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The savoury, rich scents of roasting chicken, cumin, and garlic filled the kitchen. Natalie sat on a bar stool at the island, a half-finished glass of wine in one hand and a comfort read open on her e-reader in the other. The cauliflower and chicken bake would be done in less than half an hour. Rafe should have been home by now, but if he was held up much longer it would be easy to keep warm.
Even as she had the thought, the door leading to the garage opened and then closed with a quiet click. She spun the stool and leaned her elbows behind her on the counter. As he entered the living room, the welcoming smile lighting up her face warmed her from the inside.
Boy, she had it bad.
“Hello, Natalie.” He draped his coat over the back of the sofa and smoothed it with his hands.
Her smile slipped and she straightened from her relaxed slouch. “What's wrong?” His face was solemn with a wariness that did not bode well for the peace of their evening.
He focused on her, holding his position behind the couch. “I spoke with Shyla today.”
Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “You what? When? Why?”
A brief gleam of amusement lightened his dark gaze and she felt some of her nervous tension ease. “She was waiting for me in the parking garage after work. That's why I'm a bit late. She asked for money.”
Of course she had. But that wasn't her main concern. “How did she look? Was she...okay?” Okay being a relative term in regards to Shyla.
“She said she'd been clean for forty-eight hours. She was jittery and thin and not particularly well groomed, but lucid. And polite.” He qualified his last statement, his mouth twitching. “Mostly.”
Still, this encounter sounded like an improvement over his only other experience with her sister. She sucked in a slow breath through her nose. “What did she want the money for?”
“She said food.”
He deserved points for at least trying to hide his skepticism. She offered a half-smile and asked her next question with trepidation. “Did you give her any?”
Instead of answering, he moved from behind the sofa and came to stand in front of her, placing his large palms on her knees, enveloping them in his warm touch. He was so near the sharp scent of antiseptic hospital cleaner clinging to his clothes was detectable amid the aromas escaping the oven.
“You told me, while we were driving to Quesnel, that you'd given Shyla two thousand dollars to reserve a place at a treatment facility.” His voice was as deep and dark as the depths of his espresso-coloured eyes.
He hadn't asked a question, but she answered it anyway. “Yes. We both know she didn't do that.” She swallowed. Cradling her wineglass in both hands, she rested her arms on her thighs, leaned her forehead on his chest, and closed her eyes. “I was so hoping she would.”
“If the two thousand was a down payment, how much did the whole program cost?” His fingertips rippled around her kneecaps with gentle, rhythmic motions, like playing scales on a piano. She wished he would put his arms around her. Maybe his embrace would chase the chill from her skin.
She didn't know where he was going with this, but could see no reason not to tell him. “Fifteen.”
“Where was she going to get the rest?”
Oh. She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Not that she needed to. He would understand her silence.
“You can't give it to her, Natalie.”
“I have to.” Despair washed through her and she started to shake. “I have to. It's the only thing I can do.”
His long-fingered hands gripped her biceps and held her away from the refuge of his chest. She stared at one of the small white buttons that fastened his shirt closed. “How much have you given to her over the years? Your parents? When does it stop?”
Shame dragged like an anchor, but she tipped her chin up and stared through teary eyes. “When she's better.” The other alternative, one Shyla herself had hinted at, was unthinkable.
“You can't force her to heal. That's up to her.”
“You think I don't know that?” Swamped by a new wave of mortification, she gulped for air and flapped a hand in a “move away” gesture. He gave her space and she hopped off the stool. Wine sloshed in her glass and she turned her back on him, slapping it on the counter. A delicate ting rang through the air as the crystal base cracked when it met the quartz surface.
She was going to have to tell him what she had done. Why she had to give Shyla anything she asked for.
Striding away from the island, away from Rafe, she gripped the back of the leather couch and dug her fingertips into the supple material. “It’s my fault she’s still an addict.”
“You know that’s not true. You’ve done everything you could to help her.”
“You’re wrong.” She couldn’t look at him. Didn’t want to see the condemnation in his face when he learned what she had done. “She came to me several years ago, when I was still married to Ricky.” She’d told Rafe about her ex-husband shortly after they’d become intimate. He’d accepted the news with equanimity...unlike his response to this discussion.
“She asked you for money.” The censure in his tone was laced with pity.
She hunched her back and replied, bitterness coating her tongue. “And I did what you want me to do now. I refused her. Ricky said we couldn’t afford it. He was right, but I didn’t want to let Shyla down. He convinced me it was necessary to say no.”
She paused and waited for Rafe to say something in support of Ricky’s decree. He remained silent. She swallowed and said the words that would shatter his image of her. He thought she was so forgiving, so understanding. Now he would know the truth.
“I was so glad to have an excuse. I was tired of Shyla’s demands, her neediness. It wasn’t even that hard to stand up to her screaming and pleading. I almost enjoyed it.” It made her sick to her stomach even after all this time. “Two days later my parents got a phone call. She had overdosed and was in intensive care. It was days before we knew if she’d survive.”
