Sam Leone knew his brother was dead when Reed Macauley walked into his cubical in the ER. He'd known all the way to the hospital in the ambulance, as Tommy had moaned and coughed, that his baby brother wasn't going to make it. Smoke eaters had a sense about these things. The psychologist's glum face just confirmed it.
"I'm sorry," Reed said, not mincing words. "Tommy's dead. He didn't make it through the surgery."
Sam tried to suck in air, but smoke choked his lungs and he coughed the shit out of them. His eyes watered. It had to be from the smoke. He couldn't break down now.
Reed clasped his arm, avoiding his bandaged hand. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he repeated.
"Hey." Sam tried for bravado. "We know every day when we leave the house…"
But he hadn't believed that something would ever happen to Tommy. Not really. Both he and his brother had thought they were invincible.
"We gotta tell Ma and Pa." Could his parents, in their seventies, handle this? He glanced down at his bandaged legs and arms. "Hell, I can't go nowhere like this."
"I'll head over there now. Is Tony any stronger? His heart?"
Damn. His father hadn’t bounced back from his bypass surgery. What would this news do to him? And their mother. "It'll be Ma who goes nuts." Sam gave a stupid grin. "Tommy was always her favorite."
His brother's devilish eyes swam before him. She likes me best!
That's because you're a sissy and you need your mommy.
You're just jealous.
But he hadn't been. Neither of them had ever been jealous of the other. Except maybe when Theresa, Sam's wife, had the kids. Tommy had always wanted a family, but his marriage hadn't worked out. Instead, he'd become a second dad to Sam's children. "Oh, God, my kids. And Terry. They love…loved him."
Thoughts of his family made Sam stronger. He tried to get up, but the action pulled the tubes in his arm and groin. He moaned.
"Sam, stay still. You can't go anywhere."
"Will you get Terry and the kids? But, jeez, they see you, they'll think it's me that's dead."
"Chief Cordaro and Chief Talbot already went to your house. They told your wife you were all right as soon as she opened the door. Just a split second of terror, Sammy. Talbot's great at this kind of stuff. And Theresa's tough. She handled it."
"Where is she?"
"Out in the waiting room with Marcy and T.J." Thomas Joseph.
You're namin' your kid after me? Tommy's eyes had filled. I don't know what to say.
Just hope he doesn't grow up as ugly as you.
It was a joke between them. Whereas Sam was an ordinary-looking Italian with dark hair and eyes and a wiry build, Tommy was…had been…tall, blond and blue-eyed. The women loved him.
So did everybody else. He was a favorite at the firehouse, with the right balance of firefighter toughness and brotherly affection. Terry always said Sam should be more like Tommy. But it was hard for Sam to show his emotions. He kept everything inside, unless Tom dragged it out of him.
Which was why he didn't know what to do with the tears that streamed from his eyes. His brother was dead. Dead.
Reed sat down on the edge of the bed. He kept his hand on Sam's arm. "Let it come, Sam. Before you deal with your family. It'll help."
The psychologist was wrong. Nothing would help. But he couldn't stop the flood. He sobbed like a baby.
* * *
Reed had written Death in the Line of Duty—a guide for personnel dealing with the loss of a firefighter—so he knew the drill. Still, he needed to make sure the woman in the car with him understood procedure, too. How ironic, he and Delaney working together again.
Talbot had offered to go with him to the Leones', but it was the psychologist's job to notify the family, and Reed's gut instinct had told him a woman should be with him to inform the elderly parents that their son was dead. Theresa Leone was a wreck, so she'd be no help. Delaney had sat with her and the kids in the waiting room, talking soothingly to them. She'd finally gotten Theresa calmed down, and had even coaxed the kids to talk to her. Delaney was an excellent psychologist. And dedicated. Despite what was between them, she'd come willingly. The thought pushed at the walls of his heart.
A heart that he had forced himself to harden tonight. Later, he'd deal with all that had happened. He smiled grimly. Whether he wanted to or not.
