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“Had a snowball fight?”
“We’ve never done anything like that before.”
“We’ve never had snow like this before.” Nick pulled off his boots. “Blue skies and sparkling snow bring out my inner child.”
She knew it was more than that.
When had they last had fun like that together? When had they last laughed hard at something?
Life had become a series of tasks to be completed, to-do lists to make, places to be.
“Did we embarrass our girls?”
“Probably, but isn’t that what parents are for?” He hung up his coat. “And it was no more embarrassing than you kissing me and talking second honeymoons.”
“That’s different. That was done for a purpose.” She handed him her jacket and pulled off her boots. The snow had seeped through every layer of clothing, and now her sweater and her thermal top stuck uncomfortably to her body. She tugged them away from her skin. “This was spontaneous. We behaved like children.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we behaved like adults without responsibilities. Which makes a nice change. I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time. Let me help you with that—” He reached out and pulled off her damp sweater, resisting its attempts to cling to her soaked arms.
And suddenly she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but her borrowed pair of ski pants and her bra.
The change in his expression reminded her that the bra was the one Catherine had chosen, the one she’d initially rejected for its decadent lace embellishments and general unsuitability for this stage of her life. She’d purchased it because it felt luxurious against her skin, and because she wasn’t a match for Catherine’s persuasive powers.
She hadn’t thought anyone but her would see it. Or perhaps, on some level she hadn’t examined her reasons too closely. It had been an act of defiance, a way of proving to herself that although her marriage might be dead, she wasn’t. That she should look at the miles ahead of her, not the mileage behind.
But she hadn’t intended to be standing in front of him wearing nothing but lace.
“I lost my suitcase—” It seemed imperative that she remind him of that fact, in case he was thinking she’d bought it to seduce him. Even as the thought went through her head, she dismissed it as ridiculous. You couldn’t seduce a man you’d been with for more than thirty years.
“Yes.” His voice was husky, his hands still on her arms. She felt the gentle drag of his thumbs as he warmed her chilled skin.
It had been so long since he’d touched her, since they’d stood like this connected by anything other than the shared life that lay behind them.
She stood still, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that he wouldn’t take his hands away and yet at the same time wanting him to because his touch confused her. The soft stroke of his fingers against her skin stirred feelings she’d thought were dead forever. As those feelings grew and spread and deepened, she felt a flutter of panic. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to know those feelings were still there, because where would that leave them?
Their separation had been mutual. They’d agreed that whatever they’d shared had burned itself out in the fires of life.
She’d believed it, and yet here she was remembering what it had been like to kiss him and curl her body into his in the dark of the night. She remembered everything that lay behind them, all the shared experiences and life events. Their marriage was like a library full of stories they’d written themselves. And they were about to tear that down.
She felt a moment of panic. Were they doing the right thing?
She had to believe they were. She couldn’t have doubts now. That would be unfair on him, and also on her. The decision was made. They needed to plow through it, and she needed to make what lay ahead as easy as possible to bear. Feelings would mean pain, and somehow she’d managed to keep herself numb.
Numb was good. Numb was easy.
His fingers had stopped moving but still he held her, his grip firm as if he was afraid to let go of what he was holding.
A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead. He looked rakish, and younger than his years. For a moment she saw the man she’d fallen in love with. The student who had been so wrapped up in his subject he’d barely known whether it was day or night. In those first few years he’d lived in college and she’d occasionally arrived at his rooms to find him unshaven with bloodshot eyes because he’d been reading all night.
She was the one who had forced him into the shower and then dragged him to breakfast in their favorite café, tucked away in one of the narrow cobbled side streets that were a feature of the ancient university city. He’d devoured bacon and eggs while telling her about his plans to join a dig that summer. He’d talked about pyramids and burial chambers, about gods and burial rituals. Right from the first moment they’d set eyes on each other in the Bodleian Library, she’d been captivated. She’d been taking refuge from a hot, sweaty summer. He’d been absorbed in research. She’d loved his passion, and she’d envied it.
She’d chosen to read English literature, because her parents had pushed her in that direction and she’d found no reason to argue. She enjoyed it, but not in a million years would she have described it as a passion.
Once they were married, her life had fallen into a pattern. She’d tended the girls, she’d tended Honeysuckle Cottage, she’d tended her garden. Somewhere along the way she’d forgotten to tend her marriage. She wasn’t a martyr. She didn’t take all the blame. Nick was at least half as responsible, but somehow that didn’t make her feel better. Their marriage hadn’t exploded or died a dramatic death; it had simply withered and died of neglect.
She felt a spasm of regret, but under the ache was an emotion far, far more dangerous.
She fought against the rebellious swirl of feelings that rose up inside her.