Her marriage to Ricky collapsed shortly after that. She’d blamed him, a little unfairly, for the whole disaster and he’d declared himself unwilling to take second place to her sister any longer.
“Now you see why I have to give her the money. What if this is the chance she needs? How could I live with myself if I refused and...something... happens again?” She couldn’t even say the word.
“I’m sorry for what you and your family have gone through. Are going through.” A movement of air warned he’d approached. Not touching her, but not rejecting her, either. “It wasn’t your fault, though. Whatever happens in future will not be your fault, either. At what point does giving in to her demands become enabling, not supportive? After all these years, don't you think she's had enough chances? That it's time for her to live with the consequences of her decisions, no matter what they are?”
She’d known he was a stick-to-the-rules, brook-no-excuses man. But she’d obviously underestimated his implacable nature. Whirling to face him again, she poked him in the chest. “No one beats an addiction on their own. It takes love and guidance and forgiveness. Look what happened when I didn’t support her.”
“Maybe. But it also takes determination and fight and sheer unwavering guts. And when has Shyla ever demonstrated that?”
––––––––
RAFE STARED DOWN AT Natalie's flushed face and wished, not for the first time, that he had his brother's eloquence. Otto wouldn't be making such a hash of this conversation.
“If Shyla had cancer, you wouldn't even question giving her the money. But because it's substance abuse—” She pushed past him, anger vibrating from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. He welcomed it. Better she be furious at him than drown under the weight of her obligations to her sister.
“It's not that.” He drew in a slow breath, determined to explain himself properly for once. “I know it's a disease, one that deserves understanding. But Shyla's destructive behaviour isn't only hurting herself. It’s hurting you, too. You need to shield yourself.”
“I'm not the one who needs protection.” She paced the length of the sofa, spinning on her heel with the precision of a palace guard when she reversed direction at each end. “I have so much and she has nothing.”
He didn't point out she'd recently lost her home to fire and her career was in flux. He knew what she meant and was fairly certain she'd rip his head off his neck if he split hairs. “You worked for what you have, though. Shouldn't Shyla be expected to do the same for her sobriety? Humans don't value the things that come too easily.”
“You think Shyla has it easy?” She stopped in her tracks, her hands flexing at her sides as if imagining his throat between them, incredulity sharpening the pitch of her voice to operatic levels.
He winced. “I just mean that maybe she should be expected to give a show of good faith. Something to prove she's serious this time. And she needs to do that before you give her thousands of dollars more.”
Her face paled. “I didn't want to give her the money directly. Even then, something inside me didn’t believe she was serious.” She muttered the words like a guilty secret. “I wanted to give it to the clinic. She accused me of not trusting her. How could I let her know she was right?”
“Natalie.” He reached out and touched her tense shoulder.
Her clenched muscles slumped like a deflating air mattress. “I know, I know. I should have stuck to my guns.”
A bell chimed. With a startled exclamation, she circled around the island, turned off the oven, and removed a large baking sheet covered in deliciously browned chicken thighs and cauliflower florets. His stomach rumbled at the peppery, mouthwatering scent.
She stood with her hands full and stared vaguely at the counter, as if expecting a trivet to appear out of nowhere. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved one for her. She lowered the tray, removed the mitts she'd used, and then simply stood, as if uncertain what to do next.
Stepping closer, he trailed his hand down her arm and took her fingers. Despite the fact she'd just removed a dish from the oven, they were chill and limp. “I'm sorry if I've upset you. The last thing I wanted was to make you relive something so painful, and I know this is none of my business and you should tell me to go to hell. But I—I care for you.” His heart spasmed and fluttered at this pallid admission of his burgeoning feelings. Feelings he kept tucked deep in a corner of his soul to avoid acknowledging them. “And my next question is really none of my business, but I have to ask it. Do you have fifteen thousand dollars to spare? You're going to have extra expenses because of the fire, even with insurance coverage. The book will be done soon and you'll be paid then, but what are your plans after that?”
“I'll find something. You're so warm.” She offered her other hand and he cradled them both, tenderness clogging his throat at her casual gesture, especially after the tenseness of the last several minutes. “I'm getting twenty thousand for the biography. There will be a little left over after setting aside the money for the program.”
He couldn't stand by and let her throw away the very food from her mouth into a bottomless pit. The thought of nourishment reminded him of what he hadn't yet told her. “I never answered your question.”
Her fingers tensed in his clasp. “What question?”
“If I gave Shyla any money. I did.” His thumbs caressed the bumpy line of her knuckles as he explained the fifty dollars and his reasoning behind it. “If she continues to show up sober, then that might be evidence she is serious about succeeding in a treatment program.”
Natalie gazed up at him, a spark of hope gaining strength in her shadowed eyes. “I'll pay you back. If this works...” She trailed off, but her expression was fervent, the flame of her usual cheerfulness blazing strong again.
“We can figure that out later.” No way in hell would he accept money from her, but there was also no way he was going to flaunt his embarrassingly excellent financial situation while hers was so precarious. He'd cross that Rubicon when he came to it. “I'm starved. Can we eat?”