Claire’s fingers wove through his hair. “Tony, you were at Everwood—you heard me. I forgave Emily, and many years ago—I forgave you, too. I don’t want to be free from you. I lived almost two years believing I’d killed you. I thought that was why no one mentioned your name. During that time, I fantasized about you and cried for you. Now you’re here. I can touch you! I want my family back together.”

When he didn’t respond, she babbled on, “Besides, I’m still an outpatient. If you divorce me, they’ll never allow me to have custody of Nichol. If you do this, you’re not freeing me, you’re abandoning me.” The tears were freely flowing once again.

He stood and squared his shoulders. “You’re right.” His dry and businesslike tone fortified his stance. Nothing she said or could say would change his mind—he’d made his decision. “I don’t want you to lose Nichol. We’ll start with a separation. I rented an apartment near the office. I’ll live there. You and Nichol can have the estate and all the staff you need. With a nanny to help, there shouldn’t be any legal concerns.”

For an eternity, she sat silently and stared at the man she’d dreamt about. Although their eyes met, there was no connection. No longer did his swirl with emotion. There was no rage or joy—even the sadness had subsided. She couldn’t read his thoughts. It was as if he were staring at a document—a car—or anything else inconsequential.

The memory of seeing him the first night of her captivity rushed back. She remembered him standing near the fireplace in her suite. His dark glistening eyes frightened and paralyzed her. Suddenly, she longed for that emotion—it was better than nothing and nothing was exactly what she saw.

Claire stood and straightened her shoulders. She knew from experience this conversation was over. She’d already begged—she wouldn’t do it again. Without verbally replying to his last comment, Claire nodded and walked past him, back into the bedroom. In the attached bathroom, she found tissues and wiped her eyes. Her crying was done. Looking at her reflection, she saw the plain ugly Everwood clothes, very little make-up, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Swallowing the emotions she refused to show, she walked back into the bedroom. Tony was still on the balcony as the autumn sky beyond him darkened. The earlier light had faded. She momentarily wondered if it would ever return.

His current stance reminded her of his rejection of her at the Iowa City jail. She recalled begging him to take her home—pleading for him to make her world right. She couldn’t bear it again. If he didn’t want her, then she’d move on. Claire was done begging—if someone were to truly make her world right—it would be her.

When she said his name, he turned around. Keeping her voice neutral, she said, “I can’t see Nichol looking like this. I’m going to take a shower and clean up. I presume my closets are full, like Nichol’s?”

“They are.”

“Where’s the staff? I’d like something to eat.”

“I gave them the night off. I’ll go into town and get something. By the time I get back, you should be ready.”

Claire nodded. Without another word, she turned and walked away from her future ex-husband.

Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?

—Rose Kennedy

When Tony returned with Claire’s dinner, she was ready. She hadn’t had more than basic cosmetics at Everwood; however, when presented with an excess of the best, she remembered how to use it. She also found a pair of well-fitting jeans and sweater in the well-stocked closet. Her hair was styled and her face painted. If Tony truly meant what he said about still wanting her, then Claire wanted to make his separation declaration as difficult as possible.

She was in the kitchen setting two places at the breakfast bar when he arrived. She didn’t hear him enter, but she knew he was there. It was a feeling—a connection—alerting her to his presence. Looking up from the silverware, she 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.”