulnerability written on his proud face. He was in a contemplative mood, reflecting neither anger nor disapproval, but there was an expression of a deep, inexplicable regret. Rochelle knew he was acutely distressed at having her know the profound misery and remorse he had suffered after the death of his father and stepmother. It would probably stand between them for some time, until he trusted her enough not to let it bother him any longer.
Turning, he locked gazes with her. Not caring in the least what anyone around him thought, he reached across the table, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I'm not angry with you. I am, however, angry about an unsettling period in my life that I never had any control over and still don't have. I wish Ruth hadn't told you.”
Very gently, she said, “Michael, I've shared things with you.
Why do you want to shut me out when everyone else knows? It doesn't change how I feel about you.”
He glanced at her questioningly. “And exactly how do you feel about me?” he inquired seriously.
Rochelle had previously thought him very casual and lighthearted with all his teasing, but beneath that charm was a warm, vulnerable human being who cared a great deal about a lot of things.
She opened her mouth to answer him, and then stopped when she realized exactly what he was asking. Blurting out that he was all too quickly becoming the most important person in her life was too revealing. She just wasn't ready to trust him with her heart.
“What do you want me to feel, Michael?” Her response was one he likely would have given had she asked him the same question.
He was completely serious. “I'm not sure, Chelle. I'm a realistic sort of guy, and I try to set realistic goals.” He stopped talking, and glanced down thoughtfully. When he looked up, a puzzled expression dulled his blue eyes. “I know you are married and neither of us can offer commitments. That is the realism of our situation.”
Rochelle stared at him, afraid to breathe, fearing he was going to end their brief relationship. She had told herself dozens of times it was best to end it, to become independent and self-reliant. Still, there was that single night of glory, when fire-works exploded in her brain and left her surrendering to the most pleasant feelings yet known. Despite all the obstacles, she did not want to lose that shared closeness. She wanted independence, but she wanted the relationship, too. Likely, it was a road map to disaster, but she didn't want it to end. Even if she and Michael could never plan a future, or anything except a day-to-day existence, they could at least try to squeeze what joy they could from a precarious relationship.
“What you say is true. I cannot give you a commitment. I have no choices to speak of, at least not in a relationship. You do, however. We can end this now and go our separate ways if that is what you want. I don't want either of us hurt.”
A noticeable grimace of pain hovered about his mouth. “I think it's gone beyond that, Chelle.”