Fugitives of Love Page 13

  Going backward seemed intolerable now. If she went to Brenna, she risked uncovering a truth that could ruin both of them. If she got in her car and left, she would return to her self-imposed exile. The former could end badly but the latter would be just as disastrous.

  She stared at Brenna’s motel door. She had to at least apologize for what she’d said.

  *

  Great, Brenna thought, I’m up again at the crack of dawn without a cup of coffee in sight. After a fitful night of sporadic sleep and troubling dreams, she’d dressed but now fell back onto the bed in complete confusion about her next move.

  If only she could call room service and have them bring up a pot of steaming-hot, highly caffeinated coffee. That seemed like the only decision that would produce positive and predictable results.

  A knock on the door made her sit up.

  Great. She’d yearned so badly for java that she was now imagining a man in black pants and white shirt standing outside with a linen-covered table ready to be wheeled in. Maybe she needed more sleep.

  The knock came again.

  She frowned at the early hour and crept toward the door, opening it slowly.

  “Sinclair.” She looked troubled but was still as beautiful as ever. Brenna stepped aside and let her in.

  “May I sit down?”

  Brenna pointed to the bed. “Sure.”

  She sat down next to Sinclair and waited for her to speak.

  “I’m sorry I was mean to you last night. I said some things that were partially true, but you must have taken them to heart. When I said I was trying to correct a mistake, I meant that I had made a mistake in believing that I would be okay stepping out of my own little world here.

  “I’ve carved out a life that’s safe and has few ripples. It’s stayed the same way for twenty years. But then I met you and everything turned upside down. I fell hard for you and let things progress when I shouldn’t have, which led to my hurting you.” She inhaled deeply. “Brenna, hurting you was the mistake I made.”

  Brenna still wasn’t clear about what had happened. “I hear what you’re saying, but the generalizations about you and us don’t make sense.”

  Sinclair rubbed her hands on her thighs, her growing agitation pervading the room like an uneasy wind that precedes a storm.

  “When you just up and left New York,” Brenna said, “I was concerned. And when I came to see you last night, I admit, what you said devastated me. Sinclair, I need to know why you left.”

  For the longest time, Sinclair surveyed the room as if searching for something that would help her. “I needed to get out of there.”

  “My gallery?”

  “New York.”

  “But why?”

  “Brenna, please. I came here to apologize and to let you know that you’re a beautiful, loving woman, but I just can’t be with you.”

  More vague, sweeping statements. “I don’t get it.”

  “My life isn’t conducive to a relationship.”

  “That was far from true in the short time we were together in New York.”

  “I loved being with you, I really did. But it couldn’t last. I didn’t want our final conversation to be the one we had last night, so please accept my apology and let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

  Brenna’s frustration escalated. She wasn’t going to let Sinclair throw her away that easily. “That’s not good enough.”

  Sinclair gave her a defiant, challenging look, but a heart-crushing vulnerability lurked behind her expression. “I can’t let this go on.”

  “You’re not making any sense. One minute I’m having the best time ever, and I’m sure you were, too. And then you took off. Did Nina’s comments offend you?”

  Sinclair shook her head.

  “Was it those police officers?”

  When she didn’t respond, Brenna said, “Please tell me.”

  Obviously Sinclair was having a silent argument with herself. She looked at the floor, her eyes darting around.

  Brenna reached out to take her hand but Sinclair raised her shoulders as if she was cringing, and Brenna withdrew her hand.

  “Please. Just tell me the truth.”

  Sinclair gazed straight at her, her eyes filled with tears. “The truth. The truth will make you turn away from me…or turn on me.”

  Brenna wanted to hold her, to make whatever was tormenting her so badly just disappear. “You’re already trying to get me to turn away, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m crazy about you, Sinclair.”

  Sinclair closed her eyes, shutting them tight, as if to expunge some horrible thing, and Brenna’s mind raced trying to figure out what it could be.

  “Whatever you have to say will be okay.”

  For a long time, she stared past Brenna, her eyes red and filling with tears. Brenna saw sadness, tinged with something else. Fear? Shame?

  Then Sinclair focused on her, looking deeply into her eyes. “I murdered my stepfather.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “There you have it. That’s the truth.” Sinclair clasped her hands together, but they were shaking.

  The words had staggered Brenna, and the ragged gasp of breath she took was the only sound in the room.

  Sinclair stared hard at her, as if steeling herself for a bad reaction. After a moment, she said, “I always thought that if I ever told anyone, they’d be disgusted and repulsed, not hurt.”

  Brenna opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. In a moment, the admission had come like a wrecking ball slamming into an old wooden shack, and her world had exploded. Brenna’s overworked impulse to run was strong. Her head buzzed and her throat went dry.

  “Brenna, I don’t go anywhere because if they find me, I’ll go to prison. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.” Brenna’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

  “After I killed him, I ran. That’s how I ended up here twenty years ago. I’m sure they looked for me—the police, my stepbrother—but no one knew where I went. I hitchhiked, walked, then hitchhiked some more. I don’t remember much except for hiding along the roadside at night, sleeping in culverts or behind gas stations. And then I ended up here. Peggy found me and took me in. She fed me and clothed me. She was the only one who knew what happened. No one else does, except you, now.”