"You need to know some things," he said in the dim confines of the fire department Jeep. Always go in a fire department vehicle.
She squeezed his arm. He allowed her touch because he couldn't help himself. "All right, what do I need to know?"
"We don't make the death notification on the doorstep. We ask to be admitted to the house."
She nodded.
"We suggest the family members sit down, then inform them slowly and clearly. We don't use euphemisms like passed away. We give as much information as possible."
Again the silent understanding. Her grip became a soothing stroke, back and forth on his bare forearm.
"I'll answer all questions honestly, being sure to use Tommy's first name." His voice cracked.
"Pull over, Reed."
"Huh?"
"Pull over to the side of the road for a second. You're upset."
He stared ahead at the pavement. "I can't afford to be." Being upset was being out of control. "I have to do this."
"Five more minutes won't matter. If you're composed, telling the family will go better."
Drawing in a heavy breath, he swerved to the side of the tree-lined city street where the Leones lived and shut off the engine. "We ask what we can do," he continued as if reciting from his manual. "Offer to make phone calls."
"Have you done this before? Notifications?"
Yes, he had, when someone in the department died. But not when it happened to him. He'd been a young lieutenant fighting for his own life when the families of his men had been told of their deaths. Little had he known that the life he'd been left with would be constantly shaken by nightmares and all-too-vivid memories.
Viciously, he shook off the thought and glanced over at Delaney. She looked so strong and competent. She'd toughened up as soon as she'd found out Chelsea and Jake were all right.
A smile breached his lips.
"What is it?" Delaney leaned over, brushed something off his shoulder and gently touched his cheek. He got a whiff of her flowery shampoo. That scent had stayed with him for weeks after New Year's Eve.
"I was thinking about the hospital waiting room. Jake, all grimy, holding Timmy O'Roarke, sound asleep on his chest."
Delaney smiled. At fourteen months old, Beth and Dylan's son was a terror, but he quieted with Jake for some reason. "The kid wouldn't let anybody else hold him when Beth went to be with Dylan while they set his leg."
"Just Jake. How funny." Reed's voice was bemused.
"A psychological phenomenon worthy of studying."
Reed raised his arm and rested it on the back of her seat. His fingers played with her hair. "Thanks for coming. For doing this. Theresa's concerned about Tommy's mother."
"I'll take care of Rosie Leone." She leaned into his hand a minute. "I'm here, Reed, for you, and anyone else who needs me during this crisis."
He wouldn't depend on her. He couldn't. Years ago, another woman, his wife, Patrice, had tried to help him, to be there for him, and he'd almost destroyed her. Drawing away, he started the car and drove down the street. "The kids will need you. You were great with them."
"Thanks, I love working with kids."
"I wish you could…"
"What?"
"Nothing. We're here." They pulled up to a tidy gray-sided house. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence and flower beds lined the walk. So normal. So sedate. The couple inside had no idea their world was going to come crashing down on them in a few minutes. Hell, did anybody, right before it happened?
Silently Reed and Delaney exited the car, met on the sidewalk. Before they made their way up the stone steps, Reed grabbed Delaney's hand.
And though it scared the hell out of him, he couldn't change the fact that he needed her.
* * *
After several knocks and the ringing of the bell, Tony Leone pulled open his front door. A big man with snowy white hair, he wore a terry-cloth robe and a wary expression on his face. Delaney's heart ached for what was about to happen to him.
"What's going on?" the older man asked. Reed had told Delaney he'd met Sam's father briefly a few years ago at a social event, but clearly the older man didn't recognize him.
"Mr. Leone. I'm Reed Macauley, the Rockford Fire Department psychologist. And this is Delaney Shaw, an associate. May we come in?"
"Tony, who is it this hour of the morning, trying to wake the dead?" Rosie Leone's voice came from inside, tinged with concern.
