Troubled, she dried her hair and actually took some pains styling it before the smell of coffee lured her out. She went to the bedroom and dressed in the warmest clothes she had, sweatpants and a flannel shirt, and frowned as she realized for the first time that she hadn’t brought them with her. Diaz must have gotten them. She hadn’t paid much attention to his comings and goings—or anything else—over the past few weeks. She just hoped that inattention didn’t come back to haunt her.
He was cooking breakfast when she left the bedroom. She poured herself a cup of coffee and said, “I’m not wearing a birth control patch.”
He turned the bacon with a fork. “I know.”
Of all the things he could have said, that flabbergasted her the most. She gaped at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I figured you knew.”
“No, I hadn’t realized.” She sipped her coffee. “This could be a problem.”
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
For a moment the callousness of the remark made her mute with surprise; then the truth struck her: the idea of her getting pregnant didn’t upset him at all.
She didn’t want to go there.
“It’s probably all right,” she said. “It takes a while for the system to get back to normal.”
“When will you know?”
She groaned and rubbed her face. “I don’t know exactly. Do you remember when I had my period?”
“It started two days after we got here.”
She should have put on a new patch before going to see David, she realized, but she’d totally forgotten about it. Mentally she worked out the timing; if she was going to ovulate this month—which she hoped she wouldn’t—the time for it, midcycle, would be right about . . . now. Perhaps. She’d worn the patches for so long that she had no idea of the exact timing of her natural cycle now. But she wasn’t going to take any additional chances; if—when—they had sex again, they’d have to take precautions.
“I’ll get some condoms,” he said as he broke eggs into a mixing bowl, added a little milk, then stirred the mixture with a fork. He was either reading her mind or had been following the same path of logic.
He finished cooking breakfast with the same competency he did everything, and as she tucked into the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, she realized she had done absolutely nothing while they’d been here, other than bathe and feed herself. Diaz had done everything else, from the shopping to the cleaning. Uneasily she shied from examining his motives, because she was just now becoming capable of dealing with herself again, on a very limited basis. She wasn’t ready to start thinking about what he wanted.
She helped him clean up afterward, though, and other than a faintly surprised look he showed no reaction. Right after breakfast he showered and left on his condom-hunting expedition; he wasn’t likely to leave something that important to the last minute.
After he left, she wandered around straightening the house, rearranging the decorative pillows on the living room furniture so they were color-coordinated, making his bed, stripping hers and putting the sheets in the wash, since she doubted she’d be sleeping there again. She didn’t know how she felt about that, if she was worried or relieved. Just yesterday she had thought she’d never forgive him for what he’d done, that the breach between them was total and final. Then with one blow he’d smashed down the wall dividing them and she was right back where she’d been: flat on her back beneath him.
Last night, she hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else.
At last, with nothing else to do in the house, she made some fresh coffee and got a blanket from the closet, then carried that and a cup of coffee out onto the screened front porch. She wrapped herself in the blanket and sat down on the wicker love seat, pulling up her feet for warmth. The darkly overcast sky, the gray and turbulent Atlantic, and the cold gray rain all blended together, robbing the day of both sunlight and color. She wrapped her hands around the warm coffee cup and inhaled the fragrant steam, staring into the curtain of rain as she tried to bring order to the multitude of thoughts swirling around her brain.
Today, for the first time, she realized how much the sharp edge of agony had dulled in the last few days. She could function, she could think of other things, she could carry on a conversation. She could smile. The hurt would never go away, but it had become manageable, and would become more so in the weeks, years ahead.
She wondered what she would have done if Diaz hadn’t been there. Even though she had cursed his existence, she’d been totally dependent on him. Mostly he’d left her alone, staying in the background and going hours without even speaking to her, while taking care of the basics of life. At first he had followed her during her walks, but lately he hadn’t even done that. He had, uncomplainingly and silently, done everything he could to help her through this.
He loved her.
The realization was almost blinding, and she bowed her head to rest her forehead against her updrawn knees. How on earth was she supposed to reconcile what he’d done concerning Justin with the care he’d given her these past few weeks?
She heard the sound of a motor; then it stopped and was followed by the slam of a door. He was back. She listened to the sound of his progress as he opened the back door and came inside, but then she lost track of his movements because his walk was so damned catlike and she couldn’t hear a sound.
The door to the front porch opened and he stepped outside, his sharp gaze sweeping over her in a lightning assessment, as if checking that she was all right. He put his hands in his pockets and moved to lean against the frame of the screen door, his profile somber as he stared out at the gray ocean.