Mirror Image

afternoon with a lover?”
    “It’s happened,” he said tightly.
    “Not anymore!”
    “What kind of sap do you take me for? Do you expect me to believe that an operation on your face has turned you into a faithful wife?”
    “Believe what you bloody well want to,” she shouted back. “Just leave me alone while you’re believing it.”
    She moved to her closet and almost derailed the sliding door as she angrily shoved it open. Her hands were trembling so badly that her fingers couldn’t manage the buttons on the back of her blouse. She softly cursed her unsuccessful efforts to unbutton them.
    “Let me.”
    Tate spoke from close behind her, an underlying apology in his tone. He tipped her head forward, leaving her neck exposed. His hands captured hers and lowered them to her sides, then unbuttoned the blouse.
    “It would have been a familiar scene,” he remarked as he undid the last button.
    The blouse slid off her shoulders and down her arms. She caught it against her chest and turned to face him. “I don’t respond well to inquisitions, Tate.”
    “No better than I respond to adultery.”
    She bowed her head slightly. “I deserve that, I suppose.” For a moment, she stared at his throat and the strong pulse beating there. Then she lifted her eyes to his again. “But since the airplane crash, have I given you any reason to doubt my devotion to you?”
    The corner of his lips jerked with a tiny spasm. “No.”
    “But you still don’t trust me.”
    “Trust is earned.”
    “Haven’t I earned yours back yet?”
    He didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hand and, with his index finger, traced the gold chain around her neck. “What’s this?”
    His touch almost melted her. Taking a real chance by revealing more skin than she ever had, she let the blouse slip from her hands to the floor. Her locket lay nestled in the cleft between her breasts, enhanced by the engineering of her sheer bra. She heard the sharp breath he took.
    “I found it in a secondhand jewelry store,” she lied. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Tate was staring at the delicate gold piece with the hunger of a starved man for the last morsel of food on earth. “Open it.”
    After a moment’s hesitation, he scooped the locket into his palm and depressed the clasp. The two tiny frames were empty. She’d removed the photographs of her mother and father and left them in Irish’s safekeeping.
    “I want to put pictures of you and Mandy in it.”
    He searched her eyes. Then he looked long at her mouth while rubbing the locket between his thumb and finger. When he snapped it closed, the sound seemed inordinately loud.
    He laid the golden disk back into place against her breasts. His hand lingered. His fingertips skimmed the soft curves, barely maintaining contact with her skin, but where they touched, she burned.
    Still touching her, Tate turned his head away. He was fighting a war within himself, attested to by the flexing of his jaw, the turbulent indecision in his eyes, his shallow breathing.
    “Tate.” Her plaintive inflection brought his gaze back to meet hers. On a whisper, she said, “Tate, I never had an abortion.” She raised her fingertips to his lips before they could form an argument. “I never had an abortion because there never was a baby.”
    The irony of it was that it was the unvarnished truth, but she would have to confess to a lie in order for him to believe it.
    This germ of an idea had been cultivating in her mind for days. She had no idea if Carole had conceived and aborted a baby or not. But Tate would never know, either. A lie would be easier for him to forgive than an abortion, and since that seemed to be the thickest barrier to their reconciliation, she wanted to tear it down. Why should she pay the penalty for Carole’s sins?
    Once committed to it, the rest of the lie came easily. “I only told you I was pregnant for the very reason you cited the other morning. I wanted to flaunt it. I wanted to provoke you.” She laid her hands against his cheeks. “But I can’t let you go on believing that I destroyed your child. I can see that it hurts you too much.”
    After a long, deep, probing stare, he broke contact and stepped back. “The flight to Houston leaves at seven o’clock on Tuesday. Will you be able to handle that?”
    She had hoped her news would release a tide of forgiveness and suppressed love. Trying not to let her disappointment show, she asked, “Which? The early hour or the flight