Sammy's father stilled. A retired firefighter—the damn profession ran in the blood—Tony sensed what was coming. Silently he stepped aside and allowed them in. Reed closed the door. Tony crossed to his wife, a robust woman in a pink chenille housecoat with a hair net around her head, and circled his arm around her. "Sit down, Mama." He led the woman to the couch. Standing beside her, a hand on her shoulder, he faced Reed bravely. "Your visit is about my boys, isn't it?"
Reed moved in close to them. Delaney followed suit. He grasped Tony on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Reed said. "Tommy was killed in a fire tonight. Sammy's okay."
It was hard watching the older man try to be brave. His eyes moistened, and his entire body went taut. Simultaneously, Rosie crumpled. Delaney sat down next to the woman. "Oh, Mother of God, not my baby."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Leone," Delaney whispered, sliding an arm around her.
"How…" Tony cleared his throat. "How'd it happen?"
"There was a three-alarm fire at an industrial complex. Tommy was inside when a wall collapsed. Sammy was with him, but he was on the other side of the room. The doctors say Tommy didn't feel much pain." Reed's recitation was accompanied by Rosie's soft weeping. "He died in the hospital a few hours ago.
Tony shook his head. "Anybody else hurt?"
"Some injuries. Sammy suffered from smoke inhalation. But no one else was killed." Reed smiled sadly. "Would you like to sit down?"
Tony nodded and sank onto the couch next to his wife. She let go of Delaney and turned into her husband's arms. "Oh, Anthony. Our boy. Our baby…"
Again, Tony was stoic as he encompassed Rosie in his arms. "I know, Mama, our boy."
Delaney stood, battling back the emotion. She glanced at Reed. His face was drawn and a muscle tensed in his jaw. He looked over at her, then pulled her close. Slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, as much for him as for herself. His grip was tight, desperate. For now at least, he needed her. And he knew she'd be there for him.
* * *
It was 4:00 a.m. when Reed strode out of the hospital through the glass doors into the cool June morning. He'd waited until everybody had gone home, except Theresa and Beth, who were with their husbands. Typical of the firefighter family, the whole crew had pitched in. Even Chief Talbot had stayed until everybody left. Ben and Diana took the elder Leones home and planned to stay with them for a while. Francey, Ben's daughter, and her husband, Alex, had shown up and shepherded Joe Santori's grandparents—he was the other firefighter who'd been injured—back to the senior citizens' complex, Dutch Towers. Chelsea and Jake, of course, were in charge of Timmy O'Roarke. And Delaney had offered to go with the Leone kids to their own house, but the children had opted to be with their grandparents and the Cordaros.
Everyone had been seen to, and Reed was ready to crash. He prayed to God he could sleep, that no attacks came tonight. Though he tried not to think about her, he wondered who'd taken Delaney home. He could still see her holding a sobbing Rosie Leone in her slender arms, whispering soothingly to the older woman, and finally disappearing into the bedroom with Rosie so she could get ready to go to the hospital. Reed didn't know what he would have done if Delaney hadn't accompanied him.
Tony Leone had reacted just as Reed had expected. A former firefighter himself, he'd accepted the news of his son's death with stoicism. Reed recognized the tactic, wanted to warn the old man he should let his emotions out, but figured he would give in to them eventually. Instead, Reed had sat with Tony and listened to stories about Tommy until the women were ready to go.
Now, searching for the keys in his pocket, Reed reached his car.
"Hi."
His head snapped up. "Delaney? What are you doing here?"
"I need a ride home. I rode to the fire with Ben."
His eyes narrowed on her. Best to get back to distancing her now. He'd already spent too much time with her tonight, and knew he'd pay for it later. "There were plenty of people to take you home earlier."
She said unabashedly, "I wanted to be with you. I'm worried about you."
"I'm fine." He wondered what to do. He couldn't very well leave her stranded at Rockford Memorial Hospital at 4:00 a.m.
"You're not fine." She shivered, and for the first time tonight he noticed the sleeveless blouse and the thin summer skirt she wore. For a woman who looked impeccable every time he saw her, she was pretty mussed, her clothes streaked with dirt from hugging Chelsea, her hair a mess from the breeze. That mane was longer now, more than halfway down her back.
