Third Strike

wrists that weren’t there yesterday,” he said, a dispassionate diagnosis. “Which means not only that you were held down with considerable force, but also that you resisted.”

What do I say to that? That Sean was angry? That he didn’t mean it? That I’d witnessed all too clearly the wave of disgust that had crossed his face when he’d seen what he’d done? So, which was the greater evil to admit to my father—deliberate cruelty or careless brutality?

And because I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make it worse, I didn’t say anything. Instead, I shrugged and took a bite of my toast, but my throat had closed dangerously and I had to chase it down with a mouthful of juice.

“Has he ever … hit you?”

“Yes,” I said, leaving just enough of a pause to push him for a reaction. There wasn’t one. “We spar together. Of course he has.”

A sigh. “Don’t be obtuse, Charlotte,” he said, and the clip was back with a vengeance. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, he’s never beaten me up, if that’s what you’re getting at.” I allowed myself a small smile as I took another swig. “I’m hardly in danger of becoming a battered wife.”

That got a response. Instant, more of a flinch than anything else.

I put down my glass, smile fading. “My God,” I said softly. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That we might get married and then it would be official—he’d be your son-in-law and you’d have to accept him? Is that it?”

“Of course not,” my father evaded sharply. “Do you find it quite so difficult to believe that I—we—might be concerned for your welfare?” And, when my skepticism was clearly demonstrated by my lack of answer, he glanced away and added carefully, “People who have been through the kind of trauma that you experienced, often have a certain amount of difficulty forming normal relationships afterwards.” He looked up abruptly, met my eyes. “They self-harm. They look for sexual partners who will hurt them. They need the pain in some way, like worrying at a nagging tooth. I find it … pitiful.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I asked, limiting my physical response to a raised eyebrow when what I really wanted to do was reach for his throat. “Trying to alleviate some kind of karmic toothache?”

The waiter returned, this time bearing a large oval tray at shoulder height, which he put down on a foldout trestle and began to decant plates onto our table with all the flourish of a casino croupier dealing cards. My father waited until the man had scurried away again before he spoke.

“It defies logic that someone who’s been gang-raped would take any kind of pleasure in being forced,” he said, quietly frozen, “unless they have severe psychological problems. Problems for which we attempted to get you some professional help over a year ago. Yet you stopped going to Dr. Yates after only a few sessions.”

“I don’t have a problem forming a ‘normal relationship’—whatever you might deem that to be,” I said, outwardly calm as I poured milk onto my cereal, hating the way my skin heated at his words. “It’s the fact that I’ve formed one with someone you despise that really pisses you off.”

My dip into coarseness was deliberate but he let it slide this time, and that in itself was interesting.

“We don’t despise him,” my father said, and I noted he could rarely bring himself to use Sean’s name. I realized, also, that by using “we,” he was off-loading part of the blame for his attitude towards Sean onto my mother. How convenient.

“Well, you make a pretty good show of it, unless he’s useful for”—I paused, miming exaggerated thought process—“oh, I don’t know—keeping you alive, maybe?”

“It sounded like a war was breaking out in there,” he muttered then, his voice low, near to shaken. “It sounded like he was killing you, Charlotte. What the devil were we supposed to think?”

I put my spoon down with great care.

“How about anything but the worst all the time?” I said, fixing him with a stare that was as laconic as I could make it. “He’s a good man, with standards and a sense of honor, if you could only see it. And we love each other.”

I paused, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment of a valid point. Not surprisingly, I didn’t get one. “You were young once and in love, surely? Did you never have that desperate, all-out, break-the-furniture-and-to-hell- with-the-consequences kind of sex?” I demanded. “If not, then I rather think I pity you.”

I expected a cutting retort. To my utter amazement, not to mention my embarrassment, something flickered through his face and he blushed. My father actually blushed. He opened his mouth to deny it, of course, but I held up a peremptory hand.

“No!” I said quickly. “Don’t tell me! On second thoughts, I withdraw the question because, to be quite honest, I really do not want to know … .”

We finished breakfast largely in uncomfortable silence, with me desperately trying to dislodge the unwanted mental image of my parents engaged in rough sex. The metaphorical elephant was back, but for some reason now the picture in my head had it wearing a PVC corset and fishnet stockings, and carrying a saucy lash.

My father signed both meals to his room, and we rode the elevator up again without speaking, reaching his door first. He swiped the key card through the lock and pushed the door open almost without a pause. I followed him in, both of us coming to an abrupt halt just inside the doorway at the sight which greeted us.

My mother was sitting on the small sofa near the window, washed and dressed. Sitting alongside her, almost knee-toknee, was Sean. He was wearing yesterday’s suit with a fresh shirt and his usual tie, his hair still damp from the shower. Both of them were laughing and they looked up sharply at our unexpected entrance. Briefly, I saw the flash of guilt from my mother, that she’d been caught fraternizing with the enemy.

I shot a quick sideways glance at my father’s face and saw something cold and dark and tightly furious blaze there before he slammed the shutters down.

Sean met his gaze in cool challenge, as if daring him to make a big thing of this. For a moment they dueled silently, then my father turned away with the excuse of asking my mother if she wanted breakfast. His voice was politely neutral, but his shoulders told a different story.

“Thank you, no,” she said. “We’ve just had a cup of tea and that will be quite sufficient, I think.”

Sean pointedly continued his stare, then rose with casual grace and strolled towards us.

“I think perhaps we should go back and see Miranda Lee this morning,” he said. “See if she knows about the alterations that have been made to her husband’s records. If she saw them beforehand, she’s another witness. If we leave soon, we should miss the morning rush.”

My father nodded stiffly, moving aside to let him pass. I stood my ground and, as Sean drew level, I reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

He stopped, flicking his eyes down to my hand and then up to my face. His expression was wary, almost uncertain.

I stepped in to him, let go of his jacket to reach up, curving my hand to his clean-shaven cheek and pressing my lips very softly against his. For a moment, sheer surprise kept him immobile before he responded. A gentle chaste kiss that nevertheless served as an instant inflammable reminder of how the night had progressed.

I kept my eyes open, watched his flutter closed and open again slowly as I pulled back a little. There was confusion in them, yes, but a kind of joy, too. His pupils were huge.

“Good morning,” I murmured, husky and a little defiant, acutely aware of our audience.

He reached up, brushed a stray lock of hair back from my forehead with an infinitely gentle finger, as if needing to demonstrate he could touch me and not leave a mark.

“Yes,” he said, and he was smiling. “It is now.”

By the time we’d packed, loaded up the Navigator and checked out, it was a respectable-enough hour to call ahead and warn Miranda Lee that we were coming back, just in case she’d made plans.

I called her from my phone as Sean swung the Navigator through sunny Boston streets. It was warm enough not to wear a jacket unless you had something you wanted to conceal underneath it. Both Sean and I wore jackets.

My father had been terse since my little display of open affection towards Sean in their hotel room, but I felt liberated and reckless. Even though there was a part of me that was desperate to know what the hell Sean and my