  Her body sagged with the weight of the horrible secret she’d held for two decades.

  “I’ve been hiding ever since.”

  “When the police confronted you in New York,” Brenna said carefully, “they scared you.”

  “They asked for my identification. With computers and fingerprinting software and other technical stuff nowadays, I was sure they’d figure out who I was.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sinclair.”

  “No need to be. I did it. I’ve gotten it in my head that one day someone will find out who I really am, and I’ll have to pay the price.” She paused and then stood. “That’s why we can’t be together.”

  She stepped toward the door and Brenna said quickly, “Wait—”

  “For what? Nothing’s going to change where we are right now. You know the truth and you know why I left New York.” She smiled weakly, or maybe it was a grimace. “We can’t be together, Brenna. I wish we could.”

  After she walked out the door and closed it carefully, Brenna stared at it for a long, agonizing time.

  *

  Brenna sat on the motel bed until seven thirty. She seemed to have gone into a trance, her brain churning relentlessly until she became numb and frozen in a sickening, dreamlike stupor.

  The sounds of people talking outside and cars and more trucks driving down the highway rumbled at the edge of her consciousness until another thunderous semi finally roused her. In a daze, she collected her things and picked up her car keys.

  She couldn’t think of anything to do but return home.

  *

  It’s over. The words followed Brenna down the highway and past Damariscotta and Wiscasset. She joined Interstate 1 South an
d watched dully as the blacktop road, with its aged cracks and patches, stretched out before her like an endless quandary.

  Needing gas, she finally pulled off in Falmouth and filled up. With little energy and no desire to get back on the road, she detoured to Foreside Harbor and got out of the car.

  The boatyard, for its small size, was dynamic with the comings and goings of skippers and their vessels. Normally this type of environment would energize her. She knew that picturesque places such as this were where her clients would find inspiration for their work. Maybe all that was left was to make the long drive back home and bury herself in the gallery again. She meandered around, willing the sea air and moderate breezes to ease the discord in her gut and eventually found a tired-looking floating dock that sat deserted and isolated from the busy fishing commerce not far away.

  Sitting on the warm wood planks, she leaned back and ran her fingers across the uneven texture of the worn boards. A lone seagull scrutinized the stability of a buoy not far out in the water. The bird landed and jostled for balance a moment before tucking its wings and settling in to bask in the same patch of morning sun that warmed Brenna.

  Memories of Sinclair, their lovemaking and walking around New York, muddled together with imagined scenarios of Sinclair at fifteen being abused and beaten and finally retaliating against her father. Her heart ached and sharp, physical pain gripped her chest. She thought of Sinclair’s escape and being alone out on the highway, scared and hungry and trying to survive.

  She’d lived her life as a prisoner, hiding from prosecution for the intolerable circumstances she was subjected to.

  A fugitive, Brenna thought, fleeing from something extremely tough.

  Brenna had fled only from relationships. And they hadn’t been tough, or complicated, or even abusive. So why was she always walking away?

  Too much work. Not enough emotional investment.

  Since Petra, she’d moved through every relationship the same way on an easy, unimpeded path, doing, or not doing, as she wished, whichever was easier.

  What had been the outcome of that behavior? She was nothing but a quitter. Here she was again, leaving a relationship that wasn’t easy. Too much of a struggle.

  The conversation she’d had with Sinclair at Rockefeller Center came back with stinging clarity.

  She had told Sinclair she’d never struggled for anything. She had been right, she wasn’t a strong person.

  She now knew her biggest character flaw. After hearing Sinclair’s shocking revelation, Brenna had grabbed her car keys and driven away. She’d pushed her feelings for Sinclair aside because they hadn’t fit into her game plan. She’d fled like a pathetic deserter.

  She’d caused her own misery, and sudden shame washed over her because Sinclair’s troubles were a thousand times worse than hers.

  Oh, Sinclair. The one woman who finally meant something to her and the one that made her feel breathlessly alive and enormously happy. She had every reason to stay away from such a catastrophic disclosure and the ramifications that could follow, but every time Sinclair would look at her, Brenna would melt into those emerald eyes. They contained such a powerful expression of trust and vulnerability that was all for her.

  Could it be love?

  She looked out at the crisp, blue water, understanding the weight of her realization. No matter how difficult Sinclair could be, Brenna could no longer run away from her heart. The woman she’d fallen in love with now compelled her to take the most important stand of her life.

  No, it’s not over.

  Before she said it aloud, she nodded slowly, a familiar chant now ringing true in a previously closed part of her life.

  “Never give up.” She stood so quickly the seagull launched itself from the buoy with an annoyed cackle.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Brenna still hadn’t found a cup of coffee all morning, but getting a fix was far from important. With the noon hour upon her, she drove back into New Harbor and straight to Sinclair’s house.