I love this, he'd said, fisting his hand in the thick strands as she straddled him. I've been dying to touch it for months. He'd turned into a different man that one night with her. The man he used to be. He'd weakened, showed more vulnerability than he had to any other person, even his ex-wife. He had to get a grip now.
But he noted the fatigue smudging the skin beneath her eyes and the weary droop of her shoulders. She'd had a hell of a night, too. "Come on, I'll give you a lift."
He opened the door for her and watched her skirt hike up as she climbed in. He wondered briefly if she had on one of those thongs like she'd worn New Year's Eve. Hey, what's this? he'd asked, snapping the band of the lacy why-bother underwear.
You like?
Hmm. I like.
Man, where was his mind going? And even his body, he thought, feeling a tightening in his groin as he circled the car. He was dead tired, emotionally drained, and forty-two years old, not some teenager, but just a glimpse of her thigh could turn him on.
Neither spoke until they were on their way. Dawn had not yet broken, and headlights of a few oncoming cars illuminated the interior of the vehicle. "Thanks for what you did tonight," he finally said. He wanted to reach over and hold her hand. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel.
"You're welcome. I'm so sorry for Rosie and Tony. And, of course, the kids."
"Your area of expertise." The stark, disbelieving faces of the two Leone children flashed before him. "What made you choose to specialize in adolescents?"
"I remember what it was like to be a teenager and to need help."
He wanted to know more about that but refused to let himself probe. Personal sharing would bring them closer together. "I appreciated you being here tonight."
She waited a long time before she whispered, "I'd do anything for you, Reed."
He remembered the visits, the calls, and finally the doctor she'd found. "I know."
"But you don't want me to. Still." It wasn't a question, just a confirmation of what he'd told her in a thousand different ways. And for the first time in recent memory, he felt angry that he was so different from other men. Unable to have the kinds of connection normal people had.
You can, Reed. You just won't let yourself.
Unknown to the woman beside him, Reed had gone to see Bill Connelly, the New York psychologist she'd located. His psychologist friend from Hidden Cove, Jack Harrison, knew of the guy and confirmed the man’s reputation…
“Yeah? And why the hell wouldn't I let myself, Dr. Freud?”
“Survivor guilt would be my guess, though you won't tell me the details. Maybe a basic savior complex you couldn't adhere to.”
Reed stormed out of the office. A week later he went back. Because of Delaney Shaw…
“It was the most intense episode I've had in years. It's her fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“I connected with her. On more than a physical level. See, if I let myself feel anything too intensely, the episodes are worse. Obviously, this is emotional overload. All the literature confirms the diagnosis.”
“All the literature says you can deal with PTSD, Reed. You'll probably never get rid of the syndrome, but you can manage this if you want to.”
“I know that. I had the whole thing under control, but it's back. Because of her.”
“She can help you.
“No! I won't do that to her.”
“It should be her choice.”
“You don't know what I did to my wife.” He remembered the bruises on Delaney's wrist. Worse, the hurt in those eyes when he shut down…
"Reed, did you ever go see the doctor whose name I sent you?"
Damn, talk about connection. She could read his frigging thoughts.
"Yes. It didn't help."
"I can help."
"That's not an option."
"So you said." He exited the expressway and headed toward her house in the quiet suburb of Gates. "How do you know where I live? You've never been to my home."
Like a lovesick teenager, he'd driven by a hundred times since he'd cut her out of his life. Those escapades were almost as stupid as the other covert connection he'd kept with her. "I just know." He was too tired to lie.
In minutes, he pulled into the driveway. He stared at the Frank Lloyd Wright-style house. One-story, it sprawled invitingly over a heavily wooded acre of land. He frowned. "Your car? It’s probably at the office."
She nodded. "That's okay, I can catch a ride later in the morning."
