Back Where She Belongs(2)

Rita made a face. “That’s nasty. Better bring headphones.”

Tara laughed, praying Faye would make it to a room, even if it were to torture Rita with bad music. She felt a rush of gratitude and lunged to her feet to give Rita a quick hug. “Thanks for taking such good care of her.”

Rita’s mocha coloring deepened. “No need to fuss over a person just doing her job, which I need to get on with right now.” Rita hurried off and Tara turned back to Faye.

She looked so small, so still, so beat-up. Sadness built to a huge crashing wave Tara knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back. She turned to go, to find the privacy of a bathroom, just as a man stepped in. Dylan.

“Tara?” He seemed to read her face, then opened his arms.

She went straight into them and burst into tears, muffling her sobs against his shirt, breathing in starched cotton, feeling the familiar comfort, the safety of Dylan’s embrace. He rubbed her back, palms pressing hard, easing the muscle cramps she got when she was upset. He remembered.

If Faye was her family, then Dylan Ryland had been her home.

They’d been so close, so in love.

Until they weren’t.

As the sadness ebbed, she realized how stupid this was. The first time she’d seen him in ten years and she bursts into tears in his arms? How clingy. How weak. She’d done the same thing years ago, when he’d told her he wasn’t coming with her to college.

Ashamed, she broke away. “Sorry.” Then she saw she’d left a wet blotch and streaks of mascara on his crisp blue oxford. “I ruined your shirt.”

“Forget it.” He whipped a tissue from the box on Faye’s tray and held it out.

Tara took it and wiped his shirt, aware instantly that his chest was broader and more muscular than before.

He stopped her hand, his palm warm. “That was for you. My shirt’s fine.”

“Oh.” She looked at him. He was as handsome as ever—maybe more so. His skin was the same golden-brown, his hair chestnut with glints of blond. He had the same ready smile and smoky gray-green eyes that used to make her catch her breath when they looked at her.

Her breath caught now. Startled, she stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the tissue, scrubbing under her eyes for the rest of the mascara, wishing he’d stop staring at her.

She felt a warm glow, that tight feeling down low, that ticking awareness of him as a man, of her as a woman. It jangled her nerves, already in turmoil from sadness, worry and the humiliation of sobbing in his arms.

“It’s good to see you,” he said softly.

The glow flared into a steady flame, warming her, softening her, tightening her, too. What was wrong with her? This was no way to feel. Not here. Not now. Not ever really.

It’s good to see you, too. She couldn’t deny that, but she didn’t have to say it out loud.

Looking closer, she noticed changes—his cheekbones and jaw were more defined, his eyes more knowing. There were laugh lines outlining his strong mouth. He’d been more boy than man at eighteen. Now he was all man. All man.

The thought made the flame shoot through her like the adrenaline of sudden danger. She had to get control. “What are you doing here?” she asked more abruptly than she intended.

“I was in Tucson on business and I wanted to touch base with your mother.” He glanced past Tara at the bed where Faye lay. “How is she?”

“The nurse says she’s a fighter,” Tara said, her voice cracking. “Sounds like the standard buck-up-the-family speech, doesn’t it?”

“Faye’s a strong person,” he said firmly, as if that would be enough to save her. Tara hoped it would be. He studied Faye for a long quiet moment, as if sending her healing strength. It made Tara feel less scared.

“How are you holding up?” He looked at her the way he always had, searching, missing nothing, his gaze piercing but tender. He’d understood her without words. As a teenager in the throes of first-love, she’d been wild about that, basked in it, adored it.

Now it made her feel naked...vulnerable.

“Oh, I’m a fighter, too,” she said, forcing a smile. She didn’t want him to see how frightened and small and sad she felt.

“You are,” he said. “I remember.” There was tenderness in his gaze, and delight, and the same flare of attraction she felt. Ten years later. How strange.

“My mother’s not here—”

The curtain rustled and her mother and Joseph stepped in. “So you came,” her mother said archly to Tara, eyebrows lifted.

The insult stung, but a retort died on Tara’s lips at her mother’s appearance. Her eyes were puffy, her usually flawless skin blotched and her blond up-do was smashed on one side. Her cashmere sweater bore a coffee stain. Rachel Wharton didn’t step onto her terrace for the paper unless she looked ready for the cover of Town & Country.

Pity surged through Tara. “I’m so sorry, Mom.” She lurched forward and hugged her mother. The woman went rigid. This was not Wharton family protocol, but Tara didn’t give a damn.

Her mother’s body felt frail, as if her bones might snap under any pressure. Tara released her and smiled, trying to hide her alarm. Her mother’s eyes were too shiny, her pupils too large. She’d taken something.

Her mother had always taken pills—pills to wake up, pills to go to sleep, pills to cheer her, calm her or distract her. Bubble wrap against emotion.

Tara used to raid her mom’s medicine cabinet to give pills to her friends or to sell them for cigarette money. She wasn’t proud of that. Being angry, lonely, sad and hurt didn’t excuse her actions. Dylan had changed her. Sometimes it had felt like he’d saved her.

“They limit us to two visitors at a time,” Joseph said to Dylan, no animosity in his tone. Joseph was gaunt, almost shrunken, his receding hairline prominent against his pale forehead, which was lined with worry.

“I’m leaving,” Dylan said, not reacting to Joseph’s brusque words. “I wanted to reassure you about the funeral, Rachel. I’ve arranged for the band students to be bussed to another high school.”

“Thank you so much,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry you had to intervene. Abbott spent three years on that school board. He should not have to beg to use the auditorium.”

“It was no trouble. Part of the job.”

“The job?” Tara blurted. What did Dylan have to do with the high school and her father’s funeral?

“I’m the Wharton town manager,” he said to her.

“You’re kidding! You don’t work for your dad anymore?”

“I work with him still, yes. But I’m also town manager.”

“Wow,” she said. “Wow.” Twenty-eight seemed young for that kind of responsibility, but Dylan had been a student leader in high school—top grades, all-around good guy...her total opposite.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t sound so amazed,” her mother said. “You’ve practically insulted the man. I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness, Dylan. You do a great job...even part-time.”

Annoyance flickered in Dylan’s eyes, whether at Tara or her mother, she couldn’t tell. “I’m sorry for your loss, Rachel,” he said, then turned to Tara. “And yours. I’m sorry you lost your father.” His words caught her short and her knees gave way. She’d lost her father. He was dead...gone forever. Tara had been so focused on Faye that fact hadn’t sunk in.

“Thank you,” she said. She could tell he’d caught the hitch in her step, though she’d shifted her weight to hide it. Dylan didn’t miss much about her. That hadn’t changed. With a last concerned look at Tara, he told them he’d confirm with the mortuary and left.

“Still blunt, I see,” her mother said to her. Tara’s directness had been her antidote to her mother’s obsession with how things looked, with being proper and polite. That was partly the appeal of Tara’s career, which demanded honesty and openness. The truth, no matter how painful, was always better than a lie.

“It was a simple question.”

“You’re too thin,” her mother said. “And that hairstyle does not flatter your face.”

That means she cares, Tara told herself. “It’s good to see you, too.” None of them would be at their best, she knew. She had to guard against dwelling on old pains or operating on old assumptions. She was better than that. She’d fought for ten years to rise above her past. This would be her test.

Her mother swayed, so Tara helped her into the chair, wondering if she’d taken too many pills.

“I need to get to work,” Joseph said, looking at his watch. “Will you drive Rachel to the mortuary, then home?” he asked Tara.

“Happy to.” She followed him out into the hall. He’d barely told her a thing about the accident. “I have a few questions—”