Convicted (Consequences)

saw him in the doorway. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but his eyes were as black as the country, moonless night, beyond the glass wall. Helplessly, she stood before him. Time momentarily stood still as his gaze devoured her. It wasn’t just her appearance as he scanned her up and down—it was her soul. With each tick of the clock it slipped further and further away. He already owned it—he’d taken it years ago. She waited to see if he planned to keep and treasure it, or discard it—like yesterday’s news.
    When he didn’t speak, she walked toward him, drawn by an invisible pull. Her body ached for his touch. From the look on his face, she believed the feeling was mutual. When she was mere inches away, he said, “I got you a salad. I forgot to ask what you wanted.”
    Her heart sank. His voice didn’t match his gaze. Dejectedly, she replied, “A salad is fine,” and turned away.
    Claire had thought the years of separation while in Everwood were unbearable. That was nothing compared to the pain of having him in front of her, yet—inaccessible.
    During the drive to Emily’s, they calmly—too calmly—discussed their separation. After some debate, they both agreed to keep it temporarily concealed. The Vandersols wouldn’t understand, and the charade would be easier on Nichol. They planned to ease her into it, after she moved to the estate. Claire’s hands began to tremble as they pulled up to the Vandersol’s home. Surprisingly, Tony reached over and covered hers with his. It was the first contact since the balcony. His tone was kind and reassuring, “It’ll be all right.”
    She didn’t move or attempt reciprocation; instead, she enjoyed the sensation of his warm touch and replied honestly, “I’m scared, what if she doesn’t want us?”
    “She will.”
    Turning toward him, she asked, “I haven’t even asked, have you seen her?”
    He shook his head. “No, pictures are all. I was just released yesterday, and she was never brought to me. It was probably better—a little girl shouldn’t be visiting her father in a federal penitentiary.”
    Claire looked at him in surprise. “Yesterday? And you’ve accomplished all of this?”
    “Like I said—I had help. I’ve been planning my release for some time.”
    She looked back down at his hand on her lap as her neck straightened. “And our divorce—how long have you been planning that?”
    Pulling his hand away, he rebuked, “Claire, not now. Let’s not go back there.”
    A new thought came to her mind. With it came fire that instantly dried her once moist eyes. She suddenly needed to know the answer to a burning question. “Is there someone else?”
    “What?”
    “Is—there—someone—else?!”
    “No!”—his volume rose—“I told you, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
    “Well, you obviously don’t want me! And you’re Anthony Rawlings . You were in prison and your wife was crazy; nevertheless, you’re still Anthony Rawlings. You would eventually get out of prison, but your wife would always be crazy. I bet there were letters of devotion, propositions, and proposals.”
    “Claire, our daughter is waiting.”
    Sudden rage boiled within her. While she’d been living in a fantasy world, was he communicating with another woman or women? The intensity of her stare grew as she asked again, “I’ve already asked this once, don’t make me ask again. Is there someone else?”
    “Claire, calm down.”
    Her hand contacted his arrogant expression. Tony stared in disbelief as he seized her fingers. “What the hell was that?”
    “You never answer my questions. Tell me, were there letters? Did women write to you promising anything you wanted, all for the chance to take my place?”
    “You’re getting yourself all worked up. Calm down; Nichol is waiting.”
    She glared as her voice lowered. “I deserve to know.”
    “Yes.” His eyes glowed in the illumination of the dashboard. “Are you happy?” His growl deepened as he continued to painfully hold her seized hand. “There were letters—I didn’t respond. I don’t give a damn about anyone—anyone but you. Hell—I even—”
    Claire’s heart raced. She waited for him to finish his sentence; instead, he released her hand and turned away. She prodded, “You even what?”
    “We’ll finish this discussion another time.” It wasn’t debatable. He’d said more than he’d wanted, and he wasn’t saying any more. That conversation was done.