Something made him probe, although he wasn't sure he was ready for the answer. "Is there a guy in your life now? It's been six months since we…"
"Actually, it's been five months, two weeks and three days." Her eyes flashed blue fire. He could see them spark in the glow from the garage lights. "Yeah, there's a guy in my life."
Hell. "I saw you a couple of times with someone.”
"I saw you, too. Who is she?"
"A woman I've known for a long time. She understands my need to stay…"
"Removed? Distanced?"
"Yes."
"And she doesn't bring on your waking nightmares like I apparently do?"
Ellen Marshall didn't bring on anything for him, of course, nor did any of the women he'd dated over the years, all the semi-relationships he allowed himself to have. She agreed to his terms, had become a friend, too. Which was why he could continue to see her. Only the beauty beside him had slipped past the iron bars of his defenses and incited a whole host of emotions he preferred to keep locked away. "I already told you I won't talk about this."
Clearly piqued, she reached for the door handle. Then stopped and faced him. "Just to set the record straight, when I said there's a guy, I meant you. I've been with other men, sure, but no one's come close to what I had with you."
I've been with other men. The thought leveled him. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from telling her that.
He stared at her. She stared back. Studied his face.
"Oh, hell!" She obviously read his distress. "I meant I dated other guys. I haven't slept with anyone else," she added hoarsely. "I couldn't."
"I didn't ask." But, God, he'd wanted to know.
"Reed, I don't understand all this. You're obviously upset by the thought that I'd make love with someone else. Why won't you let me help you?"
He didn't want to say any more, but her distress got to him. "I can't be with you, honey. Be close to you, or anyone. PTSD is an insidious condition. I know what it does to the people I get close to, and I refuse to subject you to that."
"Then why did you take me to bed on New Year's Eve?" She shook back her hair. "You came after me, you know."
"I'm sorry I did that. I lost my head. I always do with you. But it's not good for either of us. Trust me on this."
She sighed deeply. "All right." She reached for the door again, but he stopped her this time. "Wait a minute. We might as well clear up something else now. I know you were with Ben tonight when he got my text. About the Family Assistance Network."
She stiffened. "Yes, I was."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I couldn't be a part of the network because you wouldn't want me to."
"I don't."
"I know."
His hand fisted and he banged it on the steering wheel, making her jump. "Damn. I feel selfish depriving the team of your services."
She leaned back into the seat as if she knew where this was going. "And, selfishly, I don't want that proximity to you, either. I went to the Rescue the Kids program to get away from you."
He'd suspected as much.
He felt compelled to say, "I won't change my mind about us, Delaney." He couldn't.
"Yeah, Doc, I got that message loud and clear." She leaned over then and kissed him. A smart-mouthed kiss, full of sass. "But your stubbornness doesn't change how I feel about you. Remember that when you go home at night and wonder where I am. Who I'm with. I won't be celibate forever. Know that the man could have been you." She threw open the car door and her skirt rode up to kingdom come—as she'd probably intended it to do. She caught him looking. "Thanks for the ride." She jumped out and headed for her house.
Thanks for the ride. Hell, she had him on an emotional roller coaster he wasn't sure he could survive.
And he cursed a blue streak on the way home about it.
Later, when everything came back in his dreams, he was still cursing her, the fire department and life itself.
* * *
Whereas her sister chose to work out her frustrations with hundred-pound weights and a treadmill, Delaney cleansed her body and soul with dance. Chelsea and dance had been the only constants in her life growing up, and she hadn't forsaken them as an adult. She and Chelsea were as close as ever, and Delaney still took a ballet class twice a week.
On the night after the fire, she'd come to The Weight Room, the gym her sister owned, and headed to a back room that housed a wood floor, a huge mirror and a barre. Chelsea's staff ran aerobic classes here, one of which had just ended.
"Mind if I use the room now?" she asked the gym manager, Spike Lammon.
"Hey, for my favorite girl? Of course I don't mind." Spike gave her an Olympic-caliber smile. Men had always been good for Delaney's ego.