  She banged on the door, waited anxiously, and banged again. Her nerves were on edge and some caffeine would really help, but nothing was more important than what she was about to do.

  Sinclair opened the door. She looked like she’d been crying.

  Brenna stepped closer. “I can’t shut my feelings off like that.”

  Sinclair turned and walked toward the windows facing the sea. “Neither can I. But it doesn’t matter, Brenna.”

  Brenna followed her, stopping right behind her. She could almost smell her blond hair. “Of course it matters.”

  “Think about a relationship where one person is in hiding. I won’t let all this drag you down. It was foolish to think you and I could be together and not have any problems.”

  “That happened a long time ago.”

  “By law, there’s no statute of limitations on what I did, Brenna. They can come get me any time. What kind of a life could we have? What kind of a lover could I be if I’m always worried about being arrested? What kind of healthy relationship could come from what I’ve done?”

  “You’re not the same person now. You’re incredibly loving and considerate. You’re kind and passionate—”

  She whirled around to face her. “I’m a murderer, Brenna.”

  “And a thousand things other than that.”

  “You’re not getting this, are you?”

  “What I get is that we have feelings for each other. Am I wrong about that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, listen to me, now. When I drove away from town this morning, I was numb. I didn’t know how to react to what you said. But then I started to think about us. And I thought a lot about me and how I’ve been in relationships. I’ve always left them so easily because I never really, truly cared about the women I was involved with. I know some were more important to me than others, but they never meant all that much.

  “With you it’s not that easy. Now that I’ve met you, everything’s different. I don’t want to give up. I came back because I realized I’ve always wanted to have this relationship. I can’t imagine walking away without ever knowing what we could be like together.

  “I’ll help you, no matter what. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m ready for whatever happens.”

  For the longest time, Sinclair stared out to sea. Brenna could tell she was listening but wasn’t sure if what she said had made an impact on her.

  Sinclair’s confession had shocked her. She had figured Sinclair must have been harboring some kind of secret, but she never imagined something so serious. However, the only facts that ran through her mind while she sat on the dock in Falmouth were the ones that had to do with the Sinclair she knew right now, the woman she so very much wanted.

  If she had continued to New York, she would have been, yet again, bailing out on a relationship. But this time, no matter what consequences the past events might bring, she had decided to go with her heart.

  Sinclair raised her head and took Brenna’s hand. She led her over to the work table and they sat.

  “I might as well tell you everything. The night I…the night it happened, there had been fights all day. That wasn’t unusual, but that day seemed to be really bad. My stepfather had already had a fistfight with my stepbrother, who then came into my room and pounded on me. He would take his anger out on me because he knew I couldn’t fight back as hard as our father.

  “I told you before that my stepfather was a dairy farmer in Waterville, New York. Well, after my stepmother died, things really got bad at home. He drowned his problems in booze and finally lost the farm. When I was twelve, we moved about thirty miles away to Little Creek. I thought having next-door neighbors so near would keep my stepfather and brother from the abuse, but it got worse.

  “Anyway, the night it happened, I stayed in my room as much as I could and tried to block out their yelling. I was fifteen and couldn’t wait to be sixteen so I could get a driver’s license and a job, and leave.

 
; “I eventually needed to go to the kitchen to make dinner.” A sad chuckle came. “It was buttered noodles.” She shook her head. “Anyway, the three of us sat at the table while I listened to them scream at each other in an extension of the fight that had been going on all day.

  “As soon as I cleaned the dinner dishes, my stepfather started drinking in the family room, and my stepbrother came and got me and we drank out on the front porch.

  “I was learning that alcohol helped me forget my problems. As much as I hated my family when they drank, I understood why they were doing it. I’d never had more than a beer up to that night, but I kept drinking. When we ran out of booze, my stepbrother went back inside and stole another bottle.

  “A lot of that night is just patches of quick memories. He and I talked about how much we hated my stepfather. I remember saying I wished he was dead.”

  She paused. “I don’t know how long we were there. Anyway, at some point I wasn’t feeling well and tried to get up from the chair to go to the bathroom.

  “I wish I could remember more. Sometime later, I ended up shooting him where he lay passed out on the couch. I remember my stepbrother freaked out, telling me I needed to leave because I’d go to prison for the rest of my life. I was so sick, and all I wanted to do was go to bed. I think he helped me pack some things, I don’t know. He might have said something like he wouldn’t call the police until I was gone.”

  Brenna listened to the nightmare of a story. It shocked her, but what rendered her speechless was the weight of keeping such a secret and the horrible memories that must still relentlessly haunt Sinclair. The heaviness of her expression broke Brenna’s heart.

  All of a sudden, it seemed the weight of Sinclair’s confession fell squarely on her shoulders, because she bent over and caught her head in her hands.

  Brenna moved closer and wrapped her arms around her. She started to shake then poured out the hard, wracking tears of so many bottled-up years. Brenna let her cry, giving her supportive squeezes and moving the wet tendrils of hair from her face.

  Much later, after Sinclair had quieted and rested her head on Brenna’s shoulder, Brenna coaxed her to the bedroom and helped her into bed.