She didn’t need to keep secrets, because he’d keep them for her.
“Do you want to know what happened?” She got up to put the plates in the sink. “I’ll tell you. It doesn’t bother me.”
Anymore.
“Of course I want to know.” He raised his brows in emphasis. “But only if you want to tell me.”
Her desire to share everything with him…it disoriented her. But she couldn’t deny the urge, just as she couldn’t deny the relief she experienced afterwards. “I had no idea you thought I was rich. So it’s probably good for me to explain some things.”
As always when she spoke about anything personal, he offered her his complete attention. Cell turned off and pushed away, eyes on her and nothing but her.
She kept it snappy. “I met Barton when I was in the master’s program for American history at Marysburg University. He was getting his MBA. Mom had just”—she took a sip of water, hiding her face for a moment—“died, and I was kind of…lost. And that’s when Barton swooped in.”
Without even knowing the full story, Martin cringed a bit at that.
“At first, he thought I was rich too,” she said.
Martin nodded. “Because of how you carry yourself.”
“I have a talent for finding quality clothing at thrift stores. Mom did too.” On weekends when her mother didn’t work, they’d take the bus to wealthier neighborhoods and comb through secondhand shops for hours, searching for undiscovered treasures. “I was also very well-educated by that point, and I made a point of sounding like it. I didn’t have any desire for people to know where I’d come from or judge me for my upbringing.”
His mouth opened, and then he shut it again. Kept it shut.
“But at some point, I told him about my past. I thought he’d be horrified, but instead he was…” The memory of the avid glee on Barton’s face made her squirm, even now. “He was excited. I thought because he wanted to help me, wanted to give me everything I needed. Social polish. The tools to make sure no one ever looked down on me again. I still thought that after we both graduated and got married.”
She controlled her exhalation. Made it slow.
Martin was suddenly crouching by her side. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about this.”
“No. I want to.” After she’d tugged him upright, she didn’t let his hand go. “You need to know this to understand me.”
He settled back into his chair, mouth tight with concern. “Okay.”
“He had Annette and Alfred assist in teaching me what to wear for different occasions. How to eat. What to say in different types of company.” She didn’t want Martin to get the wrong idea about her former in-laws, so she hurried to add, “They did it because they knew I needed that knowledge in their social circles. So-called upstarts were mocked and insulted even as people smiled to their faces and accepted their dinner invitations. It had happened to Annette and Alfred, and they didn’t want it to happen to me. They were trying to protect me.”
He gave his empty blini plate a vaguely accusing glance, as if it were responsible for such polite viciousness. “That sounds terrible.”
“Their social circles are not for the faint of heart.” Her lips tightened. “The two of them also knew I’d always wanted an impeccable appearance and flawless manners, and they actually cared about my getting what I wanted. Unlike Barton.”
Trepidation weighted his next question. “What did he want?”
“He considered himself the Pygmalion to my sculpture. The Henry Higgins to my Eliza.” She smiled without an ounce of humor. “In short, he wanted to mold me. Form me. Pare away the excess clay and sculpt me into his preferred shape. Which was fine in the beginning, because I’d always intended to take that shape one way or another.”
Martin let the story play out, the hand not holding hers curled into a fist on the table.
“But then I’d changed as much as I wanted to. I was the person I’d intended to become. If he pared away any more, I’d lose my essential form. My structural integrity, I guess.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “Sorry to belabor a metaphor. Anyway, once our goals no longer aligned, I slowly realized he’d never wanted to help me. Not really.”
Martin’s jaw could have been used as a carving implement itself, it had become so sharp. So stony. And all that outrage—on her behalf, always on her behalf—helped her finish the story.
“He wanted to control me.” That simple truth had taken her a ridiculously long time to see. “Once I was the perfect hostess, the perfect dinner companion, he started talking about my size. The weight-lifting I did wasn’t enough, because he suddenly wanted me thin, not strong.”
Martin dropped his chin to his chest. Stared down at the table, that iron jaw working.
But his hand held hers as if an ounce too much pressure might fracture her.
“He started complaining about all the time I spent at school and all the time I worked at home planning and grading, because he’d only ever seen my teaching career as a conversation piece. Something to indicate our humanitarian impulses, rather than an actual job.” Now they were getting to the best part of this particular tale. “At some point, I had enough. I told him I wanted out. And oh, God, Martin, he accused me—”
She choked back a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and Martin’s thumb stroked the back of her hand.