I won't change my mind about us, Delaney.
Well, some men.
"Need any help?"
"No, thanks. Gotta work out my frustrations alone."
He gave her a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. "Ready to take me up on my offer yet?"
"Hmm." He'd been begging for a date. "Maybe. I'll let you know."
When Spike left, Delaney flicked the soothing sounds of Debussy from her iPod, shucked off her jeans, donned her ballet shoes and poised herself in front of the mirror. Dressed in a black leotard and tights, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.
She'd dance her heart out and not think about Reed Macauley tonight. First position. Heels touching, feet pointing out. Arms extended, hands curled…
He'd held her hand twice last night, once at the fire, once when they went to the Leones' home. They'd linked fingers as they'd made love New Year's Eve, too. The connection had been intimate. Sweet. Who would have guessed there'd be that bud of acute tenderness between them just waiting to blossom?
Demi Plié. A graceful bend at the knees.
He'd kissed the back of those knees that night six months ago…
Ordering herself to close her eyes, get lost in the music and the discipline of ballet, she took a croisé position and chasséd into an attitude, left leg raised.
You have no right having legs this long, he'd said, sliding his hands down the full length of one.
I'll wrap them around you anytime you want, Doc.
He'd laughed, deep and from the belly. She'd been startled at the masculine rumble she'd never heard before.
Disgusted with her inability to banish Reed Macauley from her mind, Delaney went into an arabesque ouverte—balanced on the right foot, left foot at a perfect 90-degree angle to her body, arms extended.
A good dancer, she could have been better. An instructor had once told her she was his best pupil—and that she could be a star. Moving from town to town during her adolescence had precluded that dream and dashed a myriad of others.
She stumbled at the thought of her mother's bohemian lifestyle with the two different men she'd married. "Damn."
"Don't think I've ever heard a ballerina swear before." Delaney pivoted to find her sister in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Delaney asked. To assure herself that Chelsea was all right after the fire, Delaney had gone over to the Scarlattas' house and tucked her sister in for a nap about three o'clock this afternoon.
"We took the baby back to Beth, and I wanted to stop in here and make sure everything's running smoothly." She ambled into the room, dressed in a light summer hoodie and shorts, her blond hair loose around her shoulders. Shoulders that slumped—unusual for Delaney's in-the-clouds sister these days. Since her marriage to Jake, Chelsea had never seemed happier.
Walking to the iPod, Delaney switched it off and dropped to the floor. Cross-legged, she patted the space next to her. "Sit."
Chelsea eased down onto the floor.
"You okay?" Delaney asked.
"I'm so sad, Laney."
She grasped Chelsea's uninjured hand. "It's hard when someone dies."
"Yeah. I didn't know Tom Leone well, but I worked with Sammy a lot. I feel so bad for that family."
I could help them. Especially the kids.
Her sister's brows narrowed and her lips trembled. "It could have been Jake." Stopping, she took a deep breath. "He was trapped in that fire." She bit her lip. "You know, I never worried about him before."
"He's probably had this same conversation with Ben or Dylan. My guess is he'll worry about you, too, for a while, anyway."
"God, firefighting's a tough business. I'm so glad they're starting FAN at the academy. We all need help, guidance."
"I'd like to be a part of the program." Damn, that slipped out.
"Really? I'll bet they'd jump at the chance to get you."
"They already tried. I turned them down."
Thoughtfully, Chelsea perused her sister's face. "Does this have anything to do with Reed Macauley?"
Delaney nodded. For the first time ever Delaney had kept something from her sister. In the past, she'd confessed everything, even the night she'd stayed out till dawn with Eddie Tabor and became a woman. But what happened between her and Reed was too private, too painful to share. "I don't want to work with him."
"He's a great guy." Chelsea watched her closely. "You don't like Reed because you can't wrap him around your little finger, like every other male you come in contact with."
You could wrap me around your little finger if I let you, lady.
"No, it isn't that." Delaney was uncomfortably aware of the yearning in her voice.
