Silent Fall

kept there so she could open the wine she'd brought to celebrate nine years together. What a fool she'd been.
    "It was never like that," Sam said.
    "It was always like that.   And it wasn't just the box of photos. It's been so much more, and you know it. I wanted more children, Sam, and you refused over and over again. Because having another child with me, making a deliberate choice to add to the family, would mean you were planning to stay with me. But you couldn't make that commitment, could you? You couldn't cross that line, because you weren't planning to stay forever. Well, I just cut the time short."
    Before Sam could reply, Megan returned to the room.
    "Look, Mommy, I made you a candleholder out of a wine bottle, see?" Megan held up the papier-mache-covered bottle with a proud smile. "Daddy helped me. Can we light a candle for dinner?"
    "I guess."
    "No," Sam said abruptly. "We don't need a candle."
    Megan's smile vanished. "Why not, Daddy?"
    "Candles are for special occasions, honey," he said more gently as he headed for the door. "I'll get some drinks."
    * * *
    Sam walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall, stopping to catch his breath, to steady his pulse. Candles are for special occasions. What a stupid thing to say. But the thought of a candlelight dinner with Alli... No, he couldn't do it.
    Alli put his stomach in a knot every time she walked through the door, every time she opened her mouth. She'd destroyed his life not once but twice, for when he'd finally come to terms with being a father and a husband—after he'd struggled so hard to make it all work, she'd bailed on him.
    A twinge of guilt poked at his conscience. Okay, so maybe he'd kept up with Tessa's life, stored a few photographs. They were harmless pictures. Half the world owned magazines with Tessa's face on the cover. And how could he tell Alli that her grandmother had given him most of the clippings? It would only destroy their relationship, because she'd think her grandmother was favoring her sister.
    And what did it all matter anyway? He'd married Alli as soon as he'd found out she was pregnant. He'd been twenty years old, Alli only eighteen. But they'd had to grow up overnight. He'd thrown aside all of his plans of traveling and seeing the world and gone to work for his father, eventually taking over the business and working his ass off to provide for his family.
    Damn it all. He felt as unsettled as the weather outside. He didn't know whether to be furious or relieved it was all over. He didn't know why he couldn't look at Alli anymore, why her voice made him so nervous, why he was so afraid that the merest touch of her hands would be the death of him. They'd lived together for a long time, but he'd never been as aware of her as he was right now.
    Alli walked out of the family room and bumped into him, not expecting to find him still standing there. He automatically reached out to steady her, his hands coming to rest on her waist, his fingers burning as the warmth of her body seeped through the thin material of her dress.
    She sucked in a short breath, and his pulse quickened. He didn't want to look into her eyes. It was bad enough that he could smell her favorite perfume—that he could feel her body under his hands, that he could hear her breathing.
    He couldn't look into her eyes. He couldn't take that risk. He didn't know what he would see there.
    He wasn't sure he wanted to know. She'd confused him since the day she'd moved in next door as a bossy little girl, changing personalities as often as a chameleon changed color. Just when he thought he knew who she was, she turned into someone else.
    "Sam?" she questioned, her voice turning husky.
    It almost undid him. He'd loved her voice in the dark of the night, whispering, promising... He drew in a breath and dropped his hands from her waist. "I'll get those drinks."
    She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Look at me."
    He sent her a brief glance that barely grazed her face, then turned away. "I'm thirsty."
    "Sam—" The ringing phone cut off her words, and Sam felt a great relief. He brushed past her, returning to the family room to find Megan on the phone.
    "Oh, hi, Mr. Beckett," Megan said. "Yes, he's here."
    Sam took the phone from her hand. "William? How are you?"
    "Not too good, Sam." William's usually brisk seventy-six-year-old voice trembled. "It's Phoebe. I don't know how to tell you this, but she's—she's had a stroke."
    "No!" Sam couldn't stop the