After Jake left for the airport, I tidied my apartment and tossed a load of towels into the washing machine. Anything to keep my mind off Beth’s fatalistic words and Jake’s evasion of the looming issue about his wife.
I wanted it to be okay, but was it? His reluctance about me meeting his daughter and his refusal to share our budding relationship with anyone but Greg and Beth was an ominous sign. I’d made an enormous leap, launching into a relationship with the man of my dreams—or at least the one he’d become four years after the fact—all the while crossing my fingers and hoping my heart would survive.
Jake’s book sat on the side table, and I carried it into the den, tucking it onto my overloaded shelves, all the while eyeing my laptop. Maybe he’d consider it an invasion of privacy, but wasn’t everything on the internet free game? Our relationship status gave me a right to know. Didn’t it?
The screen came to life as I started my laptop and sank into the office chair, swivelling back and forth. One tap opened the browser. Should I? Shouldn’t I. Should? Shouldn’t. Do. Don’t.
I stared at the screen, then sprang from my chair, paced three steps, and sat again. Blink. Blink. Blink. The steady pulse of the cursor taunted me. I drummed the tips of my fingers lightly against my forehead and closed my eyes, then peeked at the screen again.
“Argh.” I bolted, stomping into the kitchen and digging in the fridge, coming up with a chilled bottle of Riesling, taking my time pulling a clean glass from the rack and pouring an inch. I tilted my head, doubling the portion. Better. On second thought … I tucked the entire bottle under my arm.
I sidled back to the tiny den, taking a liberal swig of wine and setting the bottle within easy reach before resting my fingertips on the keys.
Once this was done, I wouldn’t be able to take it back. If I were patient, maybe Jake would open up and share.
Ha. Right. His reluctance showed no signs of abating. What if Beth was right? I huffed out a breath and closed my eyes, shaking it out before allowing my fingers to fly over the keyboard. My index finger hovered over the enter key for barely a moment before it dropped with firm resolve. A few more taps and … there she was. Alysa Marietta Cavallaro, Halifax, Nova Scotia. A petite blonde woman, posed in front of a stone fountain in some park or other, smiling brightly.
I scrolled down the page, reading the details of my lover’s deceased wife, holding my breath until the end. Nothing. There wasn’t a single clue to the cause of her sudden, traumatic death.
The family requests donations to the specified charities in lieu of flowers … I skimmed over the words. Please respect the privacy of the family during this time …
The other search results contained only snippets of information, giving no further clues. Well, that was it then. Unless Beth could wheedle some extra information out of Greg, I was out of luck. Nothing to do but bide my time and hope one day soon my man would be willing to discuss it. With a big sigh, I closed the search window, shutting down both my laptop and the idea that Greg would ever let anything slip. If he hadn’t already, he probably never would. Anyway, I refused to put Beth in a position that might ruin her new romance.
I scooped up my glass and the bottle and shuffled through to the living room and slumped onto the couch. In a few hours, Jake’s plane would be touching down four thousand kilometres away, and he’d be anxious to get home to his daughter. Did he miss his wife? That perky smiling woman in the photo?
Stop it, Amara. Just stop. No good could come from stalking his former life. No good at all. Yet the question remained. What had happened to his wife? Why was he being evasive, avoiding the topic with practiced finesse?
He’d be back in a matter of days, and I vowed to learn the truth, no matter how devastating or painful.
Chapter 11
Suddenly, I was awake, aware of the restless man beside me, his leg twitching as he struggled against the tangled sheets.
“No, no,” he mumbled.
“Jake. Wake up,” I said, shaking him. “It’s a dream. It’s okay.” The false words hurt, but for now, my only aim was breaking him free from his nightmare and calming that harsh breathing. “Hey. Open your eyes,” I said in a level voice, venturing what I hoped was a reassuring smile as he complied, staring at me for several seconds.
“Shit. Shit.” Jake sat, running his trembling fingers through damp hair, kicking to free himself from the covers. After a moment, he pushed to his feet and stumbled toward the door. “Sorry I woke you,” he said, not even glancing my way.
“It’s fine.” I took several deep breaths then followed the rattles and clinks to the kitchen, making it just in time for a view of his broad back as he retreated onto the patio.
The French doors wobbled in the early morning breeze, the blinds rattling and tapping against the frame. I left them ajar as I approached the hunched figure in the wicker chair, pausing for a second before crouching and taking the empty tumbler from his hand. “That’s three nights in a row.” That I knew of, anyway, because that was the exact number of nights he’d been sleeping in my bed this time around. “Talk to me. Please.”
He clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head. “It’s just a stupid dream. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” The smell of orange liquor wafted over me, and I sniffed the glass, wrinkling my nose. “Yeah, just fantastic, right? Whiskey at three in the morning? That’s anything but fine.”
“How about your three glass a day wine habit?”
“We aren’t talking about me or the wine I drink to unwind. This is about constant nightmares, not