"What is it?"
Suddenly Delaney longed to share her troubles with her sister. And because her feelings for Reed had been unexpectedly rekindled by this incident, she needed to talk about them. She was also worried about him, wondering what effect Tom Leone's death had had on him. "Something's—"
"There you are."
Two hundred pounds of handsome male flesh poked his head in the door. Jake frowned when he took in their position. "Is this private?" he asked. "I can wait out here."
Delaney stood. "No. Your wife should be in bed, after last night."
Jake's gray eyes danced. "Bed sounds good to me."
The smile Chelsea gave her husband made Delaney's stomach pitch. As did the way Jake cradled his wife to him after they said their goodbyes and left. What was between them was so good, so right.
And for the first time, Delaney wanted that kind of love in her life, too. Unfortunately, the only man she'd consider pursuing something permanent with had rejected her outright. And it hurt. A lot.
She stood and crossed to the iPod. Switching Debussy back on, she approached the mirror and stared at the lonely woman before her.
First position…
* * *
Seated on his living room couch, Reed stared at the twenty-by-twenty inch square he'd taken to calling Pandora's Box because he'd once made that association with Delaney. You know, any contact with you is like opening Pandora's Box. All hell breaks loose.
She'd bristled at the insult, of course. He'd chuckled at her reaction and walked away.
Shaking his head, he smiled down at the box, covered with peach-and-white silk, and suited her perfectly—so soft, so feminine, so…pretty. He'd discovered the treasure in one of the antique shops he frequented and immediately knew it was meant for Delaney.
Slowly, he removed the cover to add the newest present. Damn, he was losing his mind. He knew that it kept her in his mind, never far away from his heart. Yet there was something cathartic about the bizarre practice. Whenever he bought another gift to stow secretly away in here, his need for her lessened. Collecting these items seemed to have precluded a few of the attacks, maybe because the practice allowed him to release his feelings for Delaney slowly. He was in control. Just the opposite of how things were when he was with her. Bill Connelly, the psychologist Reed had seen a few times, would have a field day with this little ritual.
Like a kid poring over memorabilia of his first love, Reed studied each item. One was a T-shirt he'd come across in New York, so outrageous she'd love it. You're Just Jealous Because the Voices Are Talking To ME. He fingered the cotton. It was soft, but not as soft as her skin. He'd told her she felt like Chinese silk. And she'd melted at his touch and at his words.
Replacing the shirt, he drew out a small scroll he'd ordered over the Net. Scripted with what was one of the funniest mockeries of psychology he'd ever seen. He'd wanted to share the joke with her so badly, he ached with the need.
The phone rings… Click…
Recording: Hello, welcome to the psychiatric hotline.
--If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.
--If you are co-dependent, please ask for someone to press 2.
--If you are paranoid-delusional, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line until we can trace the call.
--If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a little voice will tell you which number to press.
--If you are manic-depressive, it doesn't matter which number you press. No one will answer.
Delaney would laugh at the sentiments.
There were a few other items—a sleek carving of her name, a rare first edition of Freud's autobiography. But the one that had come from a mail order catalog today was the best. Attached to a chain, a delicate gold charm read, in pretty script, Firefighter's Lady.
Something she would never be, at least not his lady, anyway. He scowled as he buffed the gold of the charm with his sleeve. Some smoke eater might snag her, though. He'd caught the guys at the academy eyeing her. Several of the young lieutenants tripped over themselves every time she'd visited him. Reed couldn't bear the thought of her with another man. When she told him in the Jeep two nights ago that she hadn't slept with anyone else since the New Year, his heart had trip-hammered in his chest with absolute joy.
But he was crazy to rejoice in that admission.
He had to let her go, even in his mind.
He should throw out the box and its contents, stop this macabre (maybe even a bit creepy) rite. Even if buying her stuff did make him feel closer to her. Because it did.
Vowing to get rid of all the gifts—soon—he stood. Gently, he fitted the cover back on the box and then replaced it in the window seat.