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Rafe stewed over Otto's suggestion all Friday. His brother had agreed to wait until Monday before making the offer, and he was hoping he could come up with an alternative before then. So far, all he’d come up with was paying Natalie what she was owed out of his own pocket. He wouldn't tell her, of course, or she wouldn't take it. But giving her the means to walk away with her head held high would be worth every penny.
He wasn't sure why he wasn't happy with Otto's plan. On the surface, it seemed a fair compromise. Natalie would be compensated for the work she'd done and wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of revising the manuscript. But asking her to sign the non-disclosure agreement stank of cover up and secrecy.
Probably because it was.
As he waited for Shyla at the entrance to the parking garage—he'd left work a little earlier than usual, unable to focus—he continued to mull it over.
Natalie had been adamant that the truth should be told, not just to protect her integrity as an historian but because the public record should be set straight. She believed no one should be lauded for greatness when that reputation had been built on lies and deceit.
He had the feeling she would rather wash her hands of the whole affair rather than take money that reeked of bribery. But he also knew she needed the cash, wanted it more for Shyla than herself.
He hated to think she might be desperate enough to compromise her beliefs. Hated to admit he'd been the one to drive her into such a position.
Hated to realize how much he loved her now it was too late. Because the most important conclusion he’d come to after his conversation with Otto was that he loved Natalie. He was ready to toss his brother and his mother into the political wilderness in order to make her happy, to make her proud of him.
He'd never felt that way before. It had to be love.
It was awful.
Shyla came into view at the far corner of the parkade. He straightened out of his slouched position against the concrete wall and watched her approach. He'd given her the allowance, as she now referred to the money, the last couple of days without paying her close attention, too caught up in his misery. Today he would ensure she was keeping up her side of the deal.
“Hey.” She shuffled to a stop beside him. “How's it going?”
“Well enough.” He studied her, not bothering to hide his scrutiny. “You?”
“Good. Still off the junk.” She traced one index finger over her left breast in the shape of an X. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
The jitters were gone, and she smelled of soap and mint, though she was still excruciatingly thin. “Here you go.” He handed her two twenties and a ten.
She stared at the money, but didn't reach for it, her nostrils flaring.
“What's wrong?”
“I don't know.” She sounded bewildered. “I don't want to take it.”
“Do you have a choice? Any other way to feed yourself?”
“No.”
He stretched out his arm again. “Then take it.” Natalie might never forgive him for being such an asshole, but he could do this much for her.
Shyla took the bills gingerly, with none of the eagerness and lack of self-consciousness she had exhibited even as recently as the day before. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I promised your sister. And because you're staying clean.” The last thing he wanted was for her to develop a conscience and refuse to accept his money. She was his only connection with Natalie, and he couldn't lose that. “If you think it's charity, it's not. You're doing a job by staying sober. Consider this your pay cheque.”
She folded the bills and tucked them in the front pocket of her jeans. “I saw Natalie yesterday.”
Yes! This had been his hope, that if he continued meeting Shyla she might feed him snippets of information, enough to ease his worry, his guilt. “How is she?”
“Miserable.”
He rocked on the balls of his feet as if readying for a fight. “Why? What's wrong?”
“What do you think?” She stared in disbelief. “She misses you, you idiot.”
It wasn’t the insult that set him back on his heels. “No, she doesn't.”
Shyla quirked a wry smile. “Yes, she does. I don't understand it either. You're a cranky bastard most of the time. But when I told her I was still meeting you, she got a look in her eye. And even though we talked about other things, she kept circling back to you.”
Was it possible she didn't hate him? She'd forgiven Shyla over and over again for seemingly unforgivable actions. Could Natalie possibly extend that same compassion to him?
––––––––
“HAPPY HOMECOMING!” Helen carolled before the door was fully open. She wore a dollar-store tiara on her short grey hair and carried another in her hand. She promptly placed the second on Natalie's head. “You must be so pleased to be back.”
The cheerful faces of the other Silverberries—Nathan, Terrance, Penta, Stephanie, Aubrey, and Lynn—beamed at her over Helen’s shoulder. They carried balloon bouquets and cellophane-wrapped flowers and various other parcels and packages.
She stepped back, amused and touched by their exuberance, and they trooped in with noisy confusion. “I thought this was just going to be a casual thing.”
Nathan kissed her cheek. “You should know better by now. And here's a little something that might be more useful than a crown.” He handed her a grocery store gift card.
Terrance flourished two bottles of wine with silver bows fluttering at their necks. “The Silverberries do nothing by halves, darling. I don't suppose you've restocked with crystal, which is what this wine deserves, but needs must. Where are your glasses?”
Emotions choking her into silence, she pointed at a cupboard.
Her quiet apartment filled with chatter and laughter as her friends made themselves at home. Penta offered a handmade quilt, Aubrey a stack of luxuriously fluffy bath towels, and Stephanie a compact but fully equipped toolbox.
Lynn handed her a folded piece of purple construction paper decorated with a toddler's rendition of a house and tree. “Oscar made you a card, and Benjamin sends his best wishes.”
“Thank you.” Natalie hugged her, impeded by her hard, rounded belly. “How are you feeling?”
“Exhausted. Excited. Ready for this to be over.” Lynn arched her spine and pressed her fists into her lower back. “My hips feel like they're going to fall apart.”
“Not much longer now.” It was little consolation, but all she could offer.
“Thank god.”
Stephanie poked her head out of the tiny galley kitchen and pointed a demanding finger at Lynn. “Go sit down. Natalie, do you have a vase for these?” She brandished the bouquet like a sword.
In her hurried restocking of her home, frivolities such as vases had taken second place. She filled her water bottle from the tap and handed it to Stephanie, then joined everyone in the living room.
The flowers, balloons, and conversation couldn't help but make her smile, though the muscles felt rusty from disuse. She still hadn't heard from Otto—or Rafe. Not that she expected the latter to call, no matter what Shyla had said. As much as she wanted to believe her sister was right that he missed her, she couldn't afford to put too much faith in it.
It would hurt too much when it came to nothing.
Over the clamour, she heard a knock at her door. No one had buzzed her to get into the building since the Silverberries had arrived. Was it a neighbour, complaining about the noise already?
She pulled open the door...to discover Rafe standing in the hall.
––––––––
RAFE DRANK IN HIS FIRST sight of Natalie in days. He'd spent hours trying to fix her in his mind, but had forgotten how the tips of her eyebrows tilted up, the way her hair swung against her cheek, the exact curve of her waist as it flared to her hips.
She stood square in the doorway, planted like a sentry. “How did you get in the building?” Her tone was mild enough but not exactly welcoming.
“Someone was leaving as I arrived.” He'd been wondering what to do if she wouldn't let him in when he buzzed, so his timing had been fortuitous. He wasn't so sure now. Having her reject him face to face would be agonizing.
A burst of laughter reached his ears and he realized she wasn't alone. In fact, it sounded like she was having a party. So much for believing she was pining away in solitary gloom, as he had been. He shouldn't have let Shyla's impressions give him hope. Natalie had had a life before they'd met, and she would have one after him.
“You're busy.” He shuffled backward several steps. “I'll go.”
“Wait.” She crossed the threshold, pulling the door after her but not quite closing it. “Why did you come? Was it about the biography?”
“Damn the biography to hell!”
Her eyes widened, but she didn't flinch.
He drew in a deep breath. “Sorry. I'm sick to death of the biography. I came to see you.”
The hall light flared on her lenses, making it difficult to read her expression. After a pause that felt like eons, she reversed through the door, holding it open. He didn't move.
“Well?” She gestured to the interior of the apartment. “Are you coming in or